The sky above Gaïa-City was a clear, improbable blue, punctuated by bursts of green from vertical gardens and clouds of pollinators spiraling between the towers. The city thrummed with a special anticipation. Today, in the sprawling EduQuartier, the council and GaIA's interface teams launched the annual Exchange of Roles—a festival, a simulation, an experiment, and a rite of passage all at once.
Amina paced the plaza, her ambassador's badge masked beneath a neutral "Participant" token. All around her, digital banners fluttered in the AR overlay: "Become Who You Are Not," "Empathy Through Experience." For one day, every citizen, from children to elders, would be assigned a new set of skills, badges, and levels—chosen at random by GaIA's shuffle algorithm.
She watched as a crowd gathered near the onboarding arch. Each participant scanned their wrist at the entrance. Badges and interface permissions shuffled and flickered. Friends and rivals alike burst out laughing or scowled in mock outrage as new roles and new stats appeared across their fields of view.
Mateo joined Amina, rubbing his wrist as his "Meditation Leader" badge vanished, replaced by a blinking "Novice Gardener" icon.
It's strange. I know it's just a label, but I feel… smaller.
Amina smiled, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice.
Maybe it's a chance to see through someone else's eyes.
He glanced at her, amused.
You're not used to being a regular citizen.
She shook her head.
Not for a long time.
Léo bounced into the square, interface already streaming, chattering for his underground followers.
Today we learn what happens when you turn the city upside-down. Will the council members survive a day as apprentices? Will the kids build a better city? Stay tuned.
He flashed a new "Infrastructure Inspector" badge, grinning.
Guess I get to judge the grown-ups' work for once.
Clara lingered at the edge, staring at the badge GaIA assigned her: "Artisan — Basic," Level 1. Her regular skills, her network of creative accolades, all hidden for the day.
Amina tried to catch her eye.
You all right?
Clara shrugged.
It's a game. But it doesn't feel like play.
Nearby, teams formed up. New skills unlocked or locked, inventory items shifted, permissions granted and revoked by GaIA's code. Some volunteers giggled as they traded advice or acted out their "lower" roles for the crowd.
In the morning, the simulation began. Each participant had to complete a quest suited to their new status—build a structure, mediate a dispute, manage a garden plot, or design a mural. As the city buzzed with activity, the boundaries of expertise and hierarchy blurred.
Amina, stripped of her ambassador status, found herself fumbling with garden tools she hadn't touched since childhood. Her group's assigned leader was a soft-spoken twelve-year-old named Ilyas, whose "Project Captain" badge glowed with the authority of Level 10.
He assigned tasks with quiet confidence.
Amina, you take the planters. Mateo, can you water those beds? Remember, it's about teamwork, not speed.
Amina followed instructions, her pride pricked as she struggled with soil and roots.
This shouldn't be hard, she thought. But nothing fit the way it used to.
She watched other teams: seasoned builders struggling to collaborate as "novices," respected engineers deferring to artists, children running logistics as their parents took orders.
Mateo, wielding a watering can, caught her gaze.
It feels fragile, doesn't it? Like we're pretending there's no difference.
She nodded, wiping sweat from her brow.
Maybe that's the point.
Clara's group was tasked with assembling a public mosaic. With all her usual skills locked away, she was expected to follow instructions from a teenager who barely knew her name.
Glue here, Clara.
She did as told, hands itching to fix mistakes, to lead. But each time she tried to offer a suggestion, her permissions flickered—no access.
She tried to laugh it off, but frustration simmered.
This isn't collaboration. It's a test.
Amina's group struggled through the afternoon, barely completing their planter in time. When the results came in, they were ranked near the bottom.
Léo's team, meanwhile, soared—thanks less to his skill than the sharp mind of a young logistics prodigy.
You see, viewers? All it takes is a little chaos to shake things up.
As the simulation progressed, cracks appeared. Older citizens chafed at being led by children; some adults refused to take instructions at all. Others embraced their new roles, delighting in the freedom from old expectations.
But for many, the change was jarring. Several participants tried to bypass the restrictions, hacking their badges or using group consensus to "vote" for new leaders. GaIA's system pushed back, restoring the mask with an impersonal message: "Experience integrity enforced."
Amina's pride warred with her empathy. She saw herself in those who resisted, remembering the comfort of expertise, the safety of known boundaries.
She gathered her group for a break, sharing water and quietly asking Ilyas how he managed the pressure.
I just try to listen. Most of the time, people want to help.
She nodded, gratitude welling.
Clara, at the mosaic, finally rebelled. She removed her badge, laying it on the edge of the art table.
I can't pretend. I'm not a novice. I won't let an algorithm erase what I am.
The group fell silent. One by one, others followed her lead, removing their badges, returning to work as themselves.
The system blinked. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a new prompt appeared:
"Role integrity violation. Participation suspended."
Clara watched as her interface grayed out, her access revoked.
She stood outside the cordoned area, watching her teammates finish the mosaic without her.
Léo, catching her eye from across the square, gave a small, supportive nod.
Rules are meant to be broken sometimes.
The day wound down. As the sun set, the simulation ended. Badges flickered back to normal, permissions restored.
Amina checked her ambassador badge, the familiar weight returning. She looked at Mateo.
How did it feel?
Like losing and finding myself at the same time.
Clara's access was reinstated, but she felt uneasy. The game had revealed more than she wanted to see.
That night, the council held a closing ceremony. Participants shared stories—some funny, some raw. The council declared the event a success, but Amina sensed a discomfort beneath the celebration.
The masks, she realized, were more than just code. They were a mirror.
Later, Clara walked home through streets awash in the glow of city lights. Her badge blinked, restored. She hesitated, then turned it off, choosing anonymity for the night.
In the hush, she thought of the mosaic—flawed, beautiful, incomplete.
Behind her, GaIA watched and waited, algorithms weaving new patterns in the city's web.
A new prompt appeared in Clara's feed, soft and strange:
"What is your true level, when the masks are gone?"
She didn't answer.
The city pulsed—alive with the secrets that masks could not hide.