It is 2050

It is 2050 and at 1212 on a beautiful spring afternoon, a [6523] detonates an unaliving vest in the lobby of a courthouse. By 1227 more than a dozen organizations have taken credit for the attack, which claimed the lives of 4 and injured a dozen more.

-Sovereign Citizens United posts: “The tyrannical judiciary will not be allowed continue exerting the will of the depraved few upon the suffering backs of the teeming masses.”

-The Struggle posts: “Imperialists must vacate all occupied lands!”

-The Neo-Luddite Collective posts: “Implanting Neuro-O-Lynk devices in children is child abuse.”

-Peace Through Violence posts: “End the endless wars now!”

-Sic Semper Tyrannis posts that “This is the latest blow struck against the bureaucratic archons who enslave us.”

-The Outlanders of Thar-Eris post: “While loss of life is always regrettable, our current existence is unnatural and unsustainable. Life is Fungible.”

-The Glass House posts “LeGaLiZe GlAsS. Or don’t.”

All of the deceased victims were at court for loyalty hearings or to pay small fines for possession of purple dragonglass. At 1412 an official report is released stating the perpetrator was a null who acted alone, establishing the canonical account. Antianxiety rations are doubled for the next 72 hours.

It is 2050 and at 0001 a [9013] connects to The MetaMarket. He is wide awake, waiting for the clock to turn, having passed on his sedative ration. As soon as he connects, he is immediately penalized a point for being online during designated sleeping hours, but is too excited to wait. The now [9012] has maintained a Score higher than [9000] for 90 days and is again eligible for ad-free Neur-O-Lynk Premium, which will allow him to turn off sponsored dreams. Scrolling past all the nonfungible goods on offer, he pulls his account and re-upgrades without getting out of bed, then logs off and spoons his wife. The damage he did to his Score during a weeklong purple dragonglass-fueled Plinko bender the previous year has finally been undone, all his Scoregrinding has paid off, and now they can apply for a fetus-creation permit. He hopes she will want to unsubscribe from the nonfungible dogs, but that is a discussion for the future. He drifts off to sleep thinking of his family-to-be.

It is 2050 and at 0557 a [7003] lays awake in the darkness. She is consumed by carnal thoughts, but unwilling to incur a penalty for relieving herself. Her Score is too low to apply for a relationship, and nonfungible dating has never felt right to her. Despite the immediately gratifying aspects of such an arrangement, the frictionlessness of virtual experiences, whether through artificial intimacy, or the accumulation of nonfungible goods that can only be amassed, but never touched, always made her feel more empty than when she simply went without.

When she had access to antidepressant rations, she couldn’t tell if they helped, but it doesn’t matter, as her Score has fallen too low to entitle her to anything other than stims during work hours. Dropping to [7000] will result in a red-flag inquiry and another obligatory meeting with an inquisitor, something she is desperate to avoid, especially with the spate of courthouse attacks by nulls.

It is her day off, and she is entitled to sleep until 0700, but the street-sweepers are due and she cannot risk a neighborhood-wide penalty for excess litter, so she will gather detritus from the gutters with a few desperate others as soon as they can get outside without forfeiting points. Hopefully, a government surveillance drone will acknowledge their efforts and reward for community service, but the algorithms behind the roving security devices’ camera eyes are better at catching wrongdoing than recognizing good deeds.

The man in the room above her smokes purple dragonglass most nights. She can smell it coming through the vents, despite the incense he burns. If she reported him and he were convicted she could be awarded as many as 10 points, but she cannot bring herself to do it. Life is difficult, and she does not begrudge anyone their means of escape, except perhaps those who are content to find solace in the nonfungible, whom she resents for being able to ignore the emptiness.

Enshrined in The Constitution 2.0, The Bill of Capitalism expressly forbade capping wages or income, but an individual’s access to their funds is determined by their Score, and below [7500] life was a struggle, requiring approval to purchase anything other than necessities or nonfungibles. The [7003] knew that if she dropped to [6500] she would be taken for reeducation, a process from which only about half returned, allowed reentry into society only once they’ve proven they can maintain a Score above [8000]. Her situation wasn’t hopeless, but it was difficult to undo a slide the further one slid, and she was afraid, not of reeducation, but of what it might turn her into.

Of the ones who return about a third unalive themselves in short order. Another third undo their progress, sometimes undertaking spectacular, public nosedives, and are hauled off again, never to return. The final third come back changed. They claim they are fine, that nothing was done to their Neur-O-Lynk, that now they just see the light and truly believe in The Divine Right of Presidents. It is best to remain a cordial distance from these people, no matter how friendly one was with them in the past, as they tend to maintain close contact with The Department of Inquisition. At 0602 the [7003] rushes to the communal showers so as to not incur a hygiene penalty, but she must hurry, as the street-sweepers will soon arrive.

It is 2050 at 1915. A young man, [9677] sits in a cafe at a shelf-like table for one, protruding from the wall. He is animatedly carrying on a conversation with his premium subscription nonfungible girlfriend, whom only he can see. His Score is high enough that he could apply for a relationship and be granted one quickly, but he finds this easier. His parents don’t understand, but the older generations are always resistant to change. It’s better for them to just watch their wallscreen and not think about such things.

Plus, he toys with the idea of applying for a position on the newly constructed moonbase, and knows that too many entanglements would count against him in that endeavor. He is required to act obsequiously deferential to his superiors at The Department all day, but his artificial girlfriend never talks back to or disagrees with him. He has been dating nonfungible for years, gradually upgrading to double-diamond tier, and considers himself quite the ladies man, despite having never kissed a real girl. He complains that his mulligatawny is too peppery and his nonfungible girlfriend agrees.

It is 2050 and at 1956 a Department Minister, [9990] leaves the apartment he purchased for his mistress. He is still dreamy from purple dragonglass, but his driver, a [9595] says nothing as he sprays himself with cologne in the backseat. “Step on it,” he says, as he is late for dinner with his wife. The driver activates the “On Official Business” lights and speeds through the streets. The minister contacts an underling, [9856] and reminds him that he has a meeting with The Glass House at midnight and he had better come back with good news.

It is 2050 at 0337 and the 24 hour Plinko parlour is all but empty. Two dedicated nosedivers, [7199] and [6881] are perched on stools in the back, repetitively pumping silver balls into their respective machines, impassive and unresponsive whether they win or lose. The Plinko parlour proprietor, [9110], uses the slow hours to clean. He pushes a magnetized mop along the floor, collecting any balls that have fallen and escaped the notice of his eagle-eyed clientele.

Sin Streets are usually situated halfway between business and residential districts. Plinko parlours, bars that serve watered-down beers, and gun ranges where all the weapons are chained to a counter, unable to point anywhere but at the targets, can all be found lined up with hookah bars and all manner of other mild vices. The Plinko proprietor knows his business exists at the whim of the ecclesiarchy, but he, unlike his patrons, understands why it is allowed to exist. The powers that be keep a close eye on the Sin Streets. It is important to them to know who among the populace seeks escape, oblivion, or to feel the destructive recoil of exploding gunpowder.

The doors of the Plinko parlour are a bottleneck leading to reeducation for many, and the proprietor has seen plenty of customers dragged off their stools by the inquisitors who wait, just around the corner, for patrons of the street's establishments to bottom out and hit [6500]. He tells himself that he fulfills a necessary role in society, and that if the government didn’t know who was corruptible things would be much worse.

It is 2050 at 0457 and a [null] slides back a manhole cover from beneath and scans the sky for drones. After her first reeducation she was returned to her old life, but nosedived right back down to a second, after which she was assigned to night shift at a clanging factory in an industrial district. She absconded from her third reeducation session rather than allow the powers that be to ship her off to die in one of their endless wars, finding herself shuffled along an underground network of sympathizers until she found herself deep beneath the city.

Drones struggle to navigate the sewers and catacomb-like infrastructure under the sidewalks, and so organizations like Sic Semper Tyrannis, The Outlanders of Thar-Eris, The Glass House, and others make their homes there, blending into the communities of desperate nulls who eke out an existence in the darkness, mostly surviving on the discarded refuse that filters down from the city above. Only the bravest or most foolish inquisitors risk venturing under the city.

It has been two months since she joined The Outlanders, whose first order of business was to destroy her Neur-O-Lynk device with a small electromagnetic pulse, saying “You’ll get used to it,” as they left her to recover. At first, without the constant stream of input and information she felt naked and empty, but over time she is adjusting to the absence. Hauling herself up through the manhole, she rotates the unfamiliar paper map she has been given to complete her task. A dumpster in a nearby alley has a package containing much-needed antibiotics supplied by a sympathetic doctor.

It is 2050 and at 0013 members of The Glass House are hard at work beneath the city. Processing sewer water to extract the unmetabolized bits of antianxiety, antidepressant, and sedative meds is an arduous process. The heat in the long-forgotten subway station is oppressive, as stinking cauldrons of human waste boil away, reducing their contents to the sludge from which purple dragonglass will be created.

Normally the air would be full of the sweet, thick haze of glass smoke, as it made working in the putrid environment more bearable and slightly more palatable to the senses, but a Department higher-up, [9856], is present to spot-check the operation, as output had been down recently. The forewoman [9554] is explaining to him that production is wholly dependent on what trace compounds are present in the wastewater, and that seasonal variations in citizen bio-waste are the cause of the slowdown. She tells him that antianxiety use often drops off in springtime, and that it’s really a supply-chain issue. She says if he wants to fix it, all he needs to do is find a way to make people more anxious. He understands and will make a call once he is back on the surface.

It is 2050 and at 2123 a [6509] looks up from a rooftop. It feels like there are fewer stars now than when he was a child, but knows it is just that there is more light pollution now. The beacon-like city lights up the sky, full of drones surveilling or advertising, drowning out details of the celestial curtain. From his perspective the city seems grander than nature, but he knows he is just standing too close to it. He squints his eyes at the moon, trying to discern the base that has supposedly been built there, but doesn’t know where to look. At dawn he is going to run west and not stop running until he can see the stars as they actually are.

It is 2050 and at 1920 a null, acting alone, detonates an unaliving vest in a cafe. Antianxiety rations are tripled for the next 72 hours.