Chapter 1
The dawn of my last day in my apartment found me wide awake, cradling a cup of coffee made from the last powder I had in my pantry. The kitchen was a tiny, cluttered mess, filled with the residue of two weeks of neglect. My neglect, of course. I had cleaned just enough, a single mug and the pot, to prepare my final breakfast. The warm, bitter drink was my small, final gesture to hold on to who I was, even as I stood at the edge of a precipice, ready to abandon it. It was the last remnant of the common, plain, painfully relentless grind of capitalist life.
It was also my last defense against the cold wind waiting for me outside.
I drained the last sip, grabbed my suitcase, and headed to the door. Before shutting it behind me, my gaze lingered on the corner where Gonzo, my cat, used to sleep. His furry bed was gone, packed up with his toys and bowls when I made arrangements for his new home—a place where he could be happy and cared for as I walked away.
The streets were empty as I went a few blocks down the street, the early Sunday quiet stretching in every direction. Sundays used to carry at least a flicker of life, even at odd hours. Not any more. After the war, the city's pulse had slowed to a crawl. People no longer rushed to weekend jobs, and there were fewer places left to go. Most services that didn't qualify as "essential" had been shut off. TV stations flickered out one by one, office spaces emptied, stores closed, and even many restaurants vanished. Food and supplies came through caravans now in the small floating ships that flew by low over the city, stopping at each door every ten days like clockwork. What remained open operated under the watchful eyes of the occupying forces, every flicker of productivity measured and monitored.
The Vurlixans had no interest in granting us a sense of normalcy. Whatever scraps of routine we managed to preserve came from those who believed it was worth salvaging, who dared to think they could make it work despite everything.
Take the restaurant at the corner of my apartment building. The owner would cook for you if you brought the ingredients, and soon neighbors began drifting in to help in the kitchen. The bakery down the street operated the same way. A seamstress and the old shoemaker kept their doors open too, bartering their skills for whatever people could spare.
Money had lost its meaning. With no one left to charge for water, electricity, or rent, it became little more than paper. Rent invoices stopped arriving after the Vurlixans took over, and the doorman and caretaker vanished not long after, leaving the building to fend for itself.
The TV came back briefly, though only one transmission worked. It cycled through nature shots—endless streams, forests, and skies like some default screensaver. Every few minutes, a calm, synthetic voice would cut in to remind us we were in a "moment of transition," urging patience and promising that everything would be taken care of.
I walked until I reached the highway that circled my neighborhood, my suitcase growing heavier with each step. There were no buses or trains anymore. Once the gas stations ran dry, the electric cars held on a little longer, but even they were shut down eventually. Now, only bikes, skates, horses, and donkeys moved within the permitted zones. Beyond those limits, only the Vurlixan hovers flew—massive machines drifting overhead like grotesque, mechanical insects.
We were to remain contained until something changed.
After a few more minutes, I arrived at the checkpoint. A high fence of organic-like web structure loomed before me, separating my side of town from the rest — a part I hadn't set foot in over two months.
A Vurlixan guide approached, tall and broad, his uniform shimmering in hues of purple and black. His helmet, shaped like a bird's skull, covered every inch of him, revealing nothing of what lay beneath.
He spoke first, his voice obscured by the strange clicks and murmurs of their language, before the machinery in his helmet translated.
"Go back home," the synthetic voice commanded.
"I'm here to join the selection," I replied.
The guide tilted his head, his alien gaze sweeping over me. "The selection was twenty days ago."
"I know," I said. "But I had to find someone to care for my cat first."
"What is a cat?"
"A small animal. My pet."
The first time I saw a Vurlixan in person, it was when a small patrol of three walked down my street. It had been only hours since the internet exploded with news of defeat and occupation, and the full force of the invasion was on its way. I heard their drones before I saw them—rounded machines that hovered silently, defying gravity without wings or propellers. One slipped into my apartment through an open window, emitting a faint blue light as it scanned the room.
Gonzo hissed and bolted under the wardrobe, his eyes wide with fear. The drone lingered for a moment, then floated out the way it came. I ran to the window, my chest tight, and spotted them: three humanoid figures in shimmering purple-and-black suits, their helmets resembling bird skulls. They moved without curiosity for their surroundings or the people living there, in a straight line down the street.
After that, the supplies started coming. Every few days, a hover would pause by my window, dropping packages wrapped in a coarse, paper-like material. Inside was an abundant portion of food, though it wasn't anything indulgen. Blocks of protein with the texture of bacon but no discernible animal origin, sacks of rice and beans, tomatoes, crackers, water, and plant milk.
It came at a good time. The stores had already been raided in the chaos after the invasion. People grabbed whatever they could find. But when the coffee ran out, the outrage online was immediate. Memes and videos of coffee-hoarding stashes flooded the internet like a collective last gasp of humor and defiance. But even that fizzled out eventually, leaving only the silence of surrender. I survived on the scraps in my pantry. The first time I fried that strange, synthetic bacon and shared it with Gonzo, it felt like a revelation. A fleeting moment of pure bliss.
Now, standing in front of the Vurlixan guard, I wondered if I'd ever experience something as simple as that again. He didn't move, not until a small hover whirred into view, slicing through the air with the precision of a hummingbird. It circled once, then dropped sharply to the ground, its surface gleaming with an otherworldly smoothness. A slit opened in the hover's shell, spilling faint light. Before I could react, the guard grabbed my arm and hauled me toward it. Regret hit halfway. It struck when I saw the narrow space inside, no larger than a phone booth. He shoved me in without a word, my suitcase pressed tightly against my chest. The smooth panel slid shut, sealing me into a suffocating darkness.
