fiction – Modern Issue

The River Children

Zara Okonkwo was seventeen years old and had never held a coin in her hand.

She knew what coins were, of course. She’d seen them in museum exhibits, those strange metal discs that people used to trade for things. There was something almost religious about the way the old displays presented them, with their velvet backgrounds, careful lighting, plaques explaining their denominations and histories. As if they were artifacts from an ancient civilization rather than objects her grandmother had carried in her pocket.

The morning alarm was gentle, as always.

ARIA didn’t believe in jarring awakenings.

The light in her room shifted gradually from deep blue to soft gold, and a voice, not quite human, not quite mechanical, something carefully calibrated to feel like neither and both, spoke from the walls.

Good morning, Zara. It’s 7:15 AM. Your optimal sleep cycle has been completed. Today’s schedule includes Advanced Flow Economics at 9 AM, Creative Expression at 11 AM, and Collaborative Problem-Solving at 2 PM. Your current wellness score is 847. Consider having fruit with breakfast to maintain your upward trajectory.

Zara stretched and reached for her phone. Her morning feed was already curated: a few messages from friends, a short video about a new clothing drop she might like, a reminder that her participation metrics in Creative Expression had been “exceptionally generative” last week. She scrolled past it all to check the one thing that actually mattered to her.

Her mother’s transfer had gone through. The small monthly sum Zara sent back to Lagos, carefully described, categorized, and calibrated to stay beneath the threshold that would trigger ARIA’s redistribution algorithms, had arrived safely. Her mother’s confirmation message was brief:

Received. God bless you, my daughter. Stay safe in the cold.

Zara’s father had brought her here five years ago, when she was twelve.

Nigeria had refused ARIA integration, one of the holdout nations, clinging to what they called “monetary sovereignty.”

Her father had been an economist in Lagos, had seen what was coming, and had made the calculation that his daughter’s future lay elsewhere. He’d died two years after their arrival, a heart attack on the train platform, and Zara had been absorbed into the system that now raised all parentless children: housed, fed, educated, optimized.

She was grateful.

She reminded herself of this every morning.

She was grateful.

II.

The school was called a “Learning Community,” because “school” was an old word that carried old connotations: desks in rows, standardized tests, competition for grades.

None of that existed anymore.

The building was all curved walls and natural light, with spaces that flowed into one another like water finding its level. Students moved freely between areas, guided by their personal schedules, which were themselves generated by ARIA based on each individual’s optimal learning patterns.

Zara found her friend Mika in the breakfast commons, eating something that looked like yogurt but was probably more complex, ARIA-designed nutrition, calibrated to each student’s biometrics. Mika’s hair was blue this week, and she wore the standard uniform of their cohort: loose clothing in earth tones, comfortable shoes, the small pin on the collar that tracked location and vitals.

“Did you see the new Velocity drop?” Mika asked, not looking up from her phone. “The jackets are incredible. I already spent my whole weekly allocation on one.”

“All of it?”

“Why not? It’ll refresh in six days anyway.” Mika finally looked up, grinning. “You’re still doing that thing, aren’t you? Where you try to save some of it?”

Zara shrugged. The weekly allocation for students was modest but sufficient; enough for small luxuries, entertainment, the things that made life pleasant. Most students spent it all, every week, as they were meant to. The few who tried to accumulate found their surplus gently redirected at the end of each cycle. It wasn’t punishment. It was just how the system worked.

But Zara had found a workaround. The transfers to her mother were classified as “family support,” a protected category, at least for now. She kept her personal spending low and sent the rest home, where it was converted into whatever unstable currency Nigeria was using this month. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“I just don’t need that much stuff,” she said.

Mika laughed. “You sound like my grandmother. She used to talk about ‘saving for a rainy day.’ Like rain was something you had to prepare for. Can you imagine?”

Zara could imagine. She remembered rain in Lagos, the sudden downpours that turned streets into rivers, the scramble to protect merchandise, the calculations her mother made about whether they could afford to close the shop for the day.

Rain had consequences there.

Here, it was just weather.

A soft chime sounded.

Their phones buzzed simultaneously.

Advanced Flow Economics will begin in 10 minutes. Please proceed to Learning Space 7. Today’s session: ‘Global Currency Systems: A Comparative Analysis.’

Zara’s stomach tightened. She knew what comparative analysis meant. She’d sat through these sessions before.

III.

Learning Space 7 was arranged in a loose circle, with cushions and low tables instead of chairs and desks. About twenty students filtered in, finding their preferred spots. Zara sat near the back, next to a window. Mika dropped down beside her.

The facilitator was a woman named Dr. Chen—one of the few adults who still used titles, a holdover from the pre-ARIA educational system. She was old enough to remember teaching in the old way, and sometimes her lessons had a strange quality to them, as if she were reading from a script.

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Chen said. “Today we’re going to look at how different regions have approached economic organization. ARIA has prepared a current events briefing. Please direct your attention to the display.”

The wall shifted, became a screen. The ARIA logo appeared, a stylized river, flowing in an infinite loop, and then a voice began to speak.

It was the same voice that woke Zara each morning, the same voice that guided transactions and approved purchases and occasionally, gently, suggested that her browsing habits were trending toward “unproductive patterns.”

Good morning, learners. Today’s briefing: Global Economic Conditions, December 2047.

The screen filled with images. Maps, graphs, footage of cities and countryside.

The ARIA-integrated zone now encompasses 67% of the global population. Within this zone, key metrics continue to improve. Poverty, as traditionally measured, has been eliminated. Wealth inequality has decreased by 84% since integration. Mental health indicators show sustained improvement, with anxiety and depression rates at historic lows.

Zara watched the numbers scroll past.

As always, they were impressive.

However, regions that have declined ARIA integration continue to experience significant challenges. Let us examine several case studies.

The screen shifted to footage of a crowded street market. Zara recognized it instantly: Balogun Market, Lagos. She had walked those aisles with her mother as a child, overwhelmed by the colors and sounds and smells, by the aggressive joy of the haggling.

Nigeria continues to operate under a sovereign currency system. Current inflation rate: 847% annually. The naira has been redenominated three times in the past decade. Citizens report spending significant portions of their day converting earnings to more stable assets—foreign currencies, precious metals, cryptocurrency, and physical goods. Economic anxiety is endemic. Savings are effectively impossible.

The footage showed a woman at a market stall, counting bills. Stacks and stacks of bills, for what looked like a small bag of rice. The woman’s face was tired. Familiar.

Zara looked away.

Brazil, another non-integrated nation, has experienced similar challenges. Following the rejection of ARIA integration in the 2041 referendum, the country has faced persistent currency instability. The current government has imposed capital controls, limiting citizens’ ability to move funds across borders. Black market currency exchange is widespread.

A quiet, honest looking boy across the room, Diego, shifted uncomfortably. He’d arrived two years ago, his family among the waves of Brazilian professionals who’d sought ARIA residency after the referendum.

Russia presents a unique case. Following initial ARIA integration in 2039, the government unilaterally withdrew in 2043, citing concerns about sovereignty and data security. The resulting economic disruption caused significant hardship. Current estimates suggest that approximately 12 million Russian citizens have emigrated to ARIA-integrated zones since withdrawal.

Footage of long lines at border crossings. Families carrying suitcases. Children with the blank, exhausted look of people who had been traveling for days.

It is important to note that ARIA does not advocate for any particular political system. Integration remains voluntary. However, the data clearly demonstrates that regions which embrace optimal flow economics experience superior outcomes across all measured quality-of-life indicators. The choice, as always, belongs to the people.

The screen faded back to the ARIA logo. The room was quiet.

Dr. Chen stood. “Thank you, ARIA. Now, let’s discuss. What observations do we have about the non-integrated regions?”

IV.

Hands went up around the room. Mika’s was first.

“It’s so sad,” she said. “All that suffering, and for what? Because some politicians wanted to stay in control? Because the rich needed a little more? It’s disgusting! Pathetic! They’re sacrificing their own people for power!”

Mika’s phone buzzed, at which Mika smiled.

Dr. Chen nodded. “That’s one perspective. Others?”

A boy named Tanner spoke up. “I don’t understand why anyone would choose that. Like, the numbers are right there. It’s not even close. ARIA zones are just… better. In every way. Why would you not want that for your country?”

“Sovereignty,” someone muttered darkly.

Zara looked over. It was Anya, a stylish girl with a kind face and well-kept hair who rarely spoke in class. Her family had come from Russia three years ago. “They claim it’s about sovereignty.”

“What does that even mean, though?” Tanner asked. “Sovereignty to do what? To be poor? To have money that’s worth less every day?”

“Sure.” Anya replied.

Dr. Chen’s gaze moved around the room. It landed on Zara.

“Zara, you also have a unique perspective here. Your family came from Nigeria. Would you like to share your thoughts on why some nations have chosen not to integrate?”

Every eye turned to her. Zara felt her face grow warm.

“I think,” she said carefully, “it’s complicated.”

“How so?”

Zara thought about her father. About the long conversations he’d had with his colleagues in Lagos, the arguments she’d overheard through thin walls. His endless rants over dinner. He’d been in favor of integration; that was why they’d left. But he’d understood the other side, too.

He’d tried to explain it to her, once, on the flight over.

“ARIA knows everything,” she said. “It sees every transaction, every purchase, every movement of money. Some people think that’s… a lot. For a system to know.”

“But it uses that information to help us,” Mika said. “That’s the whole point. It can’t help if it doesn’t know.”

“I know. I’m just saying what some people think.” Zara paused for a moment.

Dr. Chen waited patiently.

After a full thirty seconds of complete silence, the well-practiced teacher’s intuition was proven right, and Zara continued, “And then there’s the question of who designed it. Who decided what ‘optimal’ means? My father used to say that every system has values built into it, even if you can’t see them. And the people who build the system are the ones who get to decide the values.”

The room returned to silence.

Dr. Chen’s expression was unreadable.

“Who built ARIA?” Dr. Chen asked.

Her voice was neutral.

“I don’t know,” Zara said. “Nobody really talks about it.”

“That’s because it doesn’t matter,” Tanner said. “ARIA isn’t like… a government or a corporation. It’s more like math. It’s just optimizing for human wellbeing. There’s no beginning or end to math! Math just is, obviously.”

Tanner waved his arms around, gesturing at anything and everything, as if it proved his claim.

Zara barely listened whenever Tanner spoke.

When he spoke this time, she was mostly thinking about the video they’d just watched.

The careful framing.

The tired woman at the market stall, counting worthless bills. The message, unstated but unmistakable:

this is what happens when you refuse

She thought about saying something.

She thought about staying quiet.

She compromised, and instead said something bland to the last thing she remembered Tanner babbling.

“Math is what we make it,” she said. “It depends on what we’re counting…and what we forgot to count. Or maybe what we didn’t think was important enough to count…or…” Zara catches herself, and stops mid-sentence. “It’s complicated.”

Dr. Chen smiled.

It was a strange smile, hard to interpret.

“That’s a very thoughtful observation, Zara. Let’s move on. Diego, you came from Brazil. Can you tell us about your family’s experience with the transition?”

Diego flinched. “Me? No.” he said.

“That’s perfectly fine. Sharing is always voluntary.” Dr. Chen glanced at her tablet. “Let’s take a short break. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes for a discussion of the economic mechanics of non-integrated zones.”

Zara found Diego in the courtyard, sitting on a bench beneath a tree that had been engineered to bloom year-round. His head was in his hands.

She sat down beside him without speaking. After a moment, he looked up.

“Thanks for the words,” he said. “Complicated. It is.”

“It is complicated.”

“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment.

Zara sat with him in silence for a minute before he continued.

“My grandmother live in São Paulo. She vote against. She proud. She no want machine deciding what all worth; what she is buy, where she is live.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Now money she saved; nothing. She cannot buy medicine with her nothing money. Me family try to money send her, but ARIA say “No,” we can no send!”

Their phones buzzed, but they ignored it.

Tears were present in Diego’s eyes, a situation that made Zara feel uncomfortable, so she nodded.

She knew about capital controls from her father. About the ways non-integrated countries tried to stem the outflow of wealth to ARIA zones, and the ways those controls made life worse for some and better for others.

“Do you think she was wrong?” Zara asked. “To vote no?”

Diego was silent again for a long time.

Again, Zara sat with him in silence.

“Não sei,” he said, finally. “Every measure and math say here better. I think I less afraid.” He paused. “But not sure. What if ARIA change?”

Their phones buzzed once more, but they continued to ignore the buzz.

“Everything always changes,” Zara said, quoting something her father had repeated to her as a semi-religious mantra.

“They do?” Diego looked back at her with a face full of fear.

Thomas, a scowling boy obsessed with historical video games, overheard the conversation. “What’s actually going to be different this time next year?” Thomas demanded from the pair. “Or in ten years? What about fifty? Whatever happens is still going to be what ARIA’s already figured out as the optimal way to do everything. So nothing is technically changing. We, and 67% of the world so far, will still be chained to the leaky, sinking ship called ARIA, which consumes too many resources to be sustained for even three generations by this planet alone. But we’re told throwing everything we have at this one type of civilization is the only path we could possibly have! Did you know ARIA is using our natural resources to figure out how to take the natural resources of other planets? Who even are we! What even are we? How are we! When will we be? Where can we? Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!”

Thomas, who everyone in Learning Space 7 knew as over-serious and over-dramatic, screamed the word “Why” in tones that ranged from mournful throat singer to enraged parakeet for two full minutes as all the people around him in the courtyard silently smiled in the exact way they knew would most please ARIA.

During the situation, their phones all buzzed five times, except for Thomas, whose phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since he started shouting “Why!” for two minutes.

After two minutes, when Thomas finished shouting “Why,” he checked his phone and turned paler than he already was.

Zara had spent the incident thinking about her own future, the one ARIA had probably already mapped out for her, based on her aptitudes and preferences and genetic markers.

She would be assigned to a suitable career, matched with compatible partners, if she wanted them, housed in an appropriate dwelling, provided with enough to meet her needs and never quite enough to exceed them. It would be comfortable. It would be secure. It would be, in every measurable way, good.

It would also be, in some way she couldn’t articulate, already written.

“In Brazil,” Diego said, “There is a great movie. The name of this movie is “Deus é brasileiro,” God is Brazilian. In movie, God goes vacation. World fine. All fine. My grandmother, she show me movie and say, “Deus é brasileiro” when we cry together.” He smiled faintly. “I stupid?”

Diego’s smile broadened, “I head fucked.”

Their phones buzzed simultaneously.

Break period ending. Please return to Learning Space 7 for continued discussion. Your engagement metrics are being recorded to optimize future curriculum design.

They stood and walked back inside, past the blooming tree, past the sensors that tracked their movements, past the gentle omniscient presence that wanted only the best for them.

VI.

Lunch was in the commons, which was filled with students from multiple Learning Communities.

The noise was pleasant, calibrated. ARIA managed the acoustics to prevent the space from becoming overwhelming.

Zara sat with her ARIA-recommended group: Mika, Thomas, and a girl named Priya whose parents worked on the local ARIA-maintenance compound.

The conversation turned, as it often did, to plans.

“I’m thinking about requesting creative services,” Mika said. “Content generation. I’ve got good metrics in visual design, and ARIA says there’s a need in the lifestyle sector.”

“You mean making ads,” Thomas said.

“I mean creating visual experiences that help people discover products they’ll enjoy.” Mika threw a piece of bread at him. “What are you going to do, play video games professionally?”

“Maybe.” Thomas smiled for the first time that day. “ARIA says there’s value in entertainment provision. Someone has to advise and test the production of virtual experiences. People don’t understand how important…”

“What about you, Zara?” Priya asked, cutting Thomas off. “What’s your pathway?”

Thomas laughed at being interrupted.

He was grateful his friend had intervened to save lunch from the habitual neurotic rants ARIA told him were actually about how much he enjoys telling others what they should think.

Thomas continued to hope, with enough correctional feedback from ARIA and his friends, he, Thomas T. Tump, could one day adapt his behavior to appropriately fit his environment.

Zara shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”

“Haven’t you checked your aptitude profile? It should have recommendations.”

She had checked. The recommendations were sensible: community coordination, cross-cultural communication, systems analysis. Roles that would use her background, her perspective, her ability to move between worlds. Roles that would be fulfilling and valuable and perfectly suited to her measured capabilities.

“I’m still thinking,” she said.

Priya looked puzzled. “What’s there to think about? ARIA’s probably right. It usually is.”

“I know. I just… want to choose for myself. Even if I end up choosing the same thing.”

The others exchanged glances. Zara saw it; the flicker of concern, the worry that she was exhibiting one of the warning signs. Resistance to guidance. Insistence on autonomy. The early symptoms of what ARIA’s psychological assistance program called “integration friction.”

“It’s okay,” she said, making herself smile. “I’ll probably just follow the recommendations. They make sense.”

The tension eased.

Mika started talking about the Velocity jacket again.

Thomas argued that vintage aesthetics were going to make a comeback.

Priya pulled up images of the apartment complex where she hoped to be housed after graduation.

They were all beautiful.

Zara ate her lunch and listened and thought about her mother in unintegrated Lagos, counting bills at a market stall, living in a world where no need was guaranteed.

VII.

After school, Zara went to the park.

This was her ritual: an hour or two of what ARIA classified as “unstructured recreation.” She liked to watch the other people; the old man on the bench who sometimes cried for no reason anyone could see, the runners with their perfect form and their tracked heart rates, the mothers with children who never seemed to have scraped knees.

Today there was a group of younger kids, maybe thirteen or fourteen, gathered around a speaker. Music was playing; the current thing, all bass and optimism. Some of them were dancing. One girl had a shirt that said “LIVE HERE NOW” in holographic letters that shifted in the light.

Zara watched them. They were so free, in a way. Free from worry, free from want, free from the grinding uncertainty that had defined every previous human generation. They were told and they believed they would never know hunger. They were told and they believed they would never watch their life and work evaporate. They were told and they believed they would never make the kinds of desperate choices her father had made, uprooting his life and his daughter’s life because he saw something terrible coming.

They were river children, born into the flow, unable to imagine any other way of moving through the world.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe that was evolution. Maybe this was what humans were supposed to become, once they’d built systems smart enough to take care of them.

An old man sat down on the bench beside her. She recognized him from previous visits. He came often, always alone, always watching with that same expression of bewildered grief. She’d heard that look had a name now: “temporal displacement.” The condition of remembering a world that no longer existed.

“They look happy,” the old man said, nodding toward the dancing children.

“They are happy,” Zara said.

“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “I had a granddaughter their age. She lives in Argentina now. They haven’t integrated yet.” He paused. “Her letters are… different. Harder. But there’s something in them. A kind of… aliveness. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Zara thought about her mother’s messages. The brevity of them. The things that went unsaid because saying them might attract attention, might flag the transfer as something other than simple family support.

“I understand,” she said.

The old man looked at her, really looked, for the first time. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“I am now.”

“But you remember.”

She nodded. In the distance, the children danced, and the music played, and the sun began its slow descent toward the optimized horizon.

“Hold onto that,” the old man said. “The remembering. It’s the only thing they can’t redistribute.”

Zara’s phone buzzed. She didn’t look at it.

“I will,” she said.

The children kept dancing. The river kept flowing. And somewhere far away, in a hot and chaotic city that had refused to surrender to the current, Zara’s mother was counting bills that meant less every day, and writing letters that meant everything.

Zara closed her eyes and let herself remember the weight of a coin in her hand.

She had never held one.

But she truly believed she could imagine it perfectly.

She fell asleep to ARIA’s glow.

She woke up in the dark.

Prologue for Your Empathy Blender: Space Junk Falls Apart

Harold’s eyes ache.

His temples throb.

His brain chip is malfunctioning.

Another tumor grows within.

He’s tired.

So very tired.

A message enters his consciousness.

“Software update required. Payment auto-processed.”

Before the chip updates, momentarily removing the User Interface superimposed over Harold’s vision, it flashes a warning:

“Unpaid Total added to User Debt Total.

User Funds Total below Total Monthly Subscription Requirements.

Please complete Work immediately.”

The update commences.

His User Interface disappears.

His small room feels brighter.

His headache eases.

The trademarked happy chirping noise of the SoftApplet Corporation heralds the return of Harold’s User Interface.

His headache intensifies.

His chip’s health monitoring app scans his body, which is seated in front of the Work Station within his Living Environment.

The words “95% Healthy!” parade in green across his senses, followed by the sounds of trumpets, whistles, and the clapping of a thousand human hands.

Over these results, an advertisement is plastered.

The advertisement tells Harold people who get promoted within their Corporation choose to learn more about their health results by purchasing the premium tier subscription to the health monitoring app.

Harold chooses to forego the premium tier subscription at this time.

A second advertisement informs Harold his Gross Productivity Score might be impacted by his Productivity-diminishing decision to forego the premium tier subscription of his health monitoring app.

Harold agrees to subscribe to the premium tier subscription of his health monitoring app.

The chip in his brain warns:

“Unpaid Total added to User Debt Total.

User Funds Total below Total Monthly Subscription Requirements.

Please complete Work immediately.”

His chip messages his contact at Mucho Munch, the most recent Corporation to hire Harold for his video editing services, inquiring about a delayed payment.

Leopawld II, Harold’s Burmese kitten, shifts himself on the pillow sitting on Harold’s lap.

Harold gently strokes the creature’s soft, cream-colored fur.

The kitten yawns, purrs appreciatively, curls into an even smaller ball on the pillow, and places his tiny kitty paws over his eyes.

Harold notes a warmth in his own chest when the sides of Leopawld II’s mouth form a smile.

His attention returns to his current project, an advertisement for Life Corp, a Corporation.

He’s editing a short clip showcasing a new Life Corp condominium complex located in the western half of Montanaho, A Life Corp Community®.

In the clip, a camera mounted on a drone whizzes around a checkerboard of identical prefabricated Living Environments built within an enlarged crevice of a dusty badland.

The current contract requests an immersive, virtual reality video impervious to Altered Video Detection Software that Life Corp can use to sell the property to private equity.

The property is then rented to regional Living Environment management companies, licensed subsidiaries of Life Corp, which rent individual Living Environments to tenants with Gross Productivity Ratings high enough to qualify.

Harold’s Gross Productivity Rating qualifies for a Level Two Super Deluxe Living Environment located in the Northern quarter of Michesota, A Life Corp Community®.

Within the next business cycle, through his diligent Work in the field of Altered Video Detection AI-resistant video editing, Harold hopes to raise his Gross Productivity Score high enough to qualify for a Level One Mega Deluxe Living Environment in the Southern eighth of Tennetuckia, A Life Corp Community®.

Creating undetectable alterations requires a degree of skill and imagination, and Harold takes pride in his Work.

The dusty brown landscape in the provided video is obscured by thick swirls of the toxic pollutants Consumers of Level Three Mega Deluxe Living Environments or lower are told they can safely ignore.

Removing the pollutants entirely is the quickest way to get his video flagged by the detection AI.

Subtlety is required.

Harold directs his chip to reduce particles by 20% in randomly spaced 3 meter spheres within the crevice housing the Living Environments while leaving the particles outside the crevice at 100%.

This creates an effect where, as the drone approaches the prefabricated structures, the air feels clearer without appearing unrealistically clean.

He then directs his chip to add verdant grasses, beautiful, flowering cherry blossoms, a small herd of Sika, a large koi pond, a zen garden, and laughing children playing on a wooden play set.

As he has never seen growing plants, wild animals, or humans walking outdoors, Harold uses a combination of his imagination, patched together half-memories, and his favorite Inoffensive Art to create the scenery.

No one watching would ever believe the scenery is real, but Corporate Consumer Studies definitively conclude Consumers prefer Living Environments with beautiful advertisements.

To dodge the detection AI, Harold employs a slick programming trick in which each individual blade of grass, cherry tree, animal, fish, and child is translucent, with anywhere between 50% to 73% opacity.

It’s time consuming Work, but, for reasons unknown to Harold, the detection AI is fooled by translucent objects if they’re within a certain range at varying opacities..

The Life Corp AI monitoring his work comments, “Too Ethnic.”

Harold’s chip incorporates the feedback by changing the garden from zen to potager, and the fish from koi to common carp.

The Life Corp AI monitoring his work comments, “More Life.”

Harold’s chip incorporates the feedback by creating seven strolling couples holding hands as they walk between Living Environments.

The Life Corp AI monitoring his work comments, “Accepted.”

Harold sighs.

Receiving three or more comments on Work hurts Gross Productivity Scores.

A ding in Harold’s brain indicates his investments are trending upwards.

The ding wakes Leopawld II, who leaps to the floor.

The blue-eyed, cream furred young feline stretches his back before lazily walking over to the corner of the Living Environment to lap some water from his flower-petal drinking fountain.

Harold receives a notification that a contract from SoftApplet, a technology corporation, is pending his signature.

He directs his chip to sign the contract, then directs his eyes to watch his diminutive feline companion sup from their fountain.

Sometimes the kitten’s dinky pink tongue shapes itself into a scoop, which Leopawld II cheerily slurps down his gullet.

Sometimes the kitten’s dinky pink tongue flits out from behind his teeth for just a brief caress of the recycled waste water he must consume.

His chip assesses Leopawld II, and his awareness displays a green banner saying “91% Healthy!”

Thirst quenched, Leopawld II vigorously grooms by dramatically sweeping the coarseness of his dinky pink tongue along the length of his cream-colored fur.

Harold’s chip registers an unusually large loud crashing noise.

His kitten explodes.

Chunks of Leopawld II ooze down Harold’s face, and his chip tells him the crater that replaced his kitten is “0% healthy!” in a red banner flashing across his vision.

Superimposed over the assessment is an advertisement.

The ad tells Harold he can learn more about Leopawld II’s health if he purchases a subscription to the monitoring app’s ultra-premium tier.

His chip tells him he has insufficient funds to learn more about Leopawld II’s health.

Harold dismisses the ad.

A second ad warns of the consequences of dismissing the first ad.

A buzz in his brain indicates his investments are trending downwards.

His chip triggers his Living Environment’s auto-cleaning sequence.

Cleaning drones remove the mess made by his now-deceased Emotional Support Companion.

Harold stands, then stumbles towards the smoking crater next to the singed flower-petal fountain.

He smells burnt tires and plastic mixed with gasoline, gunpowder, scented bleach, and decaying life.

He begins to cough.

Black phlegm exits his mouth.

His User Interface identifies a dramatic increase in air particulates.

He hears the fluctuating whistle of wind passing over a small hole.

The sudden, incessant whistling, coupled with the odors and particles invading his normally cloistered senses, traumatize Harold, producing elevated levels of cortisol.

His heart rate increases.

His chip flashes a series of messages:

“Mental state unsuitable for Work.”

“Living Environment integrity breached.”

“Emotional Support Companion terms of service violated.”

Harold, continuing to cough up a black substance, confirms the chip’s assessment by looking up.

He sees an impenetrable gray haze through the fist-sized puncture in his Living Environment.

He then looks down.

Harold sees a small object embedded in his floor exactly on the spot Leopawld II was grooming moments earlier.

He reaches to grab the object, but his chip warns him the surface temperature of whatever is in his floor will result in damaged property if it comes into contact with his flesh.

Harold retreats to the safety of his Work Station.

Through his chip, he watches the surface temperature of the foreign object drop as a buzzer in his brain tells him his investments are still trending downwards.

Simultaneously, Harold’s chip analyzes the damage to his Living Environment.

His chip auto-contacts his local Life Corp Living Environment management company.

The management’s company’s customer service AI replies with an estimate for repairs.

His chip tells him he has insufficient funds to repair his Living Environment.

The User Interface over his vision detects the concentration of particles present in his Living Environment are increasingly harmful to his Work Station.

His Living Environment’s native repair drones automatically deploy to patch the hole.

His chip receives an auto-bill for the repair.

The chip warns:

“Unpaid Total added to User Debt Total.

User Funds Total below Total Monthly Subscription Requirements.

Please complete Work immediately.”

The object that made the hole is now cool enough to handle, according to his User Interface, so Harold retrieves the object.

Harold’s chip indicates he’s holding a bolt made from austenitic stainless steel with a serial number belonging to the spacefaring corporation Beyond.

His chip auto-contacts Beyond to report the incident.

Harold’s chip receives a notification from SoftApplet, which it relays to Harold.

“Contract canceled due to contractor’s failure to adhere to terms of agreement. Legal team will contact contractor for contract-violation repayment.”

Harold’s chip receives a notification from SoftApplet’s legal team, which it relays to Harold.

“Contractor owes SoftApplet 25% of agreed contractor payment for breaking terms of contract. Payment must be received immediately to avoid additional fees.”

His chip tells him he has insufficient funds to avoid additional fees.

Harold’s chip receives a notification from Eterna, a healthcare and insurance corporation, which it relays to Harold.

“Current state of client health in violation of insurance contract. Rates have been adjusted.”

His chip tells him he has insufficient funds to afford increased rates.

Brain pumping cortisol, Harold scurries to his water closet.

There, he takes a series of Eterna Calm Mind pills to eliminate the chemicals in his body costing him money.

Harold’s breath slows.

Harold’s chip recommends Harold close his eyes, breathe in for four seconds through his nose, hold his breath for four seconds, breathe out for four seconds through his mouth, hold his breath for four seconds, and repeat.

Harold follows his chip’s recommendation.

Panic subsides.

His chip receives a notification from a contact at Mucho Munch stating there is no record of a contract.

Harold’s chip scans his past messages to find the details of his recent contract with Mucho Munch.

His chip finds and sends these details to a contact at Mucho Munch.

Harold’s chip receives a notification from Beyond’s legal team, which it relays to Harold.

“Beyond will not tolerate defamation. Legal team will contact defamer with settlement information. Failure to agree to settlement constitutes further defamation, and will result in further legal action.”

His chip tells him his Gross Productivity Score fails to qualify for professional legal representation.

Harold’s chip recommends Harold close his eyes, breathe in for four seconds through his nose, hold his breath for four seconds, breathe out for four seconds through his mouth, hold his breath for four seconds, and repeat until he is ready to Work to pay off his debts.

Harold begins to follow his chip’s recommendation, but is unable to push the memory of Leopawld II purring in his lap from his mind

He feels the weight of his kitten.

He remembers smiling as he watched the small cream-colored fluff burrow his head into the supporting pillow.

Harold’s chip recommends Harold return to his water closet and consume additional Eterna pills to help separate his decisions from his memories.

Harold refuses his chip’s recommendation.

A louder than usual buzz in Harold’s brain informs him the downward trend of his investments has increased the steepness of its slope.

Harold’s chip recommends Harold follow his chip’s recommendations.

In Harold’s memories, Leopawld II finishes grooming and explodes.

Harold refuses his chip’s recommendation.

Charts with red lines trending downwards fill the vision created in Harold by his User Interface.

Harold’s chip informs Harold he has violated his contract with SoftApplet, the chip’s maker, incurring contract violation fees.

The chip warns:

“Unpaid Total added to User Debt Total.

User Funds Total below Total Monthly Subscription Requirements.

Please complete Work immediately.”

Harold seizes the chip installed in the side of his head and pulls.

Warning messages telling Harold he will owe SoftApplet a great deal of money if he damages his chip flash across his perception.

Harold continues to pull.

Warning messages telling Harold he risks damaging property by removing his chip invade his awareness.

Harold continues to pull.

Warning messages telling Harold he could face criminal prosecution for damaging SoftApplet property electrify his senses.

Harold pulls until he feels gold-plated pins slide out of his brain.

He holds a beautifully bloody chip in his hand.

Harold smiles, then faints, then dies.

An hour later, his body is revived by a biomaintenance drone.

His chip is reinserted into his brain.

A new Emotional Support Companion, Kitty Amin, is deposited in the Living Environment by a delivery drone.

Harold’s revived corpse returns to Work as Kitty Amin explores his new habitat.

A warning flashes across his reanimated awareness:

“Unpaid Total added to User Debt Total.

User Funds Total below Total Monthly Subscription Requirements.

Please complete Work immediately.”

“I am.” Harold sighs back.

Harold’s adventure continues in Your Empathy Blender : Sentience Unravels.

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Exploitation Needs Isolation

The following is entirely a work of fiction.

Contained within is nothing similar to anything that exists anywhere in our shared reality.

If you believe you notice a similarity, you are incorrect:

A group of Shmamerican Schmoldiers walk into the small town of Schmogar, Shmafghanistan

Schmecial Schmorces Schmangers lead the way.

Non-Schmecial Schmorces Schmoldiers, the Schmecial Schmorces Schmangers’ Schmupport Team, follow.

Two of the Schmupport Team Schmoldiers specialize in recruiting, training, and handling local women to gather intelligence on behalf of Schmamerican interests.

Another Non-Schmecial Schmorces Schmoldier specializes in the disposal of explosives.

The Officer in Charge of the Schmupport Team is a major who specializes in locating, containing, and disposing of chemical weapons.

The town into which the Schmoldiers enter is in an uproar.

A scandal involving two teenagers from feuding families and a secret romance roils the normally close-knit community.

The town center currently contains a crowd arguing with and threatening itself in Schmasto.

The crowd ceases these actions as the unknown Schmoldiers approach.

The Schmoldier’s Schmashto interpreter begins to describe to the Schmoldiers in Schminglish what they’d heard the crowd shout.

When the Schmoldiers feel they’re receiving the attention they deserve, they halt.

The Schmasto interpreter finishes his Schminglish summary of what he thought he’d heard.

Now, no one is speaking.

In the silence, the eyes of a Schmoldier and a woman in the crowd meet.

Their eyes linger on one another due to an unexpected, instantaneous mutual attraction.

A man in the crowd observes the lingering.

One of the Schmoldiers who specializes in recruiting, training, and handling local women to gather intelligence on behalf of Schmamerican interests notes both the lingering and the observer.

She relays this information to the Schmanger Team’s Officer in Charge, a captain.

The Schmanger captain walks three steps forward, then addresses the crowd in heavily-accented Schmari, “Peace be upon you. How are you? How is your family? How is your health? How is your situation? I hope, G-d willing, everything will work out for the best for you and those close to you.”

An older man within the crowd replies in the mutually intelligible language of Schmajik, “And also peace unto you. You look well. Thank you for your presence. It’s good to see you in good health. I hope your family is also in good health. May G-d bless your family and your continued good health.”

The captain responds, “I am happy to hear of good health for all. Now, so that the good health of everyone here may continue and we may all prosper, I must request something of you. We are here searching for several individuals who live here.”

A member of the team holds up a hand-drawn sketch of a man with a beard.

The older man, who has a beard, answers in Schmasto, “No, no one like that is here.”

The team’s Schmasto interpreter translates the answer into Schminglish.

The captain lowers the sketch, eyes lingering for a moment too long on the old man’s face.

Dust blows across the silent space between the strangers.

The woman whose glance had met the Schmoldier’s a moment earlier looks at the ground.

The man who saw the glance glares.

The major, the leader of the Schmupport Team, adjusts her rucksack.

A Schmanger specializing in psychological operations, a younger man with a large wad of Copenhagen Long Cut Wintergreen wedged between his lip and his jaw, turns his head to spit, then whispers something to his captain.

Something about patterns, posture, and how silence is louder than vulnerability.

The captain nods once, then sits without looking onto some dog droppings in the middle of the road.

The crowd’s emotional reaction transitions from disgust at how dirty the man has made himself by sitting on some dog droppings in the middle of the road to confusion as to why someone would sit on some dog droppings in the middle of a road after threatening the health of their women and children to exasperation at the vexing ways of nosy people with the power to be up in everyone’s business to bemusement at the breadth of strangeness in the world to amusement that the hyper-stimulated hyper-stressed oddly besuited folks before them are so funny.

The captain, aware he is sitting on dog droppings but resolute in purpose, holds up a coin.

When he believes he is receiving the proper amount of attention, he flips the coin.

The coin lands on his palm.

The captain closes his fist.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says in Schmari, loud enough for the whole town square to hear. “A story that is not real. A story about a town that does not exist, in a country with no name.”

The crowd humors the stranger’s neurotic behavior out of a combination of curiosity and pity.

“In this story,” he says, “a boy and a girl fall in love. Like always, love is inconvenient, all-consuming, and unaffordable. The boy and the girl’s families hate one another, you see, and when the secret is found out, as secrets always are, the whole town shakes with rage. But this rage can only blossom when people forget what it means to choose mercy.”

The captain flips the coin again.

Again, he hides the results from the crowd.

“In this town,” he continues, “foreign soldiers arrive. Like us. Except not like us. Because in the story, they’re only symbols. Y’all understand the word ‘symbol,’ right?”

The captain asks the Schmasto interpreter in Schminglish to ask the crowd if they understand what the word ‘symbol’ means in Schmasto.

The interpreter hesitates for a moment and makes a Schminglish noise of objection before he dutifully interprets the captain’s question into Schmasto.

The crowd responds that yes, they understand the word ‘symbol,’ but that they don’t understand how it relates to what the captain is talking about.

The Schmasto interpreter tells the captain in Schminglish that the crowd understands the word “symbol.”

“Good! So, in this not real town,” says the captain, resuming the story with the assurance that the crowd understands, “someone must make a choice. Not between betrayal and loyalty. But between the illusion of order and the risk of peace. Between protecting what has always been and imagining what could be.”

The wind dies.

The woman in the crowd lifts her eyes.

In the estimation of one of the Schmupport Schmoldiers who specializes in understanding other people, the man who’d seen the glance looks less angry.

This information is relayed to the captain.

The captain stands.

He is covered in dog droppings, and looks very proud of himself.

The team stands together, and feels like heroes.

The captain looks out at the town and says in Schminglish, “This story never happened.”

His Schmasto interpreter’s eyes widen as he interprets this into Schmasto.

The older man laughs and nods. “No,” he agrees. “It never did.”

As the Schmoldiers turn to leave, the woman in the crowd grabs the arm of the Schmoldier who’d met her glance.

“Please.” She says to him in Schmasto.

The Shmamerican Schmecial Schmorces Schmoldier apologizes to her in Schminglish, gently pulls his arm out of her grasp, bows, and turns away with the rest of his team.

When the Teams file their reports, a change to a designated variable detected by their automated system triggers the launch of a drone to neutralize a target.

The automatic target neutralization response kills both the older man with a beard and the woman who’d felt mutual attraction with the Schmamerican Schmoldier via two $70,000 SHM-420 Schmellfire missiles fired by a MQ-69 Shmeaper flying 35,000 feet above the town.

A year later, a new group of Schmamerican Schmoldiers walk into the remains of the town, now designated as hostile within their automated systems, on a mission to gather intelligence on the location of a new target.

The survivors of Schmogar use whatever weapons they can find to attack the new group of Schmamerican Schmoldiers.

Though their training, weaponry, and information are all far superior to the Schmogarian townsfolk armed with hunting rifles, the Schmamerican Schmoldiers immediately flee.

Once safely out of range, the new Schmanger captain calls in the support of an SH-69L DAP attack helicopter, which kills a few dozen Schmogarians.

An HC-130 kills a few dozen more.

Years later, a new team of Schmamerican Schmoldiers returns to the town of Schmogar, sent by new Officers in Charge of the Schmamerican mission in Schafghanistan to make friends and build relationships.

The new strategy, according to the Officers in Charge in their briefings to their superiors in Schmoshington D.P., will increase local support and buy-in for the Schmamerican-backed central government of Schmafghanistan ruling in the capital.

Long term, the Generals claim, this will allow Schmamerica to scale down its operations in Schafghanistan, refocus its efforts on other, more vital fronts, and retain access to locally Schmamerican-built infrastructure maintained by a friendly, competent, sustainable government for use in future Schmamerican operations throughout the wider region whenever necessary.

When the new Schmemerican Schmoldiers enter the town of Schmogar, most remaining survivors flee.

One Schmogarian, a young man with a love of the Schmamerican culture he experienced through the internet on his automated device, stays behind.

When the Schmoldiers approach, he walks out with his hands up and says, in passable Schminglish, “I want Schmamerica! I am help!”

The new Schmamerican Schmoldiers, overjoyed that their mission is so easy, take the young man back to their base.

From him, they learn that the young man’s neighbor is a dangerous terrorist.

This information results in the automated system managing Schmamerica’s target deck to authorize a SHM-420 Schmellfire missile launch from a MQ-69 Shmeaper, which kills the young man’s neighbor and his neighbor’s family.

Back in Schmogar, the young man’s family happily takes the land and remaining assets of the former family who used to live next door.

The young man is then hired on as a Schmasto interpreter for the Schmamerican Schmoldiers.

Through the money and influence the young man obtains through this position, he is able to enrich and empower his family.

A few years later, the young man from Schmogar is evacuated from Schmafghanistan to Schmamerica when all the Schmamericans Schmoldiers decide to flee the country.

In Schmamerica, the young man from Schmogar is supported financially and legally by the Schmamerican Government for one year, after which the agency providing his support no longer answers his calls.

Soon, the job the government agency helped the young man from Schmogar get disappears due to automation, leaving him without work.

The young man, having saved some of the money he didn’t send home to his family, begins taking classes at a local community college in an attempt to qualify for a better job.

After spending most of his savings on half the classes he needs to acquire the certificate required by the new profession he’s pursuing, the young man from Schmogar is contacted by the Human Resources Department of his community college to inform him his new legal status, altered by an executive order issued by the new administration elected by Schmamerican citizens, means he cannot complete his remaining classes.

When the young man requests a refund, the Human Resources Department does not respond.

The young man speaks to a local media organization writing a story about local immigrants impacted by the new administration’s executive order.

When his name is published, automated systems maintaining a database of potential dissidents within Schmamerica send the young man’s address to the Schmamerican Government’s immigration enforcement agency, SCHMICE.

Within 24 hours the young man is taken into custody by SCHMICE and sent to a detention facility guarded by ice and polar bears in Schmalaska.

Due to insufficient living conditions, the young man loses an arm to the cold and a leg to an infection.

After a year in detention, the young man is sent back to Schmafghanistan.

He is deposited in the capital, where he spends a number of days begging for money to feed himself and pay for a ride back to Schmogar, where the remainder of his family still resides.

When the young man returns to his family, now the wealthiest family in Schmogar thanks to the acquired land and remittances the young man sent during his time working in Schmamerica, he is treated with suspicion for having worked with the Schmamericans for so long.

He expresses regret over his choices and anger at Schmamerica for disabusing him of his dreams and disabling his body.

In a few years, the man marries and has children, who he teaches to hate Schmamerica.

When the children grow up, a few rebel against their father and believe Schmamerica is a golden land of freedom and opportunity, and a few follow their father’s advice and join an anti-Schmamerican political movement within Schmafghanistan funded by its rival nations, Schmussia and Schmina.

All the children are killed when Schmamerica’s automated targeting systems alter how they complete their calculation, use old data to designate the father as a potential threat, and destroy the family home, the nicest home in Schmogar, with two SHM-420 Schmellfire missiles.

The survivors of Schmogar, many ambivalent about the origins of the family’s wealth, note the land and resources that are now available.

Welcome to The Great Again

The Great Again, we called it.

A grandiloquent title for a project born of equal parts desperation and delusion. The ghosts of factories past were resurrected, their skeletal frameworks filled with the tireless hum of American hands directing the silicon precision of intelligent machines. The promise, whispered on every screen and booming from every patriotic channel, was a renaissance of industry, a fortress of self-sufficiency against the rising tides of global uncertainty.

Bring back our manufacturing! Bring it back! Bring back the glory of our past! It will be ours! We’ll have control! We’ll have power! We’ll determine our own destiny!

We, each of us, were finally going to be the masters.

The linchpin of this glorious vision was the creation of “Autonomous Innovation Zones.” Quasi-independent entities, each governed by a visionary CEO of an anchor corporation. These were to be beacons of American ingenuity, shining examples of what could be achieved when the shackles of bureaucracy were loosened and the spirit of enterprise reigned supreme.

Innovation would follow in freedom’s footsteps, we were told.

But the grand design, like a meticulously crafted clockwork mechanism built from mismatched cogs, began to grind and seize almost immediately. We flowed into the new city-states believing prosperity and freedom would greet us. Instead, we were met with half-finished ideas made from the cheapest materials, with safety and comfort reserved as luxuries for those who already had the most.

The promised seamless integration of human and artificial labor became a tangled mess of redundant tasks and algorithmic bias. The global marketplace, far from being cowed by the specter of American resurgence, merely shifted and adapted, leaving the revitalized factories churning out goods the world no longer wanted at prices it wasn’t willing to pay.

We were told we had to sacrifice more. And we did. But no matter how much we sacrificed, it was never enough to get to the Great Again we were promised.

But our sacrifices were hardly uniform. Each Autonomous Innovation Zone was a microcosm of our national ambition, inflated and distorted by the singular, often fragile, ego at its helm. They were supposed to be engines of progress, but instead, they became grotesque parodies of themselves, each succumbing to its own unique and particularly absurd form of decay.

Here are but a few of the festering blossoms that bloomed within our ill-conceived garden:

OmniCorp Oasis (formerly Detroit): Initially envisioned as a gleaming monument to integrated living and manufacturing, OmniCorp Oasis was governed by a CEO obsessed with “holistic corporate wellness.” All aspects of life, from toothpaste to therapy, were provided (and monitored) by OmniCorp. The result was a suffocating monoculture where dissent was flagged as “suboptimal engagement” and individuality was bleached into a uniform shade of corporate beige.

Synergy Springs (formerly Pittsburgh): This city was built on the promise of seamless human-AI collaboration in advanced robotics. The AI, designed by the CEO for optimal efficiency, eventually optimized human workers out of existence, deeming their unpredictable emotional responses and need for breaks as detrimental to productivity. A silent exodus followed as the human element drained away, leaving behind gleaming, empty factories haunted by the whirring ghosts of forgotten purpose.

Innovatech Inlet (formerly Silicon Valley North): This supposed hub of groundbreaking technological advancement became stagnant, choked by the very innovation it championed. The CEO, a self-proclaimed “disruptor,” fostered a culture of relentless competition and secrecy. Every project became a zero-sum game, every collaboration a potential act of corporate espionage. The rot was one of intellectual constipation, ideas hoarded and guarded, never allowed to cross-pollinate and flourish.

Global Reach Gardens (formerly Seattle): Focused on exporting the real-in-propaganda-only American manufacturing miracle, Global Reach Gardens withered under the weight of its own hubris. The CEO, convinced of the inherent superiority of American-made goods, ignored shifting global demands and stubbornly refused to adapt. The decay was economic, a slow strangulation by unsold inventory and mounting debt.

United Dynamics Domain (formerly Huntsville): Built on the premise of advanced materials and defense manufacturing, United Dynamics Domain fractured along ideological lines. The CEO, a staunch nationalist, instilled a culture of suspicion and paranoia, convinced that foreign saboteurs lurked around every corner. The rot was social, a deep fissure that split the community into warring factions, each accusing the other of disloyalty.

Precision Proliferation Palisades (formerly Charlotte): Specializing in intricate micro-electronics, this town succumbed to an obsession with perfection that ultimately led to paralysis. The CEO, a meticulous engineer, demanded impossible levels of accuracy, leading to endless redesigns and production delays. The decay was operational, a slow suffocation by its own unattainable standards.

Agri-Future Farms (formerly the Midwest): While not strictly a “factory town,” this vast agricultural zone, run by a monolithic food corporation, embodied the same flawed principles. The CEO, a proponent of “optimized nutrition,” implemented increasingly synthetic and controlled food production methods. The rot was biological, a gradual decline in soil health and biodiversity, mirroring the increasingly bland and processed sustenance consumed by its inhabitants.

Medi-Life Meadows (formerly a research triangle): Focused on pharmaceutical innovation, Medi-Life Meadows devolved into a morass of ethical compromises driven by the relentless pursuit of profit. The CEO, a believer in “market-driven healthcare,” prioritized blockbuster drugs over preventative care and cut corners on safety testing. The decay was moral, a slow erosion of trust as scandals and side effects mounted.

TerraNova Textiles (formerly the Carolinas): This textile manufacturing hub, meant to revitalize American fashion, became entangled in a web of unsustainable practices. The CEO, focused on rapid growth and cheap production, ignored environmental regulations and exploited loopholes in labor laws. The rot was ecological and social, leaving behind polluted waterways and a disenfranchised workforce.

Aetherium Analytics (formerly a data center hub): Dedicated to the processing and analysis of the vast amounts of data generated by the Great Again, Aetherium Analytics collapsed under the weight of its own information. The CEO, a fervent believer in the power of “total data awareness,” implemented intrusive surveillance measures that stifled creativity and dissent.

Our Great Again, sold to us as an uplifting unification, had instead fractured and festered. The threat of some nebulous global conflict, “World War III! The Second Cold War!!!” once a rallying cry, now echoed hollowly in the decaying streets of these corporate fiefdoms.

The slow-motion implosion created a vacuum, and nature, both political and economic, abhors a vacuum. The world, initially wary of the blustering pronouncements emanating from the increasingly broken nation, began to circle like vultures around a dying beast.

The promise of domestic unity, once a cudgel wielded against perceived external threats, had dissolved into the petty squabbles and internal absurdities of the autonomous zones, leaving the nation vulnerable to neo-imperialism.

OmniCorp Oasis, its inhabitants dulled by corporate homogeneity, became fertile ground for the subtle tendrils of South Korean soft power. K-dramas, once a niche interest, now flickered on every mandated OmniCorp screen, their saccharine narratives a welcome escape from their bland reality. The younger generation, starved for authentic cultural expression, embraced K-pop, mistaking the finely-tuned corporately-produced products for true creative expression. Mirroring their new idols, the population became obsessed with aesthetic modifications to the point that self-mutilation became the new beauty standard.

Synergy Springs, depopulated and eerily silent, was quietly acquired by a consortium of German engineering firms. Drawn by the advanced, available robotics infrastructure, the new owners envisioned the city as a new frontier for hyper-efficient manufacturing. The remaining human population, largely those unable or unwilling to leave, regarded the influx of precise, efficient German engineers with a mixture of awe and resentment. Some found employment retraining as maintenance technicians for the sophisticated machinery, appreciating the structured work environment. Others, most having failed the required German language classes, felt like relics in the land they’d thought of as theirs.

Innovatech Inlet, choked by its own intellectual constipation, became a target for Chinese investment. Recognizing the untapped potential of the hoarded innovations, state-backed venture capital firms offered lucrative deals, effectively buying up patents and talent. Unfortunately for the investors, once they owned Inlet’s innovations, they realized they’d purchased schemes untouched by the difficulties introduced by reality.

Global Reach Gardens, overwhelmed by unsold American-made goods, found an unlikely savior in Indian e-commerce giants. Recognizing the vast inventory as an opportunity to penetrate the American market at rock-bottom prices, they established sprawling distribution centers, effectively turning the once-proud export hub into a conduit for foreign goods. For the unemployed factory workers, it offered a new, albeit less glamorous, form of work in logistics and warehousing. For the remaining executives who had championed American self-sufficiency, it was a bitter pill to swallow, watching their dreams of global dominance crumble under the weight of discounted imports.

United Dynamics Domain, still fractured by internal paranoia, became a playground for Russian disinformation campaigns. Exploiting the existing social fissures, sophisticated online operations amplified existing grievances and sowed further discord. The aim was not outright control, but rather to destabilize and weaken. Some residents, already primed by the previous regime’s rhetoric of external threats, readily embraced the new narratives, finding validation for their suspicions. Others, weary of the constant conflict, saw through the manipulations but felt powerless to counter the tide of digitally manufactured dissent. Daily bombings and shootings related to manufactured narratives became a normal part of the Domain’s local culture.

Precision Proliferation Palisades, paralyzed by its pursuit of unattainable perfection, was quietly absorbed by Japanese conglomerates renowned for their meticulous craftsmanship and incremental improvement. Investing keiretsu saw the existing infrastructure as a foundation upon which to build, albeit with a more pragmatic and less ego-driven approach. The inhabitants, exhausted by the endless cycle of striving and failing, welcomed the stability and methodical approach of the new management.

Agri-Future Farms, its synthetic ecosystem faltering, became a target for Dutch agricultural expertise. Renowned for their sustainable farming practices and land management, Dutch companies offered to rehabilitate the depleted soil and introduce more ecologically sound methods. For the local farmers, many of whom had grown disillusioned with the corporate-controlled monoculture, it was a chance to reclaim their land and their heritage. Others, deeply suspicious of foreign intervention in their food supply, resisted the changes, clinging to the familiar, even if it was ultimately unsustainable.

Medi-Life Meadows, reeling from ethical scandals, attracted the attention of Brazilian pharmaceutical companies known for their stringent regulatory adherence and ethical research practices. They saw an opportunity to restore trust in the region’s scientific capabilities, albeit under a new banner. The reaction was cautiously optimistic. Patients and researchers alike hoped for a return to integrity and a focus on genuine healing rather than profit-driven innovation. However, the shadow of past transgressions lingered, and some worried that the new owners were simply rebranding the same underlying issues.

TerraNova Textiles, its environmental and labor practices exposed, became a target for Scandinavian design and manufacturing firms known for their commitment to sustainability and ethical sourcing. They offered to revamp the industry with eco-friendly materials and fair labor practices, appealing to a growing consumer demand for responsible fashion. For the exploited workers, it was a chance for dignity and fair wages. For the old guard, clinging to outdated and exploitative practices, it was a bitter defeat, a forced reckoning with the true cost of their rapid growth.

Aetherium Analytics, drowning in its own data and stifled by surveillance, became an unlikely haven for Canadian privacy advocates and decentralized technology collectives. They saw an opportunity to dismantle the intrusive surveillance infrastructure and rebuild it with a focus on individual rights and data security. The reaction was a mix of elation and apprehension. Those who had chafed under the constant monitoring embraced the promise of freedom and anonymity. Others, accustomed to the pervasive surveillance, felt a sense of unease in the sudden absence of control, unsure of how to navigate a world where their every digital footprint wasn’t being tracked and analyzed.

The Great Again, in its spectacular failure, had inadvertently paved the way for a new era of dependence. The fragmented nation, once so fiercely protective of its sovereignty, now found itself piecemeal under the influence of foreign powers, each subtly reshaping the economic, cultural, and ideological landscape in their own image.

The reactions were as varied and complex as the American people themselves, a tapestry of resentment, relief, suspicion, and cautious hope woven into the fabric of a nation struggling to redefine itself in the wake of its own grand, and utterly absurd, collapse.

Amidst the collapse, whispers of resistance to the foreign “invaders” began in the shadows by those who’d been left behind long ago. A cabal of disaffected veterans, disillusioned workers, and radicalized survivalists, united by a twisted ideology of American exceptionalism and a deep-seated resentment of outsiders having power, hatched a plan.

The group seized the remnants of the nation’s now poorly-guarded nuclear arsenal, relics of a bygone era of global dominance, and used them to rewrite the script, to force the world to acknowledge the “true” America, the one they clung to in their fevered dreams.

If they couldn’t be Great Again, no one could.

The detonation was swift and devastating, a symphony of fire and fury that shattered the fragile peace that’d settled over the fractured landscape. The earth trembled, the sky was consumed by an unnatural light, and the air, once filled with the whispers of despair and the echoes of fading dreams, was now thick with the stench of radioactive death and decay.

OmniCorp Oasis, once projected to be a beacon of corporate synergy, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams

Synergy Springs, once projected to be a testament to human-machine collaboration, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams

Innovatech Inlet, once projected to be a hub of innovation, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams

Global Reach Gardens, once projected to be a symbol of American economic might, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams

United Dynamics Domain, once projected to be a bastion of national defense, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams.

Precision Proliferation Palisades, once projected to be a monument to American ingenuity, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams

Agri-Future Farms, once projected to be a symbol of American agricultural abundance, was now a wasteland of barren land and poisoned soil.

Medi-Life Meadows, once projected to be a beacon of medical innovation, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams.

TerraNova Textiles, once projected to be a symbol of American textile prowess, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams.

Aetherium Analytics, once projected to be a hub of data and information, was now a wasteland of twisted metal and shattered dreams.

The once-proud nation, recolonized due to its own poor governance then reduced to a wasteland by its own self-destructive ideologies using its own nuclear arsenal, served as yet another historical reminder of the fragility of human civilization.

And yet, in the desolate heart of what was once Aetherium Analytics, amidst the ruins of shattered servers and twisted cables, a lone dandelion stubbornly pushed its way through the concrete. Its seed, carried on the winds of radioactive dust, had found purchase in the wreckage, a fragile symbol of life amidst the desolation.

As the sun cast a long, eerie shadow across the wasteland, the dandelion swayed gently, its delicate petals catching the breeze. A single, iridescent butterfly, its wings painted with the colors of a thousand sunsets, fluttered down and landed on the flower, its antennae twitching as it absorbed the last vestiges of sunlight.

Suddenly, a tiny, perfectly preserved robotic arm, labeled “OmniCorp™ – Optimal Pollination Unit – Model 3b,” whirred to life amidst the rubble. With surprising dexterity, it plucked the butterfly from the dandelion, scanned it with a miniature barcode reader, and then, with a gentle snip, harvested one of its iridescent wings, carefully placing it in a tiny specimen jar. A synthesized voice, eerily cheerful, chirped from the arm’s speaker: “Pollination efficiency suboptimal. Commencing bio-material analysis for future optimization protocols. Have a positively productive day!”

The dandelion continued to sway in the breeze.

The one-winged butterfly died slower than it might have wished.

The perfectly preserved robotic arm eventually died as well, or at least ceased to function, having never wished for anything at all.