The pod pinged.
A sound like metal striking hollow bone. It echoed in Jace Carter's skull before he was even conscious, dragging him up from the black water of sleep by the throat.
New Microloan Available.
+9.50c added. -5.99c interest pre-applied. Default = biometric seizure. Confirm?
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The system knew his silence meant yes.
The balance ticked up with a faint chime. That was their favorite part—the chime. Make debt sound like a prize.
Jace lay there for a moment longer. The ceiling of his pod was maybe eighteen inches above his face, stained with condensation and something darker in one corner. Mold, probably. Or rot. His breath bounced back at him in the cramped plastic space, sour and warm. The walls curved in like a coffin. He hadn't stood upright in weeks.
He rolled onto his side. Every joint popped.
The ration bin creaked as he reached across it and grabbed his cracked data-slab. The screen sparked once, struggled, then came to life—bright blue and already too loud. Notifications scrolled endlessly across it: rent overdue, loyalty surveys pending, job queues filling fast.
RENT DUE IN 48:00:00.
CRITICAL BALANCE WARNING: 3.51c REMAINING.
He swiped them away. No one needed to be told they were drowning.
His gut growled. Sharp and hollow, like a warning shot from inside his own body.
There were exactly two items in the pod not covered in a thin sheen of condensation: his emergency puke bag, and the last cup of instant noodles. Hearty BEEF™. Same flavor, five meals running. He peeled back the foil lid, not caring when the powdered sauce stuck to his fingers, and slid it into the microwave slot.
He didn't look at the label. He knew it by heart.
Now with real molecular simulants! Fortified with essential inhibitors!
The microwave hummed like a sick animal. A small red light blinked with each second it stole from the pod's dwindling power buffer. Jace stared at it, as if watching the seconds burn might make them last longer.
Then came the feed.
He pulled up the temp gig listings and began the scroll.
"VR Window Dresser – must supply own neural link. 11 credits."
"Corpse Courier (part-time). Gloves not provided. 13 credits."
"Inventory Visual Confirmer – 2 hr max. 17 credits. Non-union."
He tapped that one.
It accepted him instantly. No interview. No ID check. Just coordinates, a timestamp, and a disclaimer about bodily risk. He didn't read it.
Jace let the slab fall beside him. The feed kept running anyway, the glow painting his ribs in pale light.
His eyes closed. Not sleep—just retreat.
He saw her again. Mia. Thirteen years old, maybe younger in this version. Long black hair, mouth smudged with chocolate from that one bakery they used to sneak into. Laughing at something dumb he'd said. Or maybe not laughing at all. Memory got slippery like that.
She was in the hospital when he last saw her. Wires everywhere. Not just monitoring her—feeding on her. Upload modules. Neuroweb sensors. Corporate tags pinned to her IV pole like price labels.
He'd signed her away. Not fully. Not really. But when the bills came, and he ran out of time, and ChronoCash offered a "non-invasive digital preservation grant"…
The guilt felt like a collarbone fracture—unseen, but it ached when you moved wrong.
The microwave beeped. He pulled the noodles out, scalding his fingers. No care, no sound. Just hunger.
The broth was lukewarm and metallic. The noodles tasted like sadness.
He ate anyway.
Outside the pod, the corridor hissed with recycled air and distant muttering. Voices filtered through dozens of pods just like his, stacked six high and one deep down the spine of Tower 9B. A hive of desperation. Everyone here owed something. Time. Flesh. Blood. Thought.
Someone screamed two pods down—then went silent. Either help arrived, or no one did. Both meant the same thing.
Jace didn't flinch.
Instead, he opened the drawer beneath his mattress and pulled out an old neural jack. The cord was frayed, and the port had to be held in place with a rubber band, but it still worked. It was the last piece of his old life. The part where he built games, not cleaned up after them.
He slid the jack into his temple.
Pain bloomed. Sharp, then gone.
His slab's screen flickered—and there it was.
"Starlight Revolver: Dev build 0.82a"
His mini-game. The thing he hadn't updated in six months.
A tiny ship sailed across a screen of violet stars, chased by silence and loneliness. He tapped a few commands, watched the ship pulse in time with the music he once wrote. Just a few seconds of escape. Just to remember he was still him, buried somewhere under the rot.
Then the feed reasserted itself. Overlaid the game like a parasite.
ChronoCash – Early Access Entry Invitation. High Risk Tier. Bonus Payouts Apply.
Estimated Reward: Variable (market-based). Default: Immediate neural harvest.
BEGIN?
He stared at it.
The words pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat under glass.
He had 47 hours left to pay rent. No real gigs left. His ribs were visible in the reflection off his data-slab screen. Mia was in there—somehow. He didn't know how deep, but ChronoCash was the system that bought her. Or leased her. Or archived her.
It didn't matter anymore.
He clicked Yes.
And the pod went dark.