The GAIA system was glitching.
Again.
I slouched in my seat, shoulders sagging, eyes half-lidded. The clock above the holographic board ticked past 8:05 a.m.—sharp, hollow. The classroom hummed with a low, monotonous drone, so constant it felt almost alive.
Mr. Riz flailed at the screen behind him, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra that didn't exist. His words washed over me like white noise: a symphony of ritualized civility.
"…Today is your awakening ceremony," he said, clipped, professional, every syllable precise. "We'll be heading to the GAIA Talent Bureau at 9:00 a.m. for your talent scans."
I didn't care.
Not because I was apathetic—because I was exhausted. Six months of the same speeches. The same excited murmurs. The same manufactured hope.
Nothing felt real anymore. Not the school, not the students, not the way the city gleamed outside the reinforced glass with its promise of opportunity and quiet despair.
"Now, remember," Mr. Riz said, flipping to a new slide. The process, he said, though I could only hear the word "process" and nothing else.
"Just because you don't awaken a talent today doesn't mean it's the end of the road. You all have two chances. If you don't awaken today, the second awakening program is your backup."
A few scattered chuckles rose and fell, like frightened birds in a cage. Everyone knew the second program was a gamble—a coin toss with their futures riding on it. Few bothered. Fewer survived intact.
"Anyone who successfully awakens will be assigned to a GAIA Talent Academy," Mr. Riz continued, his tone growing enthusiastic. "Those with an A rank or higher will receive invites to select their academy. Choose wisely; your future depends on it."
A shiver of excitement rippled through the class.
A rank.
Prestige. Power. Doors opening.
None of it reached me. Ranks, academies, accolades—it all felt like someone else's game. I wasn't sure I wanted to play.
Mr. Riz finished, striding toward the door, leaving a classroom vibrating with whispers, half-nervous, half-hopeful. Faces glowed with anticipation. I watched them. I couldn't remember what it felt like to feel that.
"Hey, Noah, you ready?"
Graham. Grinning like he'd swallowed sunlight. Lanky, messy brown hair, eyes alive. A childhood friend. A relic of simpler days. His voice yanked me out of my spiraling thoughts.
"Ready for what?" I asked, stretching, lying back against the edge of my seat. Half-hearted smile. Don't crush his buzz.
"To see my talent!" His grin widened, nearly manic. "I've been training. Stats above average, for sure. Maybe even an A! I bet—"
I raised an eyebrow. "You're not the only one with above-average stats."
My tone neutral, but my mind went elsewhere. My HUD hadn't shown mine in weeks. Everything blank, everything question marks. Strength? Intelligence? Energy acuity? Gone.
Graham leaned closer, whispering, conspiratorial. "You're worried about a low rank, huh?"
I laughed. Hollow. "Nah. I'll go. Just… don't expect much."
******
By 8:30 a.m., the school's entrance buzzed with restless energy. Students clustered together, chattering like startled birds, each carrying a volatile mix of hope and dread. Shuttles waited to ferry us to the GAIA Talent Bureau.
The air felt heavy.
My chest felt empty.
I drifted through it all, detached. A ghost in the crowd.
The Talent Bureau was monumental. Wide, sterile, humming with invisible energy. Teens from all over—bright-eyed, trembling, some nervous, some smug. Disinfectant tang and ozone lingered like ghosts. GAIA's systems pulsed in the background, a heartbeat stitched into the building itself. Efficient. Sterile. Oppressive.
"Follow me, everyone!" Mr. Riz barked, cutting through the din. "Check in, then proceed to your designated capsule!"
My HUD blinked.
Check-in required: GTB Registration in progress.
Tap.Hum.Scan.
Pulse ticked faster than it should.
The interface bloomed in front of me: sleek, minimalistic, pulsing with faintly threatening energy.
ACCEPT
Tap.
Verifying applicant…
Seconds stretched, elastic and tight in my chest. Then the screen shifted:
Applicant verified. Welcome to the GAIA Talent Bureau.
Normal. Clinical. Boring.
Except… the stats.
Name: Noah Adler
Age: 16
Talent: None
Class: None
DA: ???
EA: ???
Attributes: ???
I froze. What the hell? I'd seen my stats before—my strength, intelligence, and potential—they'd existed. Numbers. Metrics. Meaning.
Now? Void. Blank. A hollow cavity where numbers should be.
Graham nudged me, oblivious. "See mine? Told you—above average across the board."
I forced a grin. "Yeah, good for you."
"Hey," he lowered his voice, scanning me, grin fading slightly. "You alright? You don't look so hot."
I didn't answer. My thoughts were already tangled in the glitch, wondering if GAIA had finally caught a system it couldn't predict. Or maybe it was me.
******
The line moved fast.
Capsule 15 blinked at me like a predator.
Cool metal met my skin as I settled into the chair. The lid hissed shut, sealing me inside. The hum deepened into vibration, crawling beneath my skin, buzzing along my nerves.
The screen lit up.
TALENT AWAKENING INITIATING…
Warmth spread through me. Then cold. Then warmth again. My HUD blinked, showing progress bars tracking energy and data.
[Energy Acuity (EA) Progress: 35%… 40%… 55%…]
[Data Accumulation (DA) Progress: 21%… 67%…]
A small sense of calm.
Maybe this would be simple.
Standard. Predictable. Like everyone else.
[Determining Class…]
The screen froze.
[ERROR] [Progress interrupted]
"What?" I whispered.
Then the words appeared. Slow, deliberate. Red. Unignorable.
INITIATING CODEBREAKER…
Heart skipped. Pulse stuttered.
"Wait—that's—"
Energy thrummed like a live wire beneath skin, sparking across nerves. HUD flared. Numbers twisted. Letters scrambled. Red warnings blinked. Capsule vibrated, shrieked. Vision fractured into code and static.
CODEBREAKER SYSTEM OVERRIDE: ACTIVATING.
Black. Green. White-hot pins in the brain.
And I understood, with a clarity that rattled bone: GAIA was no longer in control.
******
I opened my eyes to darkness threaded with raw code—a language I almost understood. The hum of the capsule had shifted—alive, aware. My heartbeat echoed in rhythm with it.
I flexed my fingers. Sparks danced—imagined, maybe, but convincing. Every nerve alive. Awake.
I checked the HUD.
Stats, attributes, energy: all blinking question marks.
Outside, capsules hummed. Other students would awaken. Roles assigned. Futures locked into place.
I remained an anomaly.
A glitch.
A system without parameters.
******
The glitch convulsed—zeroes and ones twisting into jagged, meaningless glyphs, a machine vomiting its own logic. My eyes burned, straining to read the chaos, to pull sense from the static.
And then it unraveled. Letters aligned, symbols bent themselves into order. A sentence blinked up at me like a secret code carved into the air:
Even gods can be hacked.