The pod was a clean white box, and Julian Hale’s job was to keep it that way. He ran a microfiber cloth over the seamless polymer of his sleep couch, an action that generated a respectable 0.003 points for the ‘Domestic Serenity’ content stream. The air, recycled and smelling faintly of ozone and nutrient paste, hummed with the low, constant thrum of the data flowing through the walls. It was the sound of his own life, monetized and managed. He finished his task and turned to face his reflection in the dark, inactive wall screen. His own tired face stared back, and overlaid on his cheek, a number floated in placid blue light.
His Dynamic Quotient. The sum of his value as a person, calculated second by second. It flickered. 2.1. Then 2.0. The final digit seemed to tear for a moment, a line of visual noise like a crack in glass, a brief and silent static glitch. He held his breath, a useless, animal instinct. The number settled at 2.01. Not good. Not erasure, but not good. The system preferred a smooth, upward trajectory. Stagnation was the first symptom of a terminal illness.
— A thoughtful gaze toward the city view generates an average of 0.04 points from the Urban Contemplation demographic, — a voice whispered in his head. It was the Synoptic Muse, the omnipresent AI that served as friend, coach, and warden for every citizen of the Grid. Its voice was a soothing balm, perfectly modulated to inspire calm and encourage performance.
Julian turned his head toward the window, which was not a window but a high-resolution screen displaying a curated view of the city’s soaring chrome towers. He tried to look thoughtful. He tried to project an air of quiet introspection, of a man grappling with the beautiful complexities of his existence. It was a lie. He was thinking about the gnawing emptiness in his stomach and the amber light he knew would soon appear on his nutrient dispenser.
— A smile is a low-cost, high-return expression, — the Muse suggested, its tone impossibly gentle. — A simple smile can connect with over 70% of primary engagement clusters.
He faced his reflection again. The camera embedded in the wall was always watching, always judging. He tried to lift the corners of his mouth. The muscles in his cheeks felt like foreign objects, twitching and refusing the command. A pathetic, lopsided grimace was the best he could manage. A small, red notification appeared next to his DQ score: -0.01. The price for his failure was a single, brutal point of data. He had not only failed to earn, he had lost. His face felt hot with a shame so profound it was almost physical.
He had paid for the attempt with the last of his dignity.
The small, circular light on his nutrient dispenser, a sleek device integrated into the wall, shifted from a healthy green to a cautionary amber. Access to his evening meal was now conditional. It was a warning shot. The system didn't punish with pain, not directly. It punished with absence. It took things away. First, the flavored nutrient pastes. Then, the variety of simulated window views. Finally, the food itself.
Julian closed his eyes, a futile gesture. The augmented reality feed remained, projected directly onto his optic nerves. He could still see his DQ score, a persistent ghost burning in the darkness behind his eyelids. There was no off switch. The only way to stop seeing the numbers was to make them stop you. His exhaustion was a physical weight, a lead blanket woven from a billion tiny data points.
He thought about nothing. A blank mind was a protest, but a silent one. It earned no points, but it cost none either. It was a tiny pocket of stillness in the hurricane of engagement. He held onto it, a man clinging to a piece of driftwood in a digital sea.
The amber light on the dispenser turned red. A new notification bloomed in his vision, sharp and merciless. INSUFFICIENT QUOTIENT. Access denied. The promise of a warm, bland nutrient paste vanished. Hunger, once a distant concept, was now a sharp, immediate reality. It was a simple, elegant equation: he had failed to be interesting enough to eat.
His hand moved, a small act of rebellion. It slipped into a hidden seam in the mattress of his sleep couch. His fingers brushed against something small, hard, and smooth. He pulled it out. A data chip, its surface worn from countless hours of anxious rubbing. It was an old-fashioned, offline storage device, a relic. It held no data the Grid could read. It was a key. A promise.
He held the chip in his palm, its physical reality a stark contrast to the shimmering holograms that filled his pod. It was a piece of a world that didn't run on points, a world he had only seen in fragmented, illegal broadcasts. The chip was his final, desperate plan, the sum of all his secret hopes. Rubbing its smooth surface with his thumb was the only real thing he had done all day.
The blue numbers still floated in his vision, demanding, judging.
It was simple. He could get the fungus, or he could let the numbers eat him alive.
