Page 4

Myall

The shrill beep of my alarm pierces the darkness, dragging me from sleep. I suppress the groan that rises in my throat. Even alone, emotional restraint is mandated.

“Acknowledged,” I mumble, my voice still rough with sleep.

I swing my legs over the side of my warm bed, feeling the soft sheets against my skin as the lingering scent of lavender from my sleep aid fills the air.

My bare feet hit the cold floor, the chill sending a shiver up my spine, but I quickly stifle the reaction.

She was acting strangely yesterday, giving off an unsettling vibe. Against my better judgment, I checked her emotional compliance stats on Sentinel. They were within normal parameters. So what was causing her odd behavior?

I know I should report her behavior, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the curve of her smile or the spark in her eyes when she thinks no one is watching. Her smile lingers in my mind, a warmth I both crave and fear. Shaking my head, I banish the thought.

“Stop thinking about her, Myall,” I mutter to myself as I step out of the shower. “You can’t afford to slip up.”

Dressing quickly in the standard-issue uniform, I smooth out any wrinkles with meticulous care. The uniform is designed for efficiency rather than aesthetic appeal and the dark gray fabric seems to blend in perfectly with the equally drab walls of my living space.

The AI’s voice interrupts my dressing. “Citizen 24601, you have 17 minutes remaining in your morning routine. Please proceed to the nutrition station for your daily sustenance.”

I sigh, squaring my shoulders. “Understood.”

As I choke down the flavorless nutrient bar, I can’t help but wonder how much longer I can keep up this charade.

“Another day in paradise,” I groan to myself, adjusting my collar before stepping out into the world beyond my door.

The chill morning air bites my face as I merge into the stream of citizens, all moving like shadows toward the maglev station.

The streets stretch like lifeless veins beneath dull gray concrete, echoing with the distant drone of machinery.

The only splashes of color come from the digital advertisements that flash on screens above the streets.

“Good morning,” a woman beside me intones flatly.

“Good morning,” I respond, my voice equally devoid of emotion. Our eyes meet briefly, and I catch a flicker of… something. Longing? Fear? But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the vacant stare we’ve all perfected.

Approaching the maglev station, its glass walls glimmer in dull morning light, reflecting blank faces as if absorbing our humanity. Joining the flow inside, I catch glimpses of AI monitors flashing messages of obedience and efficiency.

The maglev train glides into view as it slices through the morning fog, its sleek, silver body a serpent winding through the heart of the city.

We all move in perfect synchronization as we board the maglev, like a well-oiled machine.

No one speaks above a whisper, no one makes unnecessary physical contact.

The silence is deafening, the air hanging thick with unspoken thoughts.

Eyes cast down, faces are blank, yet I can almost feel the simmering emotions beneath the surface—a pressure cooker ready to explode.

“Remember, citizens,” a soothing voice announces over the speakers, “emotional stability leads to societal harmony. Report any signs of deviance to your local Authority Enforcer.”

Clenching my jaw, I fight the urge to scream. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the landscape blur into a wash of gray and green, my thoughts far from the glass and steel structures rushing past.

The Harmonization Authority wasn’t always in control.

Grandma used to tell me stories about a time when people could feel whatever they wanted, when emotions ran wild and free like untamed rivers.

It sounds chaotic, but also beautiful. That’s the world she grew up in, the world she believed in, even as The Authority tightened its grip and turned feelings into something dangerous.

They started as a small committee, a group of so-called experts who convinced the public that emotional instability was the root of all societal problems. Their arguments were seductive in their simplicity: Remove the highs and lows, and you remove conflict.

Create a balanced, harmonious populace, and you create a utopia.

People bought into it, slowly at first, then with the fervor of true believers.

Once The Authority had enough support, they moved quickly.

Laws were passed, first encouraging and then mandating emotional regulation.

Those who resisted were labeled dissidents, enemies of harmony.

Rebellions flared up like brushfires, including the one my parents foolishly threw themselves into.

Each was crushed with a precision that grew more ruthless over time.

The last of the resistance was snuffed out when I was a boy, or so The Authority claims.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the direction of my thoughts but unable to stop the flow.

The maglev cart is sparsely populated, citizens in their gray uniforms sitting in silence, eyes vacant.

Most are likely on Tranquil, the state-issued drug that flattens emotional peaks and valleys into a manageable plain.

I’m one of the few who can maintain the facade without it, who can pretend to be less human than I am.

The maglev slows as it approaches my stop, the Compliance Monitoring Division looming large and oppressive against the skyline. Sighing, I attempt to center myself. Each day is a balancing act, the weight of my emotions threatening to tip me over.

The doors hiss open, and I stand, straightening my gray jacket.

One more day of pretending. One more day of planning.

One more day of surviving in a world where survival is the only thing left to experience.

Stepping onto the platform, the crowd moves with the mechanical precision of a wind-up toy, and I let myself be carried along, just another cog in the machine.

I approach the towering glass and steel monolith that houses my workplace. My stomach churns as I pass through the biometric scanners, praying my rebellious thoughts aren’t somehow detected.

“Welcome, Compliance Monitor Hansen,” the AI greets me as I enter the sparce lobby. “Please proceed to your workstation.”

Nodding, I carefully keep my expression neutral as I push through the revolving door and into the facility, where a giant screen displays the latest emotional balance statistics.

I head toward my workstation, noticing a small crowd gathered near the break room.

Curious, I wander over and peer through the glass wall.

On the vid-screen, the newscaster discusses the latest Harmonization campaign before cutting to Regent Colvin, the public face of The Harmonization Authority. A hush falls over the room.

Colvin speaks with his usual clipped tone, outlining new measures to ensure emotional stability. His words are a dagger wrapped in velvet, each one designed to pierce our hearts and drain them of feeling.

“…in these turbulent times, we must remember that true harmony requires sacrifice,” Colvin says. “The NeuroMod is not just a tool; it is a symbol of our collective commitment to a balanced and orderly society. Those who resist harmonization endanger not only themselves but all of us.”

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn to see Kellan, a fellow Compliance Monitor. Kellan’s a big guy, always wearing a frown. Today, though, his expression is cold and unreadable.

“Can you believe this shit?” he says, his voice low. “Colvin’s turning the country into a police state.” Kellan’s face is stone, brow deeply furrowed, as if he carries the weight of the world. His disillusionment radiates like heat from a furnace.

Shrugging, I keep my expression neutral. “He’s just trying to maintain order.”

Kellan shakes his head and walks away, muttering something I can’t make out. I take one last look at the vid-screen. Colvin’s speech has ended, and the newscaster is reading a list of recent detentions.

Moving toward workstation, the sleek interface hums to life. Around me, my colleagues are already reabsorbed in their tasks, their faces as blank as the white walls surrounding us.

“Morning, Mr. Hansen,” Tara mumbles from the workstation next to mine, her tone flat and lifeless.

“Morning,” I reply, matching her disposition.

Our eyes meet briefly, and for a fleeting moment, I think I see a flicker of something in her features. But it’s gone before I can be sure.

Staring at the reports in front of me, the numbers blur together. Another day. Another stack of paper to push through. The world outside this workroom feels so distant, as if it’s happening in another lifetime, or another place entirely.

I let my mind wander—just for a second—away from the endless rows of data. And in that instant, I’m not in this sterile workroom anymore. I’m back in my grandmother’s living room.

The first time Grandma Elara told me about love, I was ten, sitting cross-legged on the worn rug in her living room. She held a faded photograph in her hands, a relic from the time before Harmonization. In it, a young couple stood arm in arm, their faces unguarded and joyful.

“This was your grandfather and me,” she said, her voice a soft rasp. “We were so happy then.”

I looked at the picture, then at her. “Why don’t you look like that now?”

She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that hurt to see. “The NeuroMods make sure we don’t feel too much of anything. It’s safer this way, though it means we can’t experience true happiness—or true sadness.”

As a child, I couldn’t fully grasp what she was telling me. The idea that people once lived with unregulated emotions seemed as fantastical as a bedtime story. But even then, a seed of doubt was planted in my mind. If they had been so happy, why had things changed?