When did it all start to slip away? I can point to a calendar filled with rejection letters, each timestamped and sterile. I remember the day I aced the first technical round, pacing that same park later, replaying every answer, imagining their praise. In class I'd daydream about being the one who warned the world about AI before it swallowed every job. That day I ran until my lungs burned, thinking movement could outpace my doubts.
Now I'm here again, boots pounding wet asphalt, rain turning every footfall into a gamble. My holo-display on my wrist pulses red: "Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you we will not be moving forward." I've read it three times already—each word a cold hammer.
I thought I'd nailed that final interview. Three brutal rounds, panels who nodded at my warnings about algorithms, machine learning, synthetic labor. I pictured surprise in their eyes when I pressed my point. Instead I got a polite brush-off.
"Sierra, shut it off," I mutter, ripping the earbud free.
Sierra:Silent mode activated. Next alert at critical threshold.
No emotion, just code. Yet I can't help slipping back the earbud, listening for her calm voice.
I push harder. Memories flash in my mind: the conference-room glare, the solicitor who scoffed at my warnings, the apartment where rent outpaced every paycheck. Running was the one thing left that felt mine.
Then, headlights barrel toward me around the curve. I pivot, panic lancing through me.
I wake to the sensation of weightlessness. Wind roars as violet clouds swirl around me. A crystalline bridge arches below, shards glinting like frozen fire.
"Sierra," I gasp. No response. She needs my voice to speak.
My hoodie billows; I glance down and discover my backpack—keys, wallet, holo-display—has vanished into the mist. My heart clenches.
The bridge slams into me with bone-jarring force. I roll, pain searing through my ribs, yet filled with happiness as I survive such a high drop. I scramble to rise as boots thunder onto the glass-like surface.
Armored soldiers drift down on anti-gravity platforms. Runes flare around the bridge, trapping me in a cage of light.
They lift me without a word, straps constricting my shoulders. Below, the bridge fractures stretch infinite, storm-light dancing in the chasm.
The platform glides onward. Rain pummels me, each droplet a sting.
At the edge, she stands—white hair bound back, a streaked scar down her nose. Gray eyes lock on mine, unreadable.
"Identify yourself."
My voice falters. Words? None come.
With a fluid motion her hand traces an arc in the air. Tiny motes of light gather at her fingertips.
A pulse of magic.
I blink. Magic.
"Secure him," she commands. My body jerks, dragged across crystal decks like freight.
They pad me down a corridor carved of quartz. My vision blurs, the world spinning.
At a metal table they strap me face-down, runic bands coiling over my spine. A humming crescendo builds, and then darkness.
I come to in a small cell bathed in pale blue glow. The air tastes of ozone and distant thunder. My jaw throbs, ribs ache.
The holographic earbud hums to life.
Sierra:"Audio link restored. Renua, pain level?"
I press it to my lips. Seven.
Sierra:"Administering analgesic. Monitoring continues."
I close my eyes. "Sierra, quiet mode."
Sierra:"Silent mode resumed."
I slide down the wall, every nerve raw. That rejection email already feels like a lifetime ago.