Junior roused to wakefulness on the gentle tones of the ambient music played by his smarthome assistant.
He'd dreamed again last night. Just like every night for the past few days. The relentless, often nightmarish quality of the System-fuelled dreams was beginning to wear him down. The soothing music served as a balm for his frayed nerves as he rose to face another day.
Junior's blind eyes 'glanced' at the still ever-present System screen.
Apeirosis: 3.94%
The number hadn't moved much. It was an improvement, technically. But not the breakthrough he'd been hoping for. Not when other Reclaimed were pulling ahead.
By now, every Reclaimed on the Coast Guard's secure messaging board had unlocked Apeirosis. What that actually meant, whether for good or ill, was anyone's guess. But with the guidance and encouragement of frontrunners like Chaff and Delta, even the latecomers were seeing nightly gains.
Junior clenched his fists as he lay in bed, jaw tight.
Not him, though. Not the poor little blind boy. Left for last, struggling to overcome his disadvantages while others surged ahead.
The story of his life.
He exhaled sharply. He forced balled fists to uncurl as his fingers started to weave through his limbering exercises.
He strived to empty his thoughts and allow the music to wash away his bitterness. But it was a struggle.
What difference did some stupid number from a broken System even make? No one had any better idea what Apeirosis meant than when it first appeared. Yet the global ignorance hadn't stopped people from obsessively comparing stats. Who would be the first to hit double digits? What about twenty?
It was all the more absurd since no one could see anybody else's System interface, or even measure whatever Apeirosis was.
Apeirosis wasn't a leaderboard. It wasn't even verifiable!
Junior snorted, irritated at himself for caring. He worked harder to quiet his mind, letting the music draw him in.
Fifteen minutes passed, measured precisely by Athena's programming. Right on cue, the ambient music softened, and her warm synthetic voice flowed from the speakers.
"Good morning, Junior. Would you like me to read your messages now?" the AI offered.
A moment of thought, then he asked: "Any from Voidharrow?"
"One new message. No timestamp. No response from you yet."
Over the past few days, he and Voidharrow had exchanged several direct messages. Impeccably polite, carefully scrubbed of any personal identifiers - it was clear they both valued their privacy.
"Actually," he decided, changing his mind, "play a news summary first."
There was a chime, then a news anchor's voice, oozing with false cheer.
"... in other news, doctors are beginning to take a closer look at what some are calling 'The Blue Screen Blues' - a term coined for those struggling to adjust to the ever-visible System interface. Most people have reported becoming desensitized within hours or days. But a growing minority are attributing a list of side effects to the ever-present screens, including sleeplessness, headaches, and feelings of dissociation."
Junior's brow furrowed. He didn't feel any of those things. And considering the System display was the only thing he could see - well, that and the blurry form of maybe-Achilles - shouldn't he be especially vulnerable?
But the screen didn't distract him. Nor did it interfere with his sleep. Strange enough, in and of itself.
Which was the bigger anomaly?
That billions of human beings across the globe experienced little to no side-effects from an unnatural blue screen somehow projected directly into their minds . . .
. . . Or that only a minority did?
The anchor's voice dropped, just slightly, as if trying to strike a tone of sympathy.
"In rare cases, individuals report full-blown insomnia, fatigue, or even depressive episodes. Whether the symptoms are physiological, psychological, or ... something else entirely, remains to be seen. But the so-called 'Blue Screen Blues' are another example of the continuing fallout from the Failsafe System's failed attempt at 'Integration.'"
Junior splashed water on his face and felt for the nearby towel.
Failsafe System.
He could hear the almost mocking sneer in the anchor's voice. The name was becoming a bit of a joke these days.
"Experts emphasize that the System interface is not technically 'light' in any traditional sense. Theories abound; some suggest it's an internalized perceptual projection, perhaps fed directly to the optic nerves or visual cortex. Medical technology hasn't yet found any measurable activity to support such theories, but researchers assure us it's still early days."
A pause for effect. Then the anchor's earlier false cheer returned, laced with hints of genuine amusement.
"In the meantime, sales of sleep aids and so-called 'blue blockers' have surged. Some users claim they offer temporary relief. But experts and regulators caution that external wearables can't affect a screen that exists entirely in the mind. Any perceived benefit, they say, is likely due to misinformation or the placebo effect."
"Mute it," Junior murmured.
Athena immediately obeyed, then commented, "Do you want me to resume your music playback? Or would you like me to read you the message from user voidharrow84, now?"
"Go ahead," Junior said as he left his bathroom and memory guided his steps to his kitchen.
He 'saw' Achilles, who'd apparently decided to move out to the living room sometime overnight. The dog leaned in for a head pat and followed him to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Athena faithfully began to read the message.
"User voidharrow84 wrote: When the wind speaks, I can hear the chimes. Like from the first time. They come from somewhere, but I don't know where. One is close. Near where it first happened. Where it all began. The Integration."
Junior poured a bowl of food for Achilles, then - without missing a beat - reached for his own cereal.
He considered Voidharrow's words thoughtfully. Voidharrow wrote with a formal, almost poetic tone - the opposite of Chaff's chaotic, grammar-free stream of consciousness.
The most recent message was layered with meaning.
Every Reclaimed who had shared their story described something deeply personal and unsettling. Voidharrow had never revealed anything about their first encounter with the Integration - nor had Junior. For the other Reclaimed to bring it up now, and to stress it so deliberately, felt out of character compared to their previous interactions.
Furthermore, the ability to hear chimes 'on the wind', as Voidharrow said, didn't seem to serve any particular purpose. Much like Junior's ability to see one single, blurry dog.
Millie's LITRPG forums often lamented that this was the most underwhelming System Integration ever. The comment had amused Junior when he first heard it, but he couldn't disagree. Aside from that one-time appearance of admittedly weak monsters, this so-called apocalypse had been anything but apocalyptic.
Just then, a knock at the door interrupted his musings as he crunched his cereal.
Junior tilted his head. "Athena?"
"Motion detected at your front door. Visual confirmation unavailable. Do you wish to speak to them?"
He smiled faintly. "Is it Millie?" She frequently dropped by these days, though not usually this early.
"I cannot say."
Junior set his spoon down and moved to the door. Achilles padded beside him, claws clicking softly against the floor.
"Millie?" he called as he approached the door. He hesitated briefly. Reached for the pair of shades he kept near the door and slipped them over his eyes. "You're early."
Then he opened the door.
It could have been the faint smell of expensive cologne. The barely perceptible creak of real leather shoes. Some other subliminal cue beneath Junior's conscious awareness.
Whatever it was, the instant the door opened, he knew it wasn't Millie.
"Uncle Orestes," Junior said, flat and without enthusiasm.
Orestes Stoneberg was a tall man. Upright. Many would call him dignified - and he never missed a chance to prove them right.
He stood with the practiced ease of someone used to being listened to, one hand resting on an ornate cane more symbolic than functional. A tailored coat draped from his shoulders in clean lines, its dark fabric catching just enough light to hint at luxury. Silver threaded his neatly combed curls. His expression, calm but expectant, carried the weight of someone who had never once entered a room unnoticed.
He didn't answer right away. Junior caught the shift of fine fabric, the quiet tap of the cane on the floorboard.
"You've been ignoring my calls again," Orestes said at last. "Even in the midst of literal divine intervention on a global scale."
It was moments like these that made Junior wish he could consciously control his eyes - if only to roll them hard enough to honour the cliché.
"And not inviting me in, I see," Orestes added, his tone dry.
Not that Junior expected him to miss the sarcasm. Orestes was sharp enough to catch most things, especially the things Junior didn't say.
Junior stepped back with a reluctant sigh. "Come in, then."
The footsteps were deliberate, polished shoes clicking over the floorboards. The door closed softly behind him.
Junior gestured toward the sitting area. "There's a chair."
"How gracious," Orestes muttered. "A warm welcome, as ever."
"Water or coffee?" Junior asked, already turning toward the kitchen. "Or should we skip the niceties and get to it?"
"Water. Please."
Junior filled a glass from the tap, letting the silence stretch a little longer than needed. When he returned, he extended the glass with a small grunt. Orestes took it wordlessly.
"I see the System hasn't improved your manners," he said.
"Still waiting on that patch," Junior replied, lowering himself into a chair across from him. "So. What now? Another hostile motion from the board? Did Damaris try to rename the company again?"
"You might try sounding less gleeful about it," Orestes said. "You are still a stakeholder. Legally. Morally. Spiritually."
"I didn't ask to be."
"That doesn't mean it isn't yours."
Junior leaned his head back and exhaled through his nose. "Let me guess. You want me to show up. Sit at a table. Play the part. Smile dutifully while Damaris sharpens her knives."
"She's not your enemy."
"She's not my friend."
Orestes made a soft, frustrated sound - not quite a sigh. More like something held in check.
"Junior… I apologize. I've allowed myself to fall into old patterns when it's not even why I'm here. The company doesn't matter right now."
Junior didn't need to see the fervent gleam which entered Orestes' eyes; he could hear the piety resonating in the man's next words.
"Only the will of the gods."
Junior restrained the sigh which threatened to escape his lips.
This was exactly why he'd been ignoring his Uncle's calls.
He wasn't particularly keen on discussing the Failsafe System with a religious zealot.