The aroma hit me the moment I stepped through the door—Mom's latest experiment in culinary nostalgia: Star-Strider Stew. A name that promised space-age adventure, but mostly delivered chewy protein cubes and vegetables she swore came from the hydroponic greenhouse, not the sketchy synthetic greens from the factory. She was on a kick lately—cooking from old colony cookbooks like we were settlers on some distant moon trying to make potatoes exciting again.
Honestly? After a whole day slinging "Nebula Noodles" and "Crater Fries" to sugar-hyped tourists in Future World, I was more than ready for anything that didn't come prepackaged in neon foil. Stew—real or replicated—was a welcome change. My brain felt like it had been dragged through a glitchy simulation running at 3x speed. And the bus ride home hadn't helped much either, not with Judy and Scott ping-ponging pitch ideas for Electric Dreams Inc. across my already fried synapses.
"Nick! You're finally back!"
Sophie—fifteen, fast-talking, and powered entirely by creativity and snack bars—practically blinked into existence in the hallway. Her datapad was glued to her hand, stylus darting like a hummingbird across the screen.
"How was the land of tomorrow, big brother? Did you and Judy finally nail down the layout for that 'Quantum Leap Café'? Because I was thinking—if you used bioluminescent algae for the mood lighting, not only would it be energy-efficient, it'd look amazing. I've got sketches!"
"Still in the concept phase, Soph," I said, narrowly avoiding a rogue flourish of her stylus. "Bioluminescent algae, noted. Mysterious, glowy... mildly unsettling. Love it."
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that the park's naming conventions were starting to rewire my brain. Galaxy Grub, Cosmic Cones, Star-Strider Stew—was anything safe? I was dangerously close to calling our kitchen table "The Nourishment Nexus."
From the living room, Emily—Sophie's fraternal twin and the family's unofficial chief medical officer in training—looked up from a floating neural map that hovered above a nest of data-slates.
"Algae-based lighting is promising," she said, pushing up her glasses, "but it's prone to blooming irregularities if the nutrient ratios aren't carefully calibrated." She pointed at a flickering node. "Nick, if you see Judy before I do, could you ask her if she has any updated models on chrono-synaptic pathway recalibration? The current studies are vague. She made last week's talk on bio-synthetic organ integration make sense, which is more than I can say for Professor Granz."
"Will do, Em," I said. Judy really did have a gift for explaining the incomprehensible. The way she could translate cutting-edge science into something that didn't make your brain leak out your ears? That was kind of her thing.
And Sophie's ongoing campaign to nominate Judy for "official future sister-in-law" status? Okay, maybe not the worst idea she's ever had.
Later that evening, after a dinner where Dad enthusiastically explained the latest breakthrough in hyper-dimensional crop rotation on the agri-domes (apparently, even the nutrient paste could achieve a rudimentary form of sentience if you weren't careful with the growth accelerants), I took the nutrient reclamation bins out to the curb. The twin moons of our planet, Selene and Nike, cast long, silvery shadows down our quiet residential street. It was a peaceful contrast to Future World's eternally controlled sky.
Just taking out the trash was like an intergalactic shower waiting to crash into a station, the next planet over. "Nicholas, dear! Just the young man I was hoping to catch!"
I inwardly braced myself. Penny Jenkins, our across-the-street neighbor and the undisputed champion of the local information network, was meticulously pruning her lumina-roses, their petals pulsing with a soft, internal light. Her timing was, as always, uncanny.
"Evening, Mrs. Jenkins," I said, aiming for a tone that was both polite and suggestive of someone with places to be.
"How are things at that marvelous Future World?" she said, chirping like a canary, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that could rival her roses. "Such an incredible feat! And your dear friends, Scott and Judy? I hear such industrious young people are always buzzing with ideas. Saving up for something grand, are you all, now?" She took a half-step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Any… exciting developments over there? New wonders unveiled? One hears such fascinating tidbits, you know."
"Everything's running smoothly, Mrs. Jenkins," I replied, keeping my smile fixed. "Just another busy day. Scott and Judy are doing well. We're all just focused on our jobs for now." I began a slow retreat towards my own property line. "Hope you have a pleasant night!"
She gave a little wave, her gaze already scanning the street for her next potential news source. "You too, dear! And do send my regards to your lovely parents!" I had no doubt that by the next day, a creatively wrapped version of our brief exchange would be circulating through the neighborhood's grapevine.
The park, of course, had its own intricate social web. Lily Cruise, who ran the "Celestial Charms" souvenir kiosk near Scott's "Cosmic Cones" stand, was a key figure in the 'Scott Appreciation' section of that web. She was bright, unfailingly cheerful, and her crush on Scott was as obvious as red on an apple. I'd seen the usual display earlier that day as shifts were changing. Scott had been dramatically recounting some tale to a few of us in the employee lounge – something involving a misscalibrated food replicator and an incident with what he claimed was a sentient android disguised as a bowl. Lily had been utterly captivated, her laughter a beat too loud, her eyes practically sparkling with adoration.
Later, as Scott was clocking out, she'd hurried over with a beat-up old wristwatch. "Oh! Scott!" she'd exclaimed, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "You, um, you left this near the chronometer! Wouldn't want you to be late for… well, for anything important!" She'd looked like she'd won the grand lottery when Scott had flashed her one of his easy, thousand-watt smiles.
"Hey, thanks a million, Lily!" he'd said, giving her a casual wink that probably made her entire week. "You're a peach! Almost missed my crucial appointment with that new 'Quasar Quest' holo-game in the arcade. The universe depends on me!" He'd slung his packpack over his shoulder and sauntered off with a wave, either completely oblivious to the depth of Lily's infatuation or just incredibly skilled at polite deflection. Judy and I had shared a quick, knowing glance. Scott was a great friend, a truly stellar guy, but sometimes his emotional radar seemed to be on a different frequency.
Scott himself; his home life was mostly a closed book. I knew, from fragments and silences, that it wasn't the cheerful, bustling hub that my own home was. Sometimes, after a particularly grueling shift, when the usually impenetrable shield of his good humor seemed to wear a little thin, I'd see a shadow cross his eyes as he headed for his long walk home after we got off the bus.
Tonight, thinking about it, I imagined him stepping into his own home. The contrast to the lively chatter and shared meal at my place would be stark. I pictured a quieter space, perhaps the low drone of a news feed, an unspoken tension that he'd try to navigate with a deflective joke or a swift escape to his own room. He carried burdens he didn't share, our Scott, always the one to make sure everyone else was smiling, the one who absorbed the shocks so we didn't have to.
It was just the way our lives were, intertwined and spinning out of control. Our little constellation of hopes, quiet anxieties, and the daily grind, all orbiting the bright, man-made sun of Future World.