The morning light shimmered across the canals and terraces of Gaia-City, painting the air in green and gold. The city buzzed with anticipation. Today was the Level March, the first in a generation, a grand celebration meant to honor the spirit of progress—but beneath the surface, tensions hummed.
Léo woke early, prepping his borrowed totem—a sleek, palm-sized prism programmed to display a fake level. He'd coded it all night, cycling through hundreds of combinations until he found the right blend of average and anonymous. Today, he would walk among the crowds unseen, eyes open to everything the festival tried to hide.
Outside, banners fluttered from the city's vertical farms, their AR sigils sparkling above the crowd. All morning, streams of people filed into the heart of Gaia-City, their totems glowing softly with their level—a badge of identity, a marker of place.
Amina stood on the main promenade, a gentle authority at the center of the swirl. Her totem gleamed in gold and deep green, set to the precise level the system recognized, no more, no less. She watched families cluster together, old friends compare numbers, newcomers stand alone with uncertain smiles.
She greeted everyone—high, low, uncertain. Her hope was simple: that the Level March could unite instead of divide, that the old festival's spirit of inclusion could be reborn.
But she could already feel the difference. Children boasted about their new badges. Elders checked each other's totems in polite silence. Some faces brightened in pride, others dimmed, shrinking from the comparison.
Clara watched from her window, arms folded. She'd refused to register, refused even to charge her own totem. All week, she'd argued with friends, insisting that dignity was not a number and that no game should demand its players wear their score in the street.
Amina had pleaded with her.
It's not about rank, it's about belonging.
Clara's answer was soft, final.
Not like this.
Léo drifted through the gathering crowds, his totem set to a modest level, watching, listening. Conversations rippled around him.
Look at theirs—did you see how fast they leveled up?
They must have gamed the system.
Somebody laughed, low.
Not everyone can keep up. Maybe they should just watch from the side.
Léo frowned, fingers itching for his notebook. He jotted down each glance, each offhand comment, the small humiliations that bloomed in the parade's shadow.
The opening procession began with a burst of music, totems pulsing in unison. Children danced, Amina led the way, her voice clear.
Every journey is unique. Every level is a story.
People cheered, but the cheers fell into gradients—louder for the high, softer for the low.
As the parade moved deeper into the city, subtle lines appeared. Groups clustered by level. Some citizens marched proudly at the front, totems bright. Others trailed at the end, or sidestepped the march altogether.
Léo slipped into a cluster of "low-levels." He asked a young man beside him how he felt.
We're used to it. At least today, everyone's honest.
He smiled, but his eyes darted sideways, searching for someone else to join.
A group of children pushed past, one raising their totem high.
Look, I'm ahead of you!
The parade paused at the central plaza, where giant screens displayed a shifting mosaic of all participants—levels glittering like a constellation. The city's digital overlay amplified each badge, each progress point.
Amina took the microphone.
Gaia-City thrives on difference. We grow stronger together, not apart. Today, we celebrate every journey, not just the highest.
Clara watched the speech from her studio, shaking her head. Her hands moved over a weaving in progress—no AR, no badge, just color and texture. She muttered to herself.
If only the city could feel this fabric instead of just reading numbers.
Léo approached the stage, blending in with the crowd, recording the faces of pride and discomfort. He saw a woman hiding her totem behind her coat. He saw a child press theirs to their chest, as if trying to make it shine brighter.
He caught Amina's eye. She nodded, knowing, worried.
Léo sent a private message.
You see what I see?
Amina replied, her answer a silent sigh.
Yes. Help me change it.
As the festival continued, Léo's infiltration turned into documentation. He live-streamed interviews with citizens, sharing their true stories, both proud and pained. His stream grew popular. Comments poured in—some supportive, some harsh, some challenging the whole premise.
Clara joined the feed from her studio, holding up her tapestry.
Not all value can be seen. Not all progress is measured.
Her words echoed across the city.
As the sun climbed high, tensions surfaced. A group of high-level marchers staged an impromptu contest—who could display the most badges at once. The plaza erupted in cheers and nervous laughter.
Amina stepped in, voice firm.
No one here is more valuable than anyone else.
She looked at the crowd, her gaze unblinking.
Today is for everyone. If we lose that, we lose ourselves.
Léo switched his totem to "Level Zero," walking at the front with the leaders, then at the back with the outcasts, making a silent point. People stared, some confused, some enlightened.
One girl, totem dim, approached Amina.
I want to go home. I thought this would feel good.
Amina knelt beside her, taking her hand.
It's okay to leave. You're more than your level.
Léo recorded the moment, then powered off his totem.
No more numbers, he said aloud. Just people.
A ripple ran through the crowd. Others powered down, hesitantly at first, then boldly. In minutes, the parade's light faded, leaving only the natural glow of Gaia-City—green, gold, and alive.
Clara stepped into the street at last, joining the procession with empty hands. Her tapestry unfurled behind her, catching the wind.
Amina smiled, relief and sadness mingling.
Maybe this is what the Level March was always meant to be—a celebration not of rank, but of the courage to walk together, unmeasured.
The day ended in quiet laughter and soft conversation. People lingered long after the festival, sharing food, stories, and new traditions. Some talked about next year—no totems, just tales.
That night, Amina wrote a message to the city.
The only journey that matters is the one we share.
Léo posted a summary, his last words simple.
We are not our levels. We are each other.
Clara hung her tapestry in the square. It bore no badges, no scores, only the story of a city learning, again, how to walk side by side.