The sun dipped below the horizon on the West Coast, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. Alan sat on a patch of grass by the street, a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. The temperature was perfect, yet a profound sense of despair settled over him. In his hand, he clutched a bottle of cherry-flavored Dr. Pepper Zero, a freebie from a relief station. He remembered this particular soda being quite expensive back at home, in his previous life. The taste, however, was truly unremarkable; no wonder it was distributed to the homeless.
Los Angeles pulsed around him: crowded streets, two- and three-story commercial buildings adorned with light yellow and rose-red paint, 24-hour supermarkets, discount clothing stores, bustling sidewalks, and flashing traffic lights. But beneath this veneer of urban life lay a grimmer reality: relief stations with endless queues, vibrant graffiti walls on cracked pavement, overflowing trash cans, and the silent, slumped figures of homeless individuals leaning against buildings. The air itself was a chaotic blend of stench, fleeting fragrance, smoke, and indefinable other odors. The undeniable truth gnawed at him: as of today, he was one of them.
God knows why I woke up on the West Coast, of all places.
At first, he had nothing—no dog, no identity, not even a tent. Just a pair of beach shorts and bare feet. What a hellish start to an urban survival game! He took another sip of the stubbornly unpalatable cherry soda, grimacing as he forced it down.
A thought struck him: he could take advantage of the numerous shelters and food trucks dotting the poorer streets. He decided to queue up, aiming for two more bottles of Dr. Pepper and a large bottle of water. No psychological pressure, he reasoned. Someone else had already footed the bill.
His domestic mobile phone, bafflingly still working despite showing no signal, displayed an app called "Simulation Life." It was like a Grand Theft Auto game bleeding into reality. Thankfully, he knew English, sparing him the additional burden of being mute. This peculiar app had appeared on his phone out of nowhere and couldn't be uninstalled, though it could be transferred to other electronic devices registered under his name—sports bracelets, iPads, tablets, liquid crystal glasses.
The "Simulation Life" app on Alan's phone constantly updated him with his new reality's harsh data:
[Daily Intelligence:]
Free Phone: A new mobile phone is available at Shelter No. 326 every Wednesday, requiring basic identity registration.
Discovery: A homeless man died in an alley on 25th Street, Fifth District, with $4.50 in his right pocket.
Meal Service: The Baal Relief Food Truck will provide beef pasta, freshly squeezed juice, and iced fruit plates at 6:30 PM on Markie Street.
[Daily Intelligence Weight: E-level.] Based on his current social status, influence, and assets, the app provided up to three random daily updates. These insights covered a broad spectrum of street life: relief stations, garbage recycling, commercial activities, personal privacy, daily work, and even gang transactions.
[Life Skills:]
Driving Skills: Lv 2 (Amateur)
Mixed Martial Arts: Lv 3 (Professional)
Shooting Skills: Lv 0 (Novice)
Very good, he thought, I've always dreamed of buying a private island in the Gulf of Columbia in the distant future, naming it Utopia. An island home to cutting-edge scientific and technological talents and heavy firepower, powerful and dominant. Sitting in my own bunker, watching satellite positioning and commanding space-based artillery to bombard my enemies with one shot! .
For now, though, he'd better focus on getting some food and figuring out where he could spend the night. And that free cell phone. The offer of a free phone was a common bait-and-switch, no different from getting free shampoo for signing up for a card. Common in California, these schemes often led to personal information leaks. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Never believe pie will fall from the sky.
Just as Alan rose to find a trash can for his empty bottle, a slim white figure approached him, a black trash bag overflowing with cans and transparent plastic bottles slung over his shoulder.
"Hey, man, can you give me your bottle?"
Man? Woman? Alan hesitated.
"My name is Dominic. I know what you're thinking, man! I'm a man."
The white boy's soft face exuded an unexpected kindness, framed by long golden hair. His features were delicate, and he had no visible Adam's apple. He wore a grey and white Adidas sweatshirt, faded light grey jeans, and black sneakers. He smiled as he extended his hand for the can. "Can you give me the can? I need this."
"My name is Alan." Alan promptly handed him the bottle, speaking in fluent English. "I don't mean to discriminate, but you're quite beautiful, man! If you hadn't told me, I truly couldn't tell your gender. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Björn Andrésen?"
"Thank you. Who's that?" Dominic took the can, a hint of confusion in his voice.
"An actor who looked like an angel when he was young and like God when he was old."
"Woah," Dominic murmured. Although he'd never heard the name, the descriptions of "angel" and "God" resonated. But his brief pleasure faded. He shook his head. "Thanks for the high praise, but I don't really like my appearance. You know, there are a lot of homeless people in the Fifth Street District. Guys like me on the street have to be careful, can't be stupid. There are a lot of people who will deliberately come looking for trouble, bully you, and... try to go through your back door!"
Alan nodded in grim agreement. If even men with a normal sexual orientation like him found Dominic strikingly beautiful and felt a desire to touch his face, what about those with different inclinations?
"Hey, what's your situation now? Are you homeless?" Alan asked, genuinely confused by Dominic's seemingly carefree demeanor despite his predicament.
Dominic, seeing an open and good-looking Asian face, lowered his garbage bag and sat beside Alan. "Nothing, really. My relationship with my mother just went bad. We argued a lot, and I hated living in that house, so I ran away."
Alan was surprised. "Really? Maybe you could try to reconcile with your family. It's better than wandering alone out here."
Dominic shrugged. "It's complicated. When my father was alive, my mother was cheating on him. After he died, she constantly brought people home to mess around—sometimes Asians, sometimes Mexicans, Blacks, Indians. She'd bring them home to drink, party, and have fun, making it impossible for the neighbors to sleep. She was always getting reported. She never cared about my feelings at all."
"I really couldn't stand it, so I chose to run away. In the two and a half years I've been on the streets, she's never once looked for me. I think she might be better off without me."
Alan was silent, unsure how to respond. "Your decision may not be wrong..." But running away from home didn't seem much better. Relying on shelters and charity organizations might keep you from starving, but living rough easily leads to bad habits and negative influences. Many young homeless people on the streets had families but were driven away by various domestic issues, eventually ending up in similar circumstances—either becoming repeat offenders in prison, or falling into debt, or drug addiction. Homeless for a while, homeless for a lifetime.
"Dominic, are you an adult?" Alan asked, a flicker of curiosity.
"Don't underestimate me, okay? My real age is already 19." Dominic smiled. "You wouldn't guess my other Texas driver's license says I'm 26."
"Oh, so you can enter and exit clubs and bars freely," Alan chuckled. America. The supposed beacon of world civilization. A country where fake documents ran rampant. More than half the students in schools alone had fake IDs, primarily used for buying cigarettes and alcohol, booking hotels, and frequenting bars and clubs. There were so many that checking them all was impossible. As long as you weren't stupid enough to use a 21-year-old Black man's driver's license to buy alcohol at a convenience store and claim vitiligo, you were generally safe. The police departments rarely cared about such minor identity issues, which fell under the Immigration Bureau's purview. But they typically remained in their offices, not patrolling the streets, so enforcement was minimal. As long as you avoided something as egregious as bombing the Pentagon, no one would bother investigating a "loser" like him.
"As many people say, there are only 300 million people in the United States in real life, but there are over 1 billion registered identities on the Internet. Where are the remaining 700 million people? Are they ghosts?" Alan said with a smile.
"Yes, that's it! Welcome to the free West Coast!" Dominic extended his fist, and they bumped knuckles.
"Thanks for your warm welcome, man, but if I had a choice, I'd still prefer to sleep in my own bed." Alan felt a pang of helplessness. The West Coast wasn't exactly paradise.
"Dominic, can I ask where you got your Texas ID?" Alan inquired.
"Of course. It's no secret," Dominic replied frankly. "You just need to log in to the OnlyFake website online, pay $15, and use neural networks and generators to create a fake California driver's license, including any specified name, personal information, address, expiration date, and signature." He continued, "With that, you can effectively apply for California online bank cards, drive a motor vehicle, transfer a house, buy cigarettes and alcohol, real-name authenticate social media, log in to online shopping platform accounts, and even pass face recognition for cryptocurrency exchanges." He added, "It's a little trickier offline. Barcodes and passport built-in chips require more professional equipment and finding specialized people to print them. Those fake IDs might get exposed if the Immigration Bureau checks online."
"But in most cases, as long as you don't travel abroad, don't run around, and aren't a wanted criminal in the state, no one will go online to investigate you."
Teaching someone how to get a fake ID. If you dared to do this in other countries, you'd be in serious trouble! But this is America.
Even police chiefs' sons allegedly had piles of illicit documents. Politicians habitually tiptoed around sensitive topics. Since the advent of AI, the efficacy of fake documents has only proliferated. Online fakes were superior to offline ones, and foreign or out-of-state identities were preferable to in-state ones. The greater the distance, the lazier the verification. In the past, you needed Photoshop to meticulously craft details before printing and packaging. Now, pure AI programming could exploit loopholes, making it seemingly invincible.
But fake was fake. If Alan wanted a real, legal identity, he'd still have to spend money and go through formal channels. That was the rule of the bald eagle. For now, having just arrived with no money or connections, a fake ID could at least fool ordinary departments.
[Disguise ID lv 0: Dominic taught you some relevant skills.]