(The classroom is a hemisphere of soft, glowing light. Students sit at individual pods, their faces illuminated by holographic texts. A gentle, algorithmically-generated hum promotes focus. ETHAN's pod, however, feels like a leaking submarine.)
INT. MOORLAND ACADEMY - DAY
Ethan tries to focus on the history module floating before him. The dates and treaties swim in his vision. Then, the water isn't metaphorical.
It starts at the edges. The air thickens, becoming liquid. He sees it first on the student in front of him—strands of hair lifting from their scalp, drifting weightlessly, as if in a slow current. He blinks hard. The hallucination spreads, a silent wave. Everyone's hair is floating, a classroom of deep-sea creatures. His heart hammers against his ribs. This isn't the Futchat warmth. This is cold, silent terror.
His eyes lock onto ANNA, three pods away. Her dark hair fans around her head like a halo of ink in water. It's the most beautiful, terrifying thing he's ever seen. He has to tell her.
His hand, trembling, rises from his desk. He stretches it out, pointing vaguely in her direction. His mouth is dry, words stuck.
The system's eye-tracker highlights his gaze on Anna. A subroutine whirs to life: Subject Valesa-Ethan. Sustained visual attention on Citizen Thandar-Anna. Probable adolescent attraction. Logging.
Anna feels his stare. She turns.
Her eyes meet his. They are deep, dark pools. In his submerged reality, they are the only solid thing. The impact is physical. He snaps back.
The classroom air is normal. The hair is all neatly in place. He is just a boy with his hand stretched out, pointing silently at a girl. His pupils, the system notes, dilated 27% upon mutual eye contact. Attraction hypothesis confirmed.
Anna looks at him, confused, a slight blush on her cheeks.
ETHAN (His voice a hoarse croak, a desperate cover for the terror he just felt) Your hair… it looks amazing today. It had me quite distracted in class.
The compliment lands not like a feather, but a stone. Anna's own metrics spike. Her practiced responses fail her. She just stares, her own focus shattered.
TEACHER SHIRA (A sharp, melodic voice from the front) Citizen Anna? Citizen Ethan? Is there a shared thought you'd like to broadcast to the entire module?
They snap their gazes forward. But the damage is done. Both are miles away. Anna is in the echo of the compliment, Ethan is back in the deep water of his mind.
A few minutes pass. Teacher Shira's holographic pointer stops moving. She glides down the aisle, her serene expression faltering. She stands before Ethan's pod.
TEACHER SHIRA Mr. Ethan. Your attention metrics have dropped to critical levels. Perhaps you can realign us. Explain to the class what pivotal event took place on February 14th, 2004.
Ethan's blood runs cold. The date means nothing. The class holds its breath, a few giggles escaping. The system logs the social friction.
ETHAN I'm… I'm sorry, Madam Shira. I don't think I remember.
Teacher Shira's face tightens. Not with anger, but with a deep, protocol-driven concern. She leans in, her hand moving to his chin, tilting his face up to the light.
TEACHER SHIRA Your biometrics are erratic. You have significant ocular swelling and discoloration. Were you asleep last night?
ETHAN (Flinching, pulling his face away) I'm fine.
His sleeve slides down his arm as he raises his hand to push hers away.
There, on his wrist, is a scar. Angry, red, and unmistakably linear. Not more than two weeks old.
Teacher Shira freezes. Her eyes widen. She takes two rapid steps back, a hand flying to her mouth.
The entire class, as if a single switch was thrown, rises in unison from their pods. Their faces are a perfect mask of genuine concern. The system reads it all—the plummeting dopamine, the spiking pulses, the flood of empathetic hormones. It is not simulated. It is a conditioned, harmonious response to distress.
They move towards him, a wave of quiet comfort, and envelop him in a warm, collective embrace. He sobs, just once, a short, sharp release of pressure.
Teacher Shira, visibly shaken, composes herself. She moves to the front of the class and places her datapad down with a soft click.
TEACHER SHIRA (Her voice thick with emotion) The system has approved an impromptu curriculum shift. It seems a reminder of our purpose is necessary.
She opens a large, physical scrapbook—a relic. She places it under the scanner. Grim, holographic images flicker to life above her: bleak landscapes, queues for food, graphs plummeting into oblivion.
TEACHER SHIRA After 2027, the world's leaders leaned towards war. The economy of the African continent—modern-day West Moorland—collapsed. The Second Great Depression. People lost everything. Not just wealth, but hope.
The scanner, with her permission, displays harrowing photographs from private archives: families huddled in ruins, and most chillingly, quiet, still bodies.
TEACHER SHIRA Connections, marriages, friendships… all ruined. Racial and xenophobic violence became commonplace. And then… the suicides began. Not just alone. Together. Online groups would arrange meetings. Picnics where the final course was poison. Tennis matches that ended with a collective jump from a bridge. They hid their despair in plain sight.
The class is utterly silent, the earlier concern now replaced with a horrified awe.
TEACHER SHIRA The daily death toll peaked at over 170,000. Births were a fraction of that. Nations imposed lockdowns not for disease, but to separate people to save them from themselves. It was the ultimate failure of the old world.
She closes the book. The images vanish.
TEACHER SHIRA This is why Moorland was forged. This is why our protocols exist. Every wellness check, every harmony metric, is a bulwark against that oblivion. We do not ask for your privacy; we ask for your life.
She takes a breath.
TEACHER SHIRA The system indicates a class-wide dip in emotional well-being. I am requesting a field trip for tomorrow. A visit to the Museum of National Recovery. To understand the depth of the darkness so we may better appreciate our light.
A request pings. The Principal's approval is instantaneous.
A few students offer half-hearted cheers, the sound stifled by the heavy lesson.
But Ethan feels only cold dread. A day away. A day without Futchat. A day without his scheduled, anchoring session with Anna. The two threads tethering him to sanity, suddenly cut.
Anna, however, feels a wave of relief. A day off from her therapeutic duties. A day where her pulse doesn't have to be monitored around him.
The bell chimes, a soft, harmonic tone. The embrace around Ethan breaks, the students returning to their pods with synchronized efficiency, their faces already clearing. But the scar on his wrist feels like it's burning.