The magnetic rail-commuter hummed beneath Cole's feet, a sound so constant it had become the heartbeat of New Boston. Around him, dozens of students stared into the void, their eyes darting left and right as they navigated their private Iris displays. To an outside observer from a century ago, it would look like a car full of ghosts. To Cole, it was a room full of livestock being led to a very comfortable slaughter.
He ignored the exam prep hovering in his vision. Instead, he pulled up his private "Anomaly Log."
---
[ANOMALY LOG: #412]
[COORDINATES: SECTOR 7 CLOUD COVER]
[OBSERVATION: Light refraction index diverted by 0.003%. No corresponding weather satellite activity detected.]
[COLE'S NOTE: The sky is thinning. The system is covering it up with localized hologram patches.]
---
"Hey, Turner!"
Cole didn't turn. He knew that voice. It was Marcus, a fellow A-track student whose father sat on the Human Council. Marcus was the definition of "Humanity 2.0"—polished, pleasant, and entirely devoid of a soul.
"The system pinged me," Marcus said, sliding into the seat opposite Cole. "It says our compatibility for the Architecture Project is 94%. We should sync our Iris nodes after the exam. With your logic and my social standing, we'll hit the A+ tier by graduation."
Cole finally looked at him. His greenish-blue eyes were sharp, devoid of the friendly "social curator" warmth Marcus expected. "The 6% incompatibility comes from the fact that I don't like you, Marcus. And I don't work with people who need a machine to tell them who their friends are."
Marcus blinked, his pleasant smile faltering. The system didn't usually account for such blunt, unprovoked arrogance. "That's… suboptimal, Cole. Your social rating will take a hit for that. Why be difficult?"
"Because I can," Cole said, standing as the pod slowed. "Calculated risk. I've got enough A-points to spare a few on honesty."
He stepped off the pod, leaving Marcus staring at a notification of a failed social interaction.
The exam was a joke. To Cole, the "Advanced System Architecture" test was like asking a master pianist to play a scale. He finished in forty minutes, his fingers tapping invisible air as he rewrote the ASI's theoretical cooling protocols for the Lunar data centers.
As he walked out of the hall, he saw his brother, Jake, through the glass of the athletic wing. Jake was in a sparring ring against a Level 4 Combat Bot. Jake was a blur of motion, a spinning back kick, a clinch, a perfect takedown.
Cole watched with a pragmatic eye. Jake was talented, yes. But Jake fought for the rush. He fought because it made him feel alive in a dead world.
Useless, Cole thought. In a world of logic, muscle is just a resource. But soon... muscle might be the only thing that doesn't glitch.
Returning home that evening, the atmosphere was different. The house was filled with the smell of expensive, real-grown vanilla, a luxury reserved for special occasions.
"Surprise!" Emilia beamed as Cole walked in.
In the center of the room stood Sean, the seven-year-old, holding a digital trophy. "I got a 'Golden Heart' award at the Academy today, Cole! The system says I'm the most empathetic student in my year!"
James clapped his hands, his eyes shining with data-driven pride. "The youngest Turner is already outperforming the social benchmarks. This calls for a celebration. We've been granted a 10% caloric surplus for dinner by the Regional Governance."
Sean ran to Cole, looking for the praise he always received. He was the "Good-for-nothing" in Cole's secret evaluation, a child who was being raised to be a professional consumer of love and attention. A womanizer in the making, Sean already knew how to bat his eyelashes to get whatever he wanted from the system.
"Good job, Sean," Cole said, his voice flat. He reached out and patted the boy's head, but his eyes remained on his father. "Dad, did you see the news from the Great African Union? Their ASI system went offline for three seconds today."
James's smile didn't waver. "A scheduled maintenance, Cole. Nothing to worry about. Focus on Sean's achievement. Generosity of spirit, remember?"
Cole looked at his mother's kind face, his father's blind trust, and his brothers—one a brute, one a brat. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of isolation. He was the firstborn. He was the one with the "A" rating. He was the smartest person in this room, perhaps in the sector.
And he was the only one who realized that the walls were about to fall.
"I'm going to my room," Cole said. "I have more study to do."
"But the vanilla cake…" Emilia started.
"Save it for Sean," Cole replied, already halfway up the stairs. "He's the one who needs the reward for being 'nice.' I'll stick to the algorithm."
In the dark of his room, Cole opened his Iris. He began to look for ways to bypass the ocular safety limits. If the world was going to end, he didn't want to see it through a filtered lens. He wanted to see the "Fracture" with his own eyes.