[Application information terminal:
Official ID: Arnold#4716
Year of birth: 2204
Place of birth: Sector E11
Relevant degree: Cybernetic Engineering – Institute of Technology Sector E11
Relevant experience: None
Contact: ...]
The personnel manager looked up from his digital notepad, his gaze cool and appraising. He was a man who seemed to embody the essence of District E1 – immaculate suit, polished appearance, an aura of unshakeable authority. His fingers tapped once on the desk as his gaze rested on the young man opposite him.
Arnold instinctively straightened his back. At nineteen, he was skinny, his physique suggesting a diet that was sufficient for survival but nothing more. Dark circles were visible under his eyes, earned through countless nights of studying under flickering lights. But those eyes still radiated a stubborn, desperate hope. He had spent the morning carefully preparing his cheap suit and combing his hair, a futile attempt to steel himself against the silent judgement he knew was coming.
"Mr Arnold," the recruiter began in a gentle, baritone voice that made Arnold's fingers twitch. He clenched them into fists on his knees. "Considering your age, your educational background is quite impressive. You can be proud of yourself."
A bright, unguarded and disbelieving smile broke through Arnold's exhaustion. For a moment, the constant fear in his stomach disappeared. He could see it all in front of him: the job offer, the transfer papers, a clean flat with a window that didn't look out onto a metal wall.
"But unfortunately, despite everything, we cannot accept you at this time."
The words hit him like a blow. The smile not only disappeared, it was wiped away, leaving behind an expressionless face full of exhaustion.
"..."
He had to force air into his lungs. "Excuse me?"
The HR manager's expression changed to a mask of practised sympathy.
"Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at our company."
Arnold stared at him, his thoughts swirling. This was the final stage. He had passed their tests with flying colours and was even at the top of the list of candidates. This should have been a mere formality. But deep inside him he knew why he was rejected. The same reason he had been denied so many times before. Still he had to make sure.
"... if I may ask," he said, his voice taking on a hint of defensive strength, "is there a specific reason for this? I was the top candidate according to the test results."
The personnel manager leaned back, his chair squeaking softly. "You're right. Based on the test results alone, you're the top candidate." He let the caveat hang in the air.
"The thing is, I have to look at the big picture. Your intelligence is first-rate. The problem is your age. You have no professional experience, which puts you at a disadvantage compared to our other candidates."
His eyes darted to the side for a split second. He lowered his voice. "Besides... your university doesn't have the best reputation compared to the others. To put it mildly. That's all the information I'm allowed to share with you."
To put it mildly. The words echoed in Arnold's head. He knew what that meant. It wasn't about the curriculum. It was about the postcode on his birth certificate. It was classicism, sophisticated and unassailable.
"I understand," said Arnold, his words tasting like ash. "Thank you very much for your time."
He stood up, his legs unsteady, the movement automatic. He did not offer his hand in farewell. The distance from the plush armchair to the silent sliding door seemed like a mile.
A few minutes later, Arnold shuffled along the immaculate pavement in front of the towering chroma glass façade of the office building. The air here was artificially clean and smelled of nothing. The streets were wide and immaculate. Above him, silent skycars glided along predetermined routes. Almost a kilometer above a transparent engery dome opened the view to a clear sky.
It was already the eleventh rejection this month. The pattern was always the same. Top marks in the tests, failure in the "holistic assessment". Cultural fit. Reputation conformity. These were just polite ways of saying that he came from the wrong part of town.
He was born in District E11, the industrial underbelly, and this stigma was indelible. He had worked himself to death for years, getting by on minimal sleep, and was determined to free himself from this situation. The only legal way was to get a job in a higher district. The alternative – an exorbitant immigration fee – was pure fantasy.
The 24-hour visitor's permit in his pocket now felt heavy. If the reason
"job interview at ..." had not been noted, the security personnel would not even have let him through the first checkpoint, and if he had somehow managed to sneak in, he would undoubtedly have been incapacitated with a taser when discovered.
The bus arrived, a quiet, floating vehicle. As he boarded, the soft, self-adjusting seat contrasted sharply with the hard plastic of E11's transport. He watched the landscape of glittering skyscrapers and hanging gardens pass by, a mocking slideshow of a life he could not touch.
Soon the bus hummed to a halt at his transfer station. He stood in front of the Inter-District Terminal, a building that looked more like a large museum than a transport hub.
Inside, a huge lobby opened up, its ceiling animated with shimmering holograms. Huge, razor-sharp screens displayed the arrivals and departures of the travel capsules – high-speed lifts that dug through the layers of the city.
With a sigh that came from deep within, he walked to a counter and placed his key card on the scanner.
A soft beep sounded.
[ID: Arnold#4716
Current location: District E1, Terminal Alpha-7
Destination: District E11, Terminal Theta-12]
"Time to go home, I guess."
He walked towards a row of heavy metal doors. A security guard in tactical gear, his face impenetrable behind a visor, scanned Arnold's ID a second time to make sure he hadn't stayed too long.
The door slid open with a soft hum.
On the other side was a round, functional room. Rows of heavily padded seats lined the walls, heavy safety belts hanging from them. Arnold was alone. This was no surprise, as no one from E11 came here. He was an exception, a fluke product of his spotless record and good test results. As a child, he had never even stolen a chocolate bar because he was too afraid of the consequences.
He sat down in a seat and fastened his seatbelt, a ritual before take-off.
"All passengers must fasten their seat belts. Departure in 1 minute," announced a robotic voice.
Arnold stared at the ceiling, his mind numb.
"Final warning. Departure in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..."
A deep hum vibrated through the capsule. The walls outside the porthole began to move, slowly at first, then at breakneck speed. An immense, invisible force pressed him back into his seat. The G-forces pressed down on him, moulding his flesh and straining his bones. He clenched his teeth, his vision blurring at the edges as the pressure increased. A physical manifestation of the social weight pressing him down, he would have said, had he been a poet.
A small screen displayed a schematic map showing his progress. The districts flickered by in a digital countdown display with decreasing status: E2, E3, E4... a rapid descent through the layers. E9, E10... The force subsided, the pressure in his chest eased.
Finally, the lift stopped with a quiet sigh.
"We have arrived at district E11. Please exit immediately."
Arnold exhaled loudly, unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up with wobbly legs.
The doors opened.
The first thing that hit him was the air – a familiar mixture of ozone, grease and unwashed bodies. The lobby here served the same function, but had a completely different atmosphere.
The floor was made of dirty metal tiles. Dark, flickering neon lights cast long shadows. The place was a crowded, chaotic warehouse full of people, all jostling and shouting. They were workers, their clothes stained and worn, many wearing the dreary overalls of the district's factories.
'Home sweet home,' he thought, the sarcasm serving as a thin shield against his dark emotions.
He went to the terminal guard – a bored woman with a permanently sullen expression.
She didn't even look at him.
"ID."
He handed it to her. The people nearby glanced at him. Some were annoyed, others simply curious. Someone coming from E1 was a very rare sight.
"All right. Welcome back," she muttered, sliding the card back to him.
He plunged into the crowd. The noise was a physical strain – a cacophony of shouting, arguing and the distorted drone of a loudspeaker from a nearby food stall. The smell grew more intense, the stench of fried fat and unwashed bodies. He moved through the crowd, shoulders hunched, his expression a dark mask. They jostled and shouted as if the pods were about to close forever at any moment.
Finally, he managed to fight his way to the main exit and found himself in a dirty square.
Instinctively, he looked up. There was no sky. Instead, a dark, rust-speckled metal surface stretched hundreds of metres above the cave ceiling of E11. The only light was a sickly, synthetic orange glow from giant ceiling panels that bathed the entire district in perpetual twilight.
"Ugh."
The walk home was a trek through familiar chaos. His gaze, trained by lifelong practice, scanned the filthy streets, automatically avoiding puddles of murky water and suspicious, congealed substances. Street vendors with gaunt faces touted their "delicacies" under the irregular flickering of broken neon signs – mysterious meat skewers and nutrient-poor wraps. Arnold had learned long ago that it was better not to consume these "delicacies". Flickering, faulty billboards with saturated, garish colours were plastered over the grey, monolithic residential complexes, advertising cheap stimulants, even cheaper entertainment and debt consolidation services.
Arnold had grown up, studied and lived in this world of constant, aggressive sensory overload. He had learned to block out the noise and build a fortress of silence in his own mind. It was a survival strategy.
Almost against his will, his gaze was drawn to a particular billboard. It was an advertisement for 'Regna Fracta', one of the most popular immersive games on the market. The artwork was a vibrant splash of colour in the grey landscape, depicting a majestic knight in shining armour and a roguish adventurer with a mischievous grin, standing in front of a towering, sunlit castle.
[Escape your reality and immerse yourself in the world of Regna Fracta! Forge your own destiny in a realm full of magic and discovery!
Nominated for Best Open World Game of the Year 2223! Sign up today for only 99.99 credits!]
Arnold stared ahead with an expressionless face. The words were undoubtedly tempting for everyone living in District E11. After all, they were so for him too.
He knew what he would do when he got home. It had been a long time since he had last played and he needed something to distract himself from his recent failures.
After walking the last few blocks and ignoring the street vendors, he reached his apartment complex. It was tucked away in a dirty alley, a small respite from the chaos of the main street. The building was a stained concrete slab, identical to all the others.
He held his card to the rusty scanner. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dimly lit, foul-smelling stairwell. He climbed the steps, his legs burning, until he reached his door on the fourth floor.
The lock clicked. He entered the small, musty flat. He didn't bother to turn on the light; the bright glow of a billboard outside his window illuminated the room sufficiently.
His gaze wandered straight to the corner, to his PC. It wasn't a top-of-the-line model. He had saved money from jobs similar to those of the street vendors outside until he finally received a scholarship from the university.
He had assembled the PC entirely by himself, using technical parts he had bought on the street. But still, it was his gateway to the digital world.
He dropped his bag, slipped off his cheap suit jacket and put on more comfortable clothes. Then he sat down and turned on the system. The easily recognisable game logo of 'Regna Fracta' filled the screen, the familiar epic music filling in the silence of his flat.