Exciting Day

14 months of grueling "human-only" AI-doable labor, 14 months of religiously abstaining from Virtual, and a few tentative trips before purchasing a personalized counselor robot—but I've done it! 5000 Earth Dollars (Earthen). 14 months, 56 weeks, 392 days, 8-hours per day, 3136 hours, 2-Earthens per hour: 6272 Earthens. Minimum living expenses are approximately 22 Earthen per week, meaning that, at the ripe minimum wage of 2-Earthens per hour, one need only work 1.6 hours every day if that's the only incurrence.

Of course, should one have any aspirations whatsoever: work is absolutely necessary. Even governmental positions will analyze your record for ambition and commitment, thus only the most rigorously-homebody homebodies or depressed might resign themselves to infinite mediocrity—nay, just insignificance. In any case:

-22 Earthen/week x 4 weeks/month x 14 months = -1232 Earthen. 6272 - 1232 = 5040 Earthen. 5040 - 5000 = 40 Earthen.

It's really not easy. I'll have just enough currency to cover the journey to and services of the nearest reputable clinic before purchasing the lowest-tier of dark-energy detecting organ, but I've done it. Regrettably, I'll be back to square one soon, but towards the realization of my dream, it's worth it. Oh, and it's almost time for my appointment: my holo-watch reveals that my departure should occur within 5 minutes: I concur.

As if by heavenly coincidence, a sleekly Tron-style shuttle-bike reveals itself outside my government-owned, government-leased condominium; following stringently routine retinal and fingerprint verification, it enabled me to bestride it. I was never one for rampant self-introspection or even admiring this admittedly beautiful city, relative poverty essentially abolishes such privileges nowadays, but today, I suppose I'm a bit uncharacteristically jubilant; well, I'm certainly not frowning, haha.

What I had so previously ignored: skyscrapers that intertwined vibrant turquoise and shades of blue, our geographic zone's colors, through translucent illuminators and technological art, reminiscent of the recent Zoroan-style of abstraction. A sky, effervescently cobalt, yet empty of all clouds, Cumulus or not; but I regret not the loss of spontaneous weather, meteorological scientists I do offer my respect, and instead admire with innocent simplicity, the neutered yet warm embrace of a forgiving Sun.

My tired, yet newly authentic reflections and unsurprisingly normal revelations are softly interrupted by a possibly imperceptible, but intentionally noticeable pause in motion—I have arrived, and I'm actually a tad early. And I dare not question the Genesis Organization's choice of decoration, but I nevertheless observe its infamously striking resemblance to COVID-era hospice lobbies, the corresponding absence of adventurous souls, and 5 more minutes.

Hmmm. My lazy, rightfully lazy I daresay, gaze lends itself towards a middling door so drab that it's only dreamy by circumstance: Please Be Patient. Once again bonked away by my adherence to Social Contract, I attend to a risky, and perhaps risqué even, investment of staring through the silent windows into a wide, populous street.

What? A fiendish, horned beast towers at least 7-feet over my nominally-fellow denizens; I'm normally quite calm, but the sheer hideousness and unnaturalness instantly evoke a biologically-derived recoil and disgust. Acting? No, all movie production is either done in private studios or the famous K-sector for publicity; no matter how antiquated, we've much progressed from the era of truly open shoots.

As I tangent ferociously, I'm suddenly jolted back to my relative reality: I am inside. The monster is outside, but it's attacking. Attacking?! It halts, tenses its body and muscles, and with vein-popping induction, explodes with spikes. Jagged, spiked, blood-soaked tendrils expose themselves through its sagged and even pus-filmed skin, and stab. OH MY—they jab, twisting themselves into innocent people. What the—a ghastly orange tentacle approaches the window and slaps it—it doesn't break. I jerk up, with no passionate indignance, just mere horror.

"What the fudge."