The alarm blared some peppy track called "Sunrise Over You," the kind of tune that probably got played in commercials for toothpaste or those wellness apps with pastel logos. All it meant to me was the end of another dream—this time one where we'd finally gotten that zero-gravity milkshake machine for our future office. I reached out, smacked the snooze, and watched the last glimmer of my floating chocolate shake vanish like mist. So much for bliss. The worst part? I'd already started humming it halfway through brushing my teeth. Brainwashed by breakfast.
Another day, another few credits tossed into the bottomless vending machine of Electric Dreams Inc — or at least, enough until our next big pitch to potential backers without Scott trying to bribe the judges with space cones.
The bus stop was its usual mix of pre-work zombies and overly caffeinated go-getters. Judy was already there, tapping away at her datapad, probably triple-checking the schematics for our "Escape the Asteroid Maze" VR concept. Her brow was furrowed in a cute way when she was deep in thought, a look I'd come to find incredibly endearing, much to my own surprise. Scott, of course, arrived two minutes before the bus, a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in hand and a grin so bright that it could power a small city block.
"Morning, future partners, businessmen, ah, and milady CEO!" Scott announced. He did a mock bow with the flair of a magician unveiling a rabbit pulled from his hat while levitating before your eyes. "Ready to conquer the masses with overpriced slushies and dreams of entrepreneurial glory and maybe a few overpriced churros?"
Judy finally looked up, a small smile spreading on her lips. "Morning, Scott. And it's 'strategically priced refreshment solutions,' not 'overpriced slushies.' Nick, did you remember to charge the spare battery for the presentation clicker? My datapad's running a bit low too."
"Got it right here along with a battery bank," I said, patting my bag. "And Scott, try not to get peanut butter on the business plan sketches this time. They're starting to look like abstract art."
"Hey, abstract art sells!" he retorted, but he carefully tucked the sketches I knew he'd been doodling on during his history lecture back into his own worn backpack. "Besides, today I'm feeling a sales record at 'Cosmic Cones.' Gotta fund our empire, right? First order of business when we hit it big: that zero-gravity milkshake machine. It's an office essential."
The bus rumbled to a stop, sighing as its doors hissed open. We piled on, finding our usual seats near the back. The conversation, as always, was a whirlwind of their business – our business. Judy was the pragmatist, mapping out logistics, budgets, and potential pitfalls with a meticulousness that both awed and occasionally terrified me. Scott was the hype man, the idea generator, the one who could sell ice to an Eskimo in a cryo-suit; his enthusiasm was infectious. And me? I guess I was the dreamer who tried to stitch their brilliant, sometimes clashing, ideas together into something resembling a plan, the one who tried to give it all a bit of… well, sparkle.
"Okay, team 'Electric Dreams Inc,'" I said, pulling out my own datapad as the bus lurched into motion, the familiar skyline of downtown giving way to the gleaming, slightly absurd spires of Future World in the distance. "New rule: whoever sells the most churros today – or, in Scott's case, 'Cosmic Cones' – gets to pick the movie tonight."
"As long as it's not another one of your obscure synth-wave documentaries, Nick," Judy said, not looking up from her calculations. "My brain needs a break from that music and those weird dreams of theirs, artists, they prattle on about their inspirations and abstract thoughts. I would like it more to be about a country star and the story behind their lives and the creation of the song, if it's going to be a music documentary at least."
Scott just laughed. "Deal! But if I win, we're watching 'Attack of the Mutant Space Frogs III: The Slime Strikes Back.' It's a classic!"
Future World was... well, kind of its own walled-off planet. A mega-dome where the sky could be whatever shade or color display the programmers felt like that day, and the lands were mashed together like someone went wild with a theme park paintbrush.
Sci-fi jungle next to a retro-robot underwater world of ancient gods? Sure, why not? It was loud, bright, ridiculous—and somehow, amazing. Our summer gigs there weren't the dream, just the launchpad. A way to stack up some credits, test our hustle, and maybe prove we weren't totally crazy for chasing this startup thing, while gaining some people skills and small business sense. The whole place never really 'slept.' It just paused, blinked, then rebooted into a new version of itself every twelve hours, like a giant game loading its next level.
My station was "Galaxy Grub," a food stall shaped like a crashed spaceship, specializing in alien-themed snacks. Judy was a "Techno-Troubadour" in the "Wonders of Tomorrow" pavilion, guiding guests through interactive exhibits on future technologies, a role she excelled at with her calm explanations and encyclopedic knowledge. Scott, naturally, was a "Cosmic Cone-jurer" at the ice cream parlor in the "Kid-Zone Cosmodrome," where his boundless energy and ability to juggle three scoops of "Meteor Mash" while telling terrible puns made him a legend among the under-ten crowd.
The day was a blur, as it often was. I served "Nebula Noodles" to a family of wide-eyed tourists from the Midwest, placated a kid whose "Black Hole Brownie" wasn't dark enough, and had a surprisingly deep conversation with an off-duty animatronic street sweeper (they were programmed for basic interaction, but this one seemed particularly philosophical about dust). I saw Judy across the plaza once, patiently explaining the principles of quantum entanglement to a group of bewildered but fascinated seniors, using a holographic model of a cat that was both alive and dead until you looked at it. Classic Judy.
I caught sight of Judy across the plaza mid-shift, doing her usual magic—breaking down quantum entanglement for a bunch of senior citizens with the help of a holographic Schrödinger's cat that was somehow both cuddly and existentially horrifying. She had that look again—the Judy Look, capital letters fully earned. Eyes laser-focused, fingers flying across her datapad like she was conducting a symphony of code, and this quiet calm about her that made the chaos of the park feel like white noise.
Seriously, a meteor could crash through the ceiling and she'd barely blink, just scoot her chair over and keep walking those seniors through quantum entanglement with a calm smile and that voice that made tech sound like bedtime stories. Classic Judy. Smart, composed, kind of breathtaking. Not that I'd ever say that out loud. Probably.
Later, during a lull, I caught sight of Scott hanging near the robo-petting zoo in "Tomorrow's Pastures"—definitely not where he was supposed to be. Instead of manning the cone station and entertaining kids with his usual triple-scoop juggling act, he was deep in conversation with someone who immediately stood out. The guy was tall and wiry, with white hair styled like he'd stuck a fork in an old outlet, wearing one of those sleek uniforms you only ever saw on the high-tier Imagineers or top-tier tech staff.
It took a second, but the name clicked—Dr. Alexander Volkov. The genius-slash-phantom of the R&D department. I'd heard rumors—everything from brilliant AI breakthroughs to living alone with a talking espresso machine. I couldn't hear what they were saying from where I was, but the vibe? Definitely not small talk. Volkov was all gestures and intensity, and Scott stood there nodding like he was trying to absorb the meaning of life through osmosis, if not falling asleep with his eyes open.
After a moment, Volkov gave Scott this small, almost bittersweet smile—the kind you provide when you've already seen the end of a story someone else is still in the middle of before leaving them to enjoy it alone. He patted Scott's shoulder gently, turned, and walked off toward the restricted sector with the slow certainty of someone carrying a heavy burden. Scott just stood there for a second, staring after him with this look I couldn't quite place—part curiosity, part unease. Then, just like that, he blinked, shook himself out of it, and bounced back toward the Cosmodrome like he hadn't just been handed a glimpse of some great mystery he wasn't ready to unwrap.
I made a mental note to ask him about it later, but then the lunch rush hit like a meteor storm of "Crater Fries" and slushie refills, and the moment got buried like a snack cart under a stampede of hungry tourists. If that sadly wasn't truly my plight in that exact moment. Sometimes I worry that Future World's naming conventions are messing with my brain. Give it a week, and I'll be calling one of our tools within the toolbox the "Intergalactic Spatula of Problem-Solving."
Lunch break was our sanctuary, a small, slightly hidden staff patio overlooking the "Ancient Atlantis" water park's main lagoon. Scott was back to his usual self, recounting a story about a kid who tried to pay for a "Moon Rock Ripple" with a button and a dead beetle.
"Kid had guts, I'll give him that," Scott said, laughing as he juggled an apple. "Future entrepreneur right there. Maybe we should recruit him for 'Electric Dreams'?"
"We are not accepting payment in insects, Scott," Judy said, but she was smiling. She glanced at him. "Everything okay, though? You seemed a little… preoccupied when you came in."
Scott's smile didn't falter, but I saw that flicker again, the one I'd seen after Volkov walked away. Too quick to catch, too subtle to call out. "Yeah, yeah, just… you know, the usual cosmic radiation is scrambling my brain cells. Nothing a triple-decker Future Burger can't fix! Hey, speaking of weird encounters, guess who I was actually talking to by the robo-sheep? Old Man Volkov."
"Dr. Volkov?" I asked, acting as if I didn't already know. "What did he want?"
"No idea, really," Scott said, shrugging with a casualness that didn't quite match the intensity of the conversation I'd witnessed. "Just… talking. He's an intense dude. Asked me about my dreams, my ambitions. Talked my ear off about AI souls, digital life, and humanity's possible next step in life for like, twenty minutes. Said something about how true consciousness needs more than just code, it needs… 'a spark of the human heart.' Deep stuff for a Tuesday afternoon, Ya chatting up life's mysteries next to a robotic goat that dispenses nutritional pellets." He took a large bite of his burger. "Nice guy, though. A bit sad, maybe. Like he's lost something."
We ate, the conversation drifting back to our business plans, to the ridiculousness of some of the park guests, to whose turn it was to do the late-night snack run. I overheard some other employees at a nearby table muttering about Dr. Volkov, something about his workshop in the "Restricted R&D Zone" being a mad scientist's lair, and how some of the newer animatronics in the "Myths & Monsters" dark ride were giving them the creeps, their eyes seeming to follow you a little too realistically. Park gossip, mostly. Future World was full of it.
As our shifts ended and the artificial sun began its programmed descent over the dome, casting long, theatrical shadows, we walked out together, tired but buzzing. The lights of Future World winked on, transforming the park into a glittering nocturnal wonderland.
"See that interactive story-wall over in 'Galaxy Gateway'?" Nick said, pointing. "The way it reacts to guest choices? We could do something even better for our 'Choose Your Own Apocalypse' escape room concept!"
"Totally!" Scott agreed, his earlier preoccupation seemingly forgotten. "And I'll be head of 'Ensuring the Apocalypse is Fun-Scary, Not Just Therapy-Inducing-Scary.'"
Judy looped her arm through mine, a comfortable, familiar gesture. "As long as there's a clear profit margin and a five-star safety rating, I'm in."
Walking past the "Animatronic Wonders" workshop on our way to the employee transit hub, we saw a light on inside. Through the large observation window, clearly designed to showcase the park's technical wizardry, we could see Dr. Volkov. He wasn't surrounded by ominous experiments, though. He was patiently, meticulously working on the arm of a cheerful-looking animatronic chef that usually served floating pizza at "Luigi's Lunar Pies." A small crowd of junior technicians watched him, rapt. He moved with a surgeon's precision, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed. He made a final adjustment, and the chef's arm whirred smoothly, giving a perfect thumbs-up. Volkov nodded, a faint, satisfied smile touching his lips, before turning to explain something to the technicians. It struck me then—how strange it was that someone so brilliant could still be so lonely, like the park's secrets had started to echo back at him. He looked less like a mad scientist and more like a dedicated craftsman, the quiet genius keeping the thousands of moving parts of this impossible city running.
It didn't feel like a day that would matter. Not yet. Just another blur of dreams and snack grease, of the people I trusted most keeping pace with my hopes. But looking back… it might've been the last truly normal one.
If only I knew better.