The Protocol The magnetic rack hissed. Kael let go of the plasma torch. Click. The green light on the wall turned solid. The tool was secured. His hands were empty. For the first time in ten years, Kael didn't check his pockets for inventory. He didn't pat his hip for a weapon. He just stood there, the weight gone, his hands trembling slightly from the absence of a burden. Vvvvt. The bone-conduction implant behind his ear vibrated. "PROTOCOL 7-ALPHA," the synthesized voice hummed against his skull. "SOCIALIZATION REQUIRED. SECTOR 4 GARDEN." Kael didn't argue. He turned and walked the white line. The air in the Garden hit him like a physical wall. It wasn't hot; it was wet. Ferns the size of transport trucks hung from the ceiling, dripping condensation onto mossy rocks. A stream of water—clear, wasted, flowing water—bubbled over smooth stones. Kael walked with his back to the wall, boots crunching softly on white gravel. He flinched when a drop of water hit his neck, his hand snapping up to block a blow that wasn't coming. He scanned the perimeter. No exits. High walls. Then he saw the man. He was sitting on a bench made of raw, unpolished granite. He wore the gray jumpsuit of Hydroponics. He was staring directly at the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, unblinking. Kael approached slowly, stepping toe-to-heel to dampen the sound. The man didn't move. Kael stepped closer. He looked at the man's face. The skin on the left side of the man’s face wasn't skin. It was a roadmap of melted wax. Shiny, taut scar tissue pulled the corner of his mouth down. It ran up into the hairline, where the hair refused to grow. And the eyes. They were wide open, but the irises were gone. Just two clouds of milk-white trapped in glass. A medical drone—a small, hovering sphere—buzzed near the man’s face. It projected a blue grid of light over the man’s eyes. "Scan complete," the drone chirped. "Retinal necrosis. Nerve stem accessible. Procedure available. Estimated restoration: 98%. Do you consent?" The man didn't look at the drone. He swatted the air, a slow, deliberate motion. "Decline," the man said. His voice was gravel. The drone hovered, confused by the logic. "Advisory: Sight improves efficiency by 400%. Decline is illogical. Please confirm." "Decline," the man said again, firmer this time. "Go away." The drone clicked, spun its casing, and zipped away into the ferns. Kael stood there, stunned. He stepped on a dry twig. Snap. The man’s head snapped toward the sound. He didn't look at Kael; he looked through him, toward the vibration. "You're breathing hard," the man said. "New intake?" Kael ignored the question. He pointed at the retreating drone. "It offered to fix you." The man smiled. The scar tissue made the smile lopsided. He tapped his own knee. "Sit." Kael sat on the far edge of the bench. "Why?" Kael asked. "The Machine can grow new nerves. I’ve seen the specs. You don't have to be... this." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, smooth stone. He rubbed his thumb over it, over and over. "I was a chem-engineer. In the Western Zone," the man said. He didn't introduce himself. He just started speaking to the darkness. "We found a pre-war generator. The 'Council' wanted it running. They wanted heat for the tents." The man stopped rubbing the stone. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. "I told the Commander the regulator was cracked. I showed him the leak. I told him if we pushed the PSI past 500, the valve would blow." He touched the melted skin on his cheek. "The Commander laughed. He said, 'We don't need manuals. We have grit. We are free men.' He bypassed the safety with a piece of copper wire." Kael looked at the scars. He could almost smell the burning chemical accelerant. He knew that smell. "He turned the key," the man whispered. "I was standing by the gauge. I saw the needle redline. I didn't run. I tried to reach the cutoff valve. The Commander? He was already out the door." "Negligence," Kael spat. "Hubris," the man corrected. "The arrogance of thinking he knew better than the physics." He turned his milky eyes toward Kael. "The blast took the skin. The flash took the eyes. When I woke up here... the droids offered me the surgery. They showed me the synthetic eyes. Perfect vision. Zoom functions. Night sight." "And you said no." "I said no." "That's crazy," Kael said. "You're choosing to be broken." The man shook his head slowly. He pointed a finger at his own temple. "Out there? I thought I could fix the world. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I could stop the machine from blowing up. I thought I was in control." He lowered his hand. "I wasn't. The Lie was that I ever had a choice. The only thing I own, truly own, is inside this skull." He tapped the side of his head. "If I let them fix my eyes, I’ll start looking at the walls again. I’ll start thinking I can climb them. I’ll start thinking I’m big enough to survive without help." He leaned back, closing his blind eyes, letting the artificial mist settle on his face. "The darkness keeps me small. It forces me to reach out a hand if I want to walk without falling. It reminds me that I need the System. I need a guide. It stops me from believing the Lie again." A chime sounded overhead. SHIFT CHANGE. MEAL SERVICE IN SECTOR 4. The man sighed. He put the smooth stone back in his pocket and stood up. He swayed slightly, disoriented by the sound of the waterfall. He held his right hand out into the empty air. He didn't grasp for anything. He just held it there. Waiting. He wasn't helpless. He was waiting for the connection. Kael looked at the hand. He looked at the scar that proved freedom was just a fancy word for getting burned by someone else's mistake. He looked at a man who had more control over his own soul than anyone in the Free Zone. Kael stood up. He didn't say a word. He just reached out and gripped the man’s forearm. The man gripped back. Firm. trusting. "Mess hall is this way," Kael said. "Lead on, Grid Maintenance," the man replied. They walked together toward the white lights of the mess hall, two broken cogs moving in perfect sync. The Calculation of Soul The doors to the Sector 4 Commons didn't hiss open; they were propped wide, held by heavy ceramic planters overflowing with ivy. The smell hit Kael first. It wasn't the ozone scent of the corridors, and it wasn't the rotting sweetness of the Free Zone trash fires. It was garlic. Roasted peppers. Seared meat. Kael hesitated on the threshold. He checked the overhead scanners. "Move up, honey, you're blocking the flow," a voice said. Kael jumped, spinning around. A woman in a yellow tunic stood behind him. She wasn't a guard. She was holding a violin case. She smiled, sidestepped him, and vanished into the crowd inside. "The sensor is clear, Kael," Oren said, his hand still resting lightly on Kael’s forearm. "Follow the smell of the basil." They stepped inside. The room was cavernous, but the acoustics were soft, dampened by tapestry banners hanging from the rafters. There were no rows of silent inmates eating gray paste. There were round tables. There was noise—the clatter of ceramic on wood, the hum of conversation, a burst of laughter from a corner booth. They reached the service counter. Kael braced himself for a robotic arm or a dispenser slot. Instead, a man with thick forearms and a stained apron was ladling stew into bowls. He was humming. "Oren!" the server boomed. "Double portion of the root veg today? I know you like the texture." "Please, Marco," Oren said, tilting his head toward the voice. "And this is Kael. First day." Marco looked at Kael. He didn't scan a barcode. He just looked him in the eye and nodded. "Welcome home, son. You look like you need the protein. Take the bread." He shoved a steaming bowl and a thick slice of crusty bread onto a tray. Kael stared at the food. "He's... he's human," Kael whispered as they found a table near a low stage. "Of course he is," Oren said, feeling the edge of the table to orient himself before sitting. "But the System," Kael stammered. "It controls resources. Why trust a human with the food distribution? Humans steal. Humans skim off the top." "Humans cook," Oren corrected. He picked up his spoon. "The Machine tried to automate this in the early days. It produced a nutrient block. Perfect caloric density. Optimal vitamin balance." Oren took a bite of the stew. He sighed, a sound of pure contentment. "And suicide rates went up 15%." Kael looked at his own bowl. The steam curled up, smelling of rosemary. "The Machine ran the numbers," Oren continued. "It realized it cannot synthesize 'Soul.' It can make food, but it cannot make care. So, it asks for volunteers. Marco cooks because he loves to feed people. The System provides the ingredients; Marco provides the love. The result is social cohesion. We trust each other because we serve each other." Kael took a bite. It was hot. It was salty. It tasted like a memory he didn't know he had. On the small stage in the corner, the woman with the yellow tunic began to play. It wasn't a military march. It was a slow, melancholic folk song. At the table next to them, Kael watched a young couple. They weren't speaking. The man had his hand resting on the back of the woman’s neck, his thumb tracing small circles. They looked tired, but their shoulders were loose. Safe. "In the Zone," Kael said quietly, watching the couple, "if you let your guard down like that, you got mugged." "Here, intimacy is a metric," Oren said. "The System tracks it. If bonding hormones drop, it schedules more festivals. It allocates more wine." Kael tore a piece of bread. "How? How did it get this big? The Empire... it covers the whole continent now. How do you scale this level of control without it breaking?" "It didn't start big," Oren said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "My grandfather told me about the First Node. After the Great War, when the sky was still black, the System was just one server in a bunker. Just one AI protecting fifty people." Oren gestured with his spoon. "It didn't conquer the wasteland, Kael. It out-performed it. The neighboring tribes saw that the people in the Bunker weren't starving. They saw they had medicine. They knocked on the door and asked to be let in." "They consented," Kael realized. "Exactly. It scaled by consent. One bunker became a town. A town became a Sector. It’s been eighty years of gradual integration." Kael looked around the room. He looked at Marco laughing with a line of workers. He looked at the violinist. He calculated the hours he had worked today. Ten hours on the grid. "But we work," Kael said. "We work hard. Ten hours today." "For now," Oren said. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Quantum Simulations came down last week. Public release." "Simulations?" "The trajectory," Oren explained. "The System is building a new fusion array in Sector 1. Automation is increasing in the mines. The projection is that within one hundred years—maybe sooner—the required labor per citizen will drop." Oren held up his hand, five fingers splayed. "Five hours, Kael. Five hours a week. That’s the goal. We are grinding now so our great-grandchildren can spend their lives painting, or exploring, or just sitting in gardens." Kael looked at his hands—calloused, scarred, stained with grease. In the Free Zone, the work never ended. You worked until you died, and then your kids worked until they died, scavenging the same pile of trash. There was no future. Just a loop of survival. Here, the work had an endpoint. "An investment," Kael murmured. "A legacy," Oren agreed. He finished his stew and pushed the bowl away. "We trade our sweat today so they don't have to bleed tomorrow. That’s the deal. I give the machine my labor, and it gives me..." Oren paused. He tilted his head toward the music, listening to the violin swell. "...it gives me a Tuesday evening where I can eat hot stew and listen to Mozart without fear." Kael looked at the couple next to him again. They were laughing now, the woman feeding the man a piece of fruit. Kael picked up his spoon. He wasn't just eating calories. He was eating the work of Marco’s hands. He was eating the peace Oren had paid for with his blindness. For the first time, the food didn't just fill his stomach. It filled the hollow place in his chest. "It's good stew," Kael said. Oren smiled. "Best in the sector." The Ladle The violin didn't stop, but the clinking of spoons died. It started at the front of the line and rippled back—a silence spreading like a cold draft. Kael’s muscles locked. His hand went to his belt. At the counter, the line had disintegrated. A man stood pressed against the sneeze guard. He was shaking—a violent, rattling tremor that shook the gray dust from his hair onto the pristine white tiles. He wore an intake jumpsuit that was three sizes too big, stained with dark sweat at the collar. His hand was clamped around the handle of the stainless steel ladle in the serving pot. Marco held the other end. "Let go," the man wheezed. His eyes were wide, rimmed with red crust. He yanked the ladle. Hot broth splashed onto the counter. "It’s steel. It’s solid steel. I saw it first." Kael started to rise. Oren’s hand shot out, finding Kael’s wrist. He didn't pull; he just held it. "Listen," Oren whispered. Kael listened. He expected the scrape of chairs. He expected the shout of "Thief!" He expected the crowd to surge forward to protect the food. There was only the bubbling of the stew and the man’s ragged breathing. No one moved. No one stood up. Two hundred people sat in their chairs, watching. "I need it!" the man screamed, his voice cracking. He tried to twist the ladle free. "I have a filter to buy! I have a debt!" Marco looked at the man’s white knuckles. Then he looked at the man’s bare, bleeding feet. Marco opened his hand. He let go. The sudden lack of resistance sent the man stumbling back. He crashed into a stack of trays, the ladle clutched to his chest like a knife. He spun around, crouching low, brandishing the spoon at the room. "Back off!" he snarled at the empty air. "I'll kill you! It's mine!" A chair scraped—slowly. A woman at the nearest table stood up. She was tall, wearing the grease-stained coveralls of the Transport Division. She had arms like bridge cables. The thief flinched, raising the ladle higher. "Stay back!" The woman didn't raise her hands. She didn't shout. She just lifted her right foot and rested her boot on the chair. "Look," she said. The thief blinked, confused, his eyes darting from her face to her foot. "The laces," she said. "Look at the red clay." The thief stared. Deep in the weave of the bootlace was the distinct, rust-colored mud of Sector 9. The pit mines. "I dug for three years," the woman said. Her voice was flat. "I killed a man for a pair of shoelaces in the breathless dark. I broke his fingers one by one." The thief’s breathing hitched. He lowered the ladle an inch. "I know the math you're doing," she said. "You're calculating how many calories that steel will buy you. You're wondering which one of us is going to hit you first." "There's not enough," the thief whispered, his eyes darting to the food bins. "Once the pot is empty... there's not enough." "I eat until I'm full," a man in a wheelchair said. He didn't turn around; he just spoke to his soup. "Every day at 0700 and 1800. For six years." "I threw away a half-eaten apple yesterday," a teenager by the window said. He sounded ashamed. "I just... wasn't hungry." The thief looked at them. He looked for the lie. He looked for the sneer. He looked at Marco, who was calmly wiping the spilled broth off the counter with a rag. "The ladle is yours, son," Marco said. He didn't look up from his cleaning. "But it's going to be hard to eat the stew with it. It's too big for the bowl." Marco reached under the counter. He pulled out a fresh ceramic bowl, filled to the brim with root vegetables and beef. He set it on the edge of the counter. Then, he placed a plastic spoon next to it. "Trade?" Marco asked. The thief looked at the heavy steel ladle in his hand—cold, hard, a weapon. Then he looked at the steaming bowl. His stomach gave a traitorous growl, loud in the quiet room. The thief’s hand shook. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only exhaustion. He looked at the woman with the red clay on her boots. She nodded once. Clang. The ladle hit the floor. The thief slumped. His legs folded, and he slid down the front of the counter, burying his face in his dirty hands. The sob that tore out of him wasn't sad; it was the sound of a tension cable snapping. Marco walked around the counter. He picked up the bowl and the plastic spoon. He sat on the floor next to the weeping man. He didn't hug him. He just held out the spoon. "Eat," Marco said. "Then we'll find you some boots." At the table, Kael watched the thief take the first shaking bite. Kael looked at his own hand. He unclenched his fist. He hadn't even realized he was making one. "Rehabilitation," Oren murmured, taking a sip of water. "Cost of a bullet: three credits. Cost of a bowl of stew: zero-point-four credits. Cost of a productive citizen: priceless." Kael watched the mechanic sit back down and return to her meal. "It works," Kael said. "It's the only thing that does," Oren replied.

Sometimes life is stranger than fiction…but not these stories. These stories are literally fiction. 

Quant

The Price of Freedom Pt. 2

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