Midnight sirens slice through the smothering silence. Neon drones sweep the abandoned boulevards with pulsing searchlights. A hollow voice crackles over every speaker: “If your Reset Score falls below 42.9, report for relocation.”
Following the rapid deployment of autonomous systems across key industrial sectors, mass automation precipitated an immediate contraction in human labor demand. Manufacturing facilities ceased operations, service centers were decommissioned, and logistics networks stalled as driverless fleets replaced traditional convoys. Individuals impacted by displacement experienced significant reductions in social credit metrics, correlating with income cessation and loss of economic stability. In accordance with Directive 47-B, affected citizens were transitioned to Better Living Housing Units—standardized accommodations designed to ensure baseline welfare compliance
As inflation accelerated and housing markets overheated, baseline living expenses—mortgages, food staples, utilities—consistently outpaced stagnant wage growth. Financial precarity became systemic. Under Protocol 9-A, individuals who failed to meet algorithmically monitored payment thresholds were flagged for non-compliance. Automated systems issued Exile Orders, initiating relocation procedures to designated Peripheral Zones. The transition was framed as 'economic rebalancing,' though for many, it marked the end of civic inclusion.
The buses arrived precisely at 06:00, their matte grey exteriors indistinguishable from the perimeter fencing they mirrored. Courtyard squares, once communal spaces, had been repurposed into extraction zones. Families stood in silence, clutching chipped identification cards—each etched with a Reset Score too low to qualify for retention. No announcements were made. The algorithm had already spoken. Boarding was mandatory, relocation non-negotiable. Surveillance drones hovered overhead, recording compliance metrics for future audits.
Inside the perimeter, silence reigned. Surveillance pylons blinked in rhythmic intervals, mapping biometric signatures to centralized ledgers. Residents were assigned habitation pods—uniform, windowless, and algorithmically optimized for compliance. Daily routines were streamed via holo-screens: nutrition rations, productivity quotas, emotional calibration modules. Resistance was not punished; it was reprogrammed. Outside, the wind howled across the dead flats, but inside, the system hummed—efficient, indifferent, eternal.
Sleep was rationed in cycles calibrated to productivity forecasts. Dreams, if permitted, were monitored for deviance. The walls never dimmed. Metrics pulsed through the night—compliance ratings, reset countdowns, emotional variance scores. Each flicker reminded you: history had been overwritten. Identity was now a ledger entry, mutable and disposable. Outside, the generator’s hum was constant. Inside, time dissolved into data.
By the fourth week, silence had a shape. It clung to corridors where names used to echo, now replaced by numeric designations and biometric scans. The sirens no longer startled anyone—they were routine, like the flicker of compliance metrics or the hum of surveillance drones tracing heat signatures. Rumors of resistance were spoken only in gestures: a glance too long, a pod left unlocked, a ration untouched. And then, without warning, another bunk would go cold. The Reset didn’t punish. It erased.
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