4. GlitchBorn
GlitchBorn
Playlist: Glitch - Knive, Known Hated
Lyra
My eyes sting, raw and red from staring at data feeds all day long.
I press my thumb to the scan panel beside the door of the cramped office space I share with four coworkers, all of us DataScribes.
I replay the image of the sunsets from my youth in my mind, realizing I‘ve worked through more than I’ve seen in this city.
Sunsets are quicker now. No parade of color.
Just a harsh snap of day to night as the blackness falls over the cracks not covered by the bright lights of the holo feeds spilling onto the pavement.
It’s darker inside the office tower than out.
The city is swallowed in a fine oily mist and wet glare, skyscrapers disappearing like specters into the smog.
Ads flicker across the haze in electric colors—cyan, magenta, violet—reflecting off the delivery drones zipping between buildings, dropping off dinner to citizens too exhausted or too trapped to leave their corporate subsidized apartments.
Another day wasted, cataloging and feeding data through the stream. Work that could actually be done by AI but instead, the Corporation insists that we earn the meals, housing, and small amount of credits they provide. We all know we’re just cogs in the data machine destined to someday be obsolete.
GOOD NIGHT MISS VAILLE
VIKKCORP APPRECIATES YOUR HARD WORK
LINK’s robotic voice reverberates through the hall, synthetic, soulless, toeing the corporate line while the words trail along the data panel’s screen.
A bitter laugh escapes me.
Fuck you. I flip the nearest security camera the bird, my middle finger straining from straightening it after being bent on a keyboard all day. Someone in systems will love seeing that on their feed.
My DataLINK chirps. I look down to see a text from my brother:
Eli: STATIK—10PM
Eli: Let’s have some U21 fun!
Stars, that stupid tongue out emoji my brother uses when he thinks he’s being funny, almost makes me want to scream. If I had the energy.
My shoulders droop and a sigh escapes. It’s nine p.m. and the daily data grind has me exhausted and burnt out, but how can I resist spending time with my favorite brother?
OK, well my only brother. But the only person in this world who knows the real, true me.
The only person left who loves and cares about me.
“LINK. Tell Eli I’m on my way.”
ELI HAS BEEN TEXTED LYRA
The insufferable AI voice dismisses me like a child. I hate it.
Whoever coded this thing clearly values efficiency over empathy, which means he’s either a genius or an absolute nightmare. I bet that guy is a real fun time at parties...if he’s even invited.
The cool night air hits me with a jolt to the face; acidic rain again, how predictable.
I pull my leather jacket up around my neck and dart into the mix of whirring traffic and blinding lights.
I remind myself that STATIK is only five blocks from VikkCorp, a relatively fast walk.
I pick up the pace, boots splashing through puddles of shimmering hues.
I should easily be able to cut through a few back alleys to avoid the mammoth security monitors and endless glow of holographic ads that tower over the streets.
I yank my hood up as I break into a full-on jog.
I’m going to be late trying to avoid the drones and the flickering screens.
I’m exhausted and stressed, so I can feel it again.
Pressure. Like my thoughts are too big for my skull.
My heartbeat syncs with the pulse of the city itself.
It’s always stressful for me to be in the presence of all this tech.
Oh, perfect! Drones.
There’s no avoiding the two city-surveillance drones hovering over the crowd at the mouth of the HoloDistrict. Their scanners strobe across faces, calibrating, hunting. My pulse spikes, so I force my breathing to slow.
I know this...
I’ve rehearsed this. I just have to look normal. Whatever that means anymore.
Calm down. Just keep moving and don’t let the tech sense you’re trembling. I can’t afford to react. Not here. Not where every spark inside me might answer back. I’ve dodged surveillance since before I could drink cheap stem-cocktails. I can handle two metal gnats.
A screen flickers as I pass. Then another.
At first, I didn’t notice the full effect. The ad shows the usual smiling faces of the Corporation’s “perfect citizens,” flawless, beautiful, and unreal. But then the smiles twist, and the faces melt into static. Words glitch into gibberish.
A BETTER TOMORROW...digital fog and snow.
A BITTER TOMORROW...the voice slows and deflates like a balloon losing helium.
Bright amber-and-gold streaks appear, and the sound of waves humming and crashing violently sync with the dripping colors. I freeze for half a second.
No. Not here. Not now.
I propel myself forward, splashing through gutters, shoulders tight with panic.
Another screen cuts out entirely, plunging part of the alley into darkness.
The one next to it flares with an image that isn’t supposed to be there at all.
My own reflection, stretched and cracked across the glass like a phantom watermark.
Acidic rain continues to fall and turns the images into rivers of melting light.
Passers-by stop, eyes flicking between the glitching ads and my figure racing past. My generation couldn’t care less, smirks crossing their faces as they turn back to whatever mindless task they were doing.
But the older generation? The ones who love corporate life and all the monotony it has to offer? They notice. One man mutters something about “U21 tech-tricks.” A woman moves closer to her partner as if my generation is to be feared, like we’re all savages running loose in the streets.
The pressure in my mind continues to build to a dull ache. My insides twist, and my chest feels tight. My hands buzz like they’re plugged directly into the grid.
Now, every screen I pass warps.
The Corporation’s logos drip like blood. Models with perfect hair and skin split into shadow-eyed monsters. Words twist into warnings:
RUN. WAKE UP. IT’S A LIE.
Well it is.
But fuck, I’m not doing this on purpose.
I’m not even sure how I do this. Just that any emotion, any stressor, any pull on my feelings causes this to happen.
All I know is that the closer I am to the nightclub, the worse it’s going to get.
Ads continue to crackle with bursts of light, half-formed images, and flashes of my memories.
The ones I can’t let go of: Emotions buried so deep they could land me right on the Corporation’s list of dangerous anomalies.
Calm yourself, Lyra. It’s just emotion. I know this...“Ten, nine, eight, seven...” I begin counting backward to release the tension. I can do this.
I slow down and continue to count. It’s hard to look inconspicuous when the buzzing of drones fills your ears like hornets to a nest.
The familiar buzz of the red STATIK sign glows above my head as I reach the entrance, heart hammering, rain dripping from my hood. The entire block of screens behind me flare snow white and die in perfect unison. The street goes dead silent, like the city itself seems to hold its breath around me.
A cold shiver runs over me. I realize that whatever this is, whatever power that was given to me on StarFell, it’s getting stronger. I need to take control of this beast, or they will find out.
I slip past the doorman as he’s arguing with two younger girls trying to flash their breasts and charm their way into the club. I try to stay hidden, but it’s difficult to be light in a cavern of shadows.
I’m expecting to hear loud, digitized, raucous music. After all, NeonGods is playing tonight, and their fanbase is usually off the rails. But what I don’t expect is this...
This feeling, deep in my bones and in my lungs, syncing my heartbeat to the rhythm and lulling my nerves to peace.
Asher Quinn, the gorgeous lead singer, is standing alone on the stage with his guitar.
His voice rises and falls as he sings. It’s raw, jagged, and imperfect, but it moves me.
The air vibrates, glasses and bottles trembling on tables.
One of the Corporation’s surveillance drones, hovering too close to the entrance of the club, crashes to the wet street.
The crowd erupts, not from panic, but from exhilaration.
When the band joins in and the beat drops, the whole vibe of the room changes. People scream, dance, and laugh. Not because they choose to, but because NeonGod’s music threads through them, stitching their emotions into harmony. I clutch the bar railing, breathless. I understand it now. The truth.
This isn’t just music. It’s control. It’s U21 magic. The rumors about the lead singer are all true.
Asher’s eyes snap open mid-chorus, flickering neon blue just for a second, like someone plugged him into a hard drive.
Oh, do I feel them. Not one but two sets of eyes cutting through the crowd: One from the stage, bright and electric, and one from the shadowed booth in the corner, dark and unreadable. He’s sending out some serious tension; a man carved from stillness and storm.
Just my type. I always like to console myself after a hard day’s work with a brooding bad boy.
The music stutters, and the song falters. It feels as if both men are searching, not for a fan, but for me. It’s as if they both sense the glitch in their world. Am I that obvious?
The bassline surges again, covering the pause in the song’s verse. No one else even notices. But I do. I can feel these two men staring at me, the one on stage and the one in the corner. They’re both dangerous and different.
Just like me.