Dawn had already begun to bleed through the narrow window, pale light pooling across the cracked plaster above him. Wrapped in a thin cotton blanket atop a stiff mattress, he lay motionless, gaze unfocused, as if waiting for the world to load.
After a moment, he reached behind his neck and pressed down.
The interface activated with a dull internal click.
Member No. 1488. Omega-class citizen, Bharat Nazar.
Daily schedule in Cape Flats:
Please report to Mandalay Central Plaza, in front of Exit 2 of Mandalay Station, Cape Flats, by 09:00.
All Omega and Femme-class citizens must attend the occupational briefing.
Each citizen is granted three briefing opportunities. Failure to attend will result in forfeiture of future job placements.
If dismissed after three placements, no further assignments will be provided. Independent employment will be required.
Alternatively, the citizen may be assigned to a shelter and issued daily meal vouchers.
The woman’s metallic voice grated against his nerves. The text was even worse—harsh, sterile, and exhausting to read.
Bharat flicked the interface away with a lazy gesture and returned to the home screen.
A cloud-shaped emblem floated into view: the Stratosphere Network of Cape Town. Beside it, a television channel panel unfolded. Once, it had shown Indian and Chinese animation. Ever since he had been classified as Omega, however, the system fed him nothing but droning news broadcasts.
He glanced at the upper-left corner.
Position: —
Occupation: —
Degrees Held: (Early Graduate, Department of Clinical Psychology, Nelson Mandela University – Cape Town Campus)
He fell into silence.
Nelson Mandela University was originally located in Port Elizabeth, far from Cape Town—a prestigious institution that had, in 2056, established a campus in Blouberg after Cape Town was expelled from the South African Federation through an agreement between federal leader Julius Malema and Cape Town’s parliamentary chairman, Samuel Rubin. The university had declared the campus a symbol of hoped-for reunification.
Appropriately, it was one of the few places where multiple classes could coexist.
Of course, Omega and Femme citizens were barred from entering without labor visas. But before classification, the campus had quietly ignored parental class background—unlike most universities. Children of lower classes could still enroll.
And that was where he had met Olivia. Every day.
His mother, a domestic worker since his childhood, had once served in Olivia’s household on the wealthy Peninsula. Olivia had promised, even as a child, that she would grow up and take care of him.
She kept that promise in her own way.
She enrolled in the nursing department at Saint Helena University in Blouberg. Bharat chose Nelson Mandela University next door.
The path had not been smooth.
Olivia had been willing to enroll in a Cape Flats university just to stay near him. Bharat had refused. He would not let her discard her future for his sake. Peninsula universities were impossible for him due to his mother’s background—but Nelson Mandela University in Blouberg had been within reach.
So he worked himself to the bone and applied to Clinical Psychology, a department most people avoided.
He was accepted.
Olivia, thanks to her background, entered with relative ease, secured a scholarship, and graduated early in just two years before her classification. Bharat also graduated in two years—but only through relentless effort that bordered on self-destruction.
The only comfort during those years was the daily commute, when Olivia would pick him up in her Mercedes.
Then, on February 6—her birthday—she received her classification.
Madonna class.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
And in that same year…
“Yeah… right. Figures.”
Bharat exhaled sharply and pushed himself upright, cutting the memory short.
He stepped out of the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. When he opened the refrigerator, five cans of tuna sat inside, neatly stacked.
A gift.
Caleb had sent them at dawn yesterday as a token of thanks—three-dimensional offline barcode coupons delivered to a burner phone.
He was grateful, yes.
But getting used to illegal conveniences was a dangerous habit in Cape Town.
Offline barcodes, especially those scanned through burner devices rather than neural interfaces, were precisely the kind of thing that attracted the attention of the Information Bureau. He had already used the code at a convenience store via interface scan and warned Caleb not to send anything like that again.
“…Let’s see the time.”
He glanced at the clock.
09:39.
He scratched his head.
“The job briefing… well, three strikes and you’re out for life.”
He paused, then shrugged.
“Whatever. If it’s really necessary, I’ll go later. I spent two years studying only to get dumped into a landfill where my degree’s worthless on my birthday. They can cut me some slack.”
He placed a can of tuna into the microwave and waited quietly.
(Whiiiiirr—)
Then he heard something.
A faint sound from the neighboring apartment.
Curiosity stirred. Bharat walked to the door and peered through the peephole.
The red-haired woman with freckles—Charlie—was quietly closing her door. Without making a sound, she began ascending the stairs.
(Ding—)
Bharat flung his door open.
Charlie startled and spun around.
He crossed his arms.
“The occupational briefing already started, you know. And… what exactly are you wearing?”
He examined her outfit.
Yesterday, she had worn a white shirt and blue suspenders. Today, she was dressed in a dark navy jumper suit.
“…What, heading to a mine or something?”
Charlie’s face flushed instantly. She jerked her head away toward the stairs—then, unexpectedly, turned back.
“I… wouldn’t recommend going to the briefing,” she said. “Hundreds of people pack the plaza. Fights break out. Assaults, too. And the smell of sweat is… overwhelming. Instead, I’m going to a place called Sea Point Dropoff. They collect discarded computer parts for recycling.”
Bharat raised an eyebrow.
“Sea Point Dropoff? That’s near Mountain Park. Harbor district.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Isn’t that where that kid—Caleb Lusando—worked security? The same harbor you hacked? What if you run into him again?”
Charlie shrugged.
“I already made a deal with that high school brat. I won’t hit the port during his shifts. And if I have to, he’ll just use his father’s connections to change the rotation.”
She paused, then added calmly,
“Yes, I hacked the harbor surveillance cameras. But don’t misunderstand. I was trying to help the Canis being shipped to Robben Island. The government’s prisoner transport vessels are stationed there in bulk.”
Bharat slowly uncrossed his arms.
Robben Island.
Once a prison from the Cold War era, where figures like Nelson Mandela and Jacob Zuma had been detained before its closure in 1996. After Cape Town’s independence in 2056, it had been reopened.
Now it housed the so-called Canis—individuals branded as subversives and stripped of their neural interfaces.
From the Greek κανε??.
“No one.”
A living human rendered administratively nonexistent.
Deposited into the newly constructed “Canis Reformation Prison”—a bureaucratic hell.
Men, women, even children who resisted class order were imprisoned without trial. Refugees from the Northern Suburbs were labeled illegal immigrants and incarcerated due to lacking interfaces. After China’s military intervention forced Guantanamo Bay back to Cuba in 2059, even multinational prisoners—from South America, the Middle East, Europe, and Asia—had been transferred there.
A prison of all races.
The Canis were implanted with specialized interface chips instead of standard neural terminals. Guards could override their senses at will—blind them, deafen them, erase taste, nullify touch. They could be humiliated, assaulted, tortured, and the victims would be unable to resist.
There had even been exposés about induced neurological torment—simulated childbirth pain in virgins, phantom limb agony in children, and burning sensations engineered through nervous system manipulation.
Bharat clicked his tongue softly.
“So those ships were under guard…”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Wouldn’t they have issued a warrant for you?”
Charlie snorted.
“A warrant? For what? The prisons are already overcrowded. The officials stuffing people in there are just cashing American funding per inmate.”
Her smile turned cold.
“Sadists get hired as guards and torture people legally. Prisoners who did nothing will be released years later and start exposing both Cape Town and the U.S. If they escape beforehand, Cape Town will just deny ever detaining them. Convenient, isn’t it? Though I plan to collect evidence and report everything.”
Bharat tilted his head, still studying her.
“Were you always this talkative?”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“I had no idea.”
Charlie smiled, almost sheepishly.
“Shut-in hackers aren’t big talkers. It’s better to judge us by skill, not words.”
She hesitated, then added,
“Hey… do you want to come along? Help collect recyclables? I’ve got a spare jumper suit at home.”
Bharat let out a short laugh and folded his arms while waiting.
A moment later, she returned and held up a jumper suit identical to hers.
“Well? Do you like it?”
He snatched it from her hands, inspecting the stitching and fabric with clinical scrutiny. After a long pause, he looked back at her.
“…It’s awful. Completely awful.”
Then, more quietly:
“But I’ll wear it. Thanks. I’ll change inside, so wait here.”
He was about to step back into his apartment when he paused and glanced over his shoulder.
“…Come to think of it, did I ever tell you my name?”
A brief beat.
“I’m Bharat. Mind if we drop the formalities?”
Charlie blinked, clearly startled.
It was, after all, the first time she had spoken this long with someone whose name she hadn’t even known.
“…Sure,” she said softly.
“Drop them. I’ll talk casually too.”