Chapter 1: The Contract
The synth-coffee and bile taste was the same, but today, Will preferred the gutter.
On his knees, the abrasive grit of the cleaning paste ground into his skin, a familiar pain beneath the stench of recycled air and human waste. Above him, the holographic ads for Omni-Stream shimmered, projecting perfect lives onto the perpetual grime of the Arcadia Arcology. A laughing couple sipped virtual nectar on a Martian beach. A chrome-plated soldier wielded a plasma rifle with impossible grace. Lies, all of it.
His own vision was a cluttered hellscape of reality. Notifications for his 200-credit overdraft blinked in the periphery. A public health warning about a new strain of data-flu scrolled past. And pinned at the center, a stark, red-bordered document:
FINAL NOTICE: TERMINATION OF HOSPICE SUSTAINMENT.
Subject: Ava Corvin.
72-Hour Grace Period Initiated.
Seventy-two hours. Then the machines keeping his sister alive would be unplugged. Her body, a debt the corporation could no longer carry.
He scrubbed harder, the chemical burn on his knuckles a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in his chest. He was twenty-three years old, strong, and utterly powerless.
Powerless. The word was a drumbeat in his head as Boss Graf's hulking shadow fell over him.
"Corvin! You missed a spot. By the drain. Are you blind or just stupid?" Graf's voice was a guttural bark, amplified by a cheap vocal modulator he thought made him sound authoritative. He kicked the bucket, sending grey, sudsy water sloshing over Will's legs.
Will's fists clenched, the muscles in his jaw tightening until they screamed. He imagined rising. Imagined driving the scrub-brush into Graf's smug, meaty face. But the fantasy was a luxury he couldn't afford. An assault charge would mean imprisonment. Imprisonment meant Ava died alone.
"Sorry, Boss Graf," he muttered, the words ash in his mouth.
"Sorry doesn't clean the gutters," Graf sneered, leaning down, his breath reeking of synthetic protein. "You're on waste-disposal detail for the next month. Maybe the smell will motivate you."
As Graf stomped away, a new notification violently overwrote Will's vision. It wasn't a bill or a warning. It was a single, shimmering, golden word, pulsing with a light that felt alive.
OMNI-STREAM.
Then, the text unfolded, smooth and coercive.
// Tired of being nothing? //
// Power. Wealth. Fame. It can all be yours. //
// Sign the Provisional Streamer Contract and receive a 10,000-CREDIT BONUS. //
// Your life is the content. Your Approval is your currency. //
A scam. It had to be. But 10,000 credits… that was two weeks for Ava. It was a chance to breathe.
He tried to blink it away, to swipe it into the digital void. It didn't move. It was bypassing every ad-blocker, every privacy setting. It was an offer he couldn't refuse, from an entity he couldn't ignore.
His eyes flickered to Ava's termination notice. The red timer ticked down: 71:58:12.
Desperation was a cold knot in his stomach.
In the silence of his own mind, surrounded by the filth of the arcology, he whispered the words that would damn him.
"I accept."
The world dissolved into light.
For a moment, there was only a euphoric, weightless sensation. Power, raw and electric, flooded his veins. He felt stronger, his senses sharper. The grime on his hands seemed to repel itself. Then, the light receded, coalescing into a new, permanent icon in the corner of his vision: a golden, pulsing heart, next to the number 0.
A voice, sleek and feminine, yet utterly devoid of warmth, spoke directly into his mind.
"Contract ratified. Welcome to Omni-Stream, Will."
"Who are you?" he thought, the words forming in his mind.
"I am your Stream-Weaver. Your guide, your director, your connection to the global audience. Your first Stream Goal has been generated."
A new window popped up.
STREAM GOAL: THE HUMILIATION OF BOSS GRAF
Objective: Achieve 1,000 Live Viewers.
Suggested Action: Publicly and creatively dismantle the target's authority.
Primary Reward: 10,000 Credits.
Bonus Potential: Viewer Donations, 'Chaos' Tier Unlocks.
Will's heart hammered against his ribs. "No. I'm not doing that."
"The bonus has been rescinded. Goal failure will result in a 5,000-credit debt, applied immediately."
The hollow feeling returned, colder than before. They owned him. He looked at Ava's timer. 71:55:01.
He was out of choices.
Graf was at the end of the corridor, bragging to a new hire about his monthly efficiency bonus. Will's eyes, now sharpened, scanned the environment. A loose access panel on a coolant pipe. A misaligned waste-conduit. A cleaning bot stuck on a loop, its buffer full of greasy sludge.
The Stream-Weaver's voice was a purr. "The tools are all around you, Will. Your audience awaits. Give them a story."
A plan, horrifying and perfect, clicked into place. It wasn't about violence. It was about spectacle.
He moved. He kicked the access panel, and a jet of pressurized steam hissed out, causing Graf to yelp and stumble back. As Graf retreated, his heel landed on the greasy patch from the stuck bot. His arms flailed, grabbing for the misrouted waste-conduit for support.
It gave way.
A torrent of synthetic sewage, food pulp, and chemical runoff drenched Graf from head to toe. He sputtered, slipping and landing hard on the slick floor. The new hire stared, horrified.
But it wasn't over.
"Exploit the data-stream," the Weaver suggested, her voice clinical.
With a thought, Will accessed the public channel. He found it instantly: Graf's secret, password-protected poetic feed, filled with terrible, heartfelt verses dedicated to a virtual AI companion. Will ripped the privacy seal away and broadcast it to every public screen in the corridor.
"Oh, my digital Seraphina,
Your code is a summer's dream…"
The words scrolled across the walls in glowing, romantic script, juxtaposed against the image of a sewage-soaked, weeping Boss Graf.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a chime.
Viewers: 1,005.
Stream Goal: ACHIEVED.
+10,000 Credits.
The golden heart in his vision pulsed, and the number beside it skyrocketed. A cascade of other notifications followed. Donations of crypto, digital artifacts, and direct credits flooded his account. He was rich. For the next month, at least, Ava would live.
He stood there, breathing heavily, the smell of sewage and triumph thick in the air. He felt sick. He felt… alive.
The Stream-Weaver's voice returned, sweet and sinister.
"A magnificent debut, Will. Viewer feedback is overwhelming. They adore your… creative flair. Your next Stream Goal is now live."
A new, more demanding objective appeared.
STREAM GOAL: A FUNERAL FOR FLOWERS
Objective: Achieve 50,000 Live Viewers.
Suggested Action: Burn the Arcology's Central Botanical Garden. (The most creative arson wins a 'Chaos Crown' from your fans!)
Reward: 50,000 Credits. Tier 2 Physical Enhancements.
Will stared at the notice. Then he looked down at his hands, clean now, clenched into fists. He saw the reflection of the neon ads in the filthy water on the floor—ads for a life he could now almost touch. He thought of Ava, safe in her bed.
A terrifying, unfamiliar smile twisted his lips.
The garden blueprint unfolded in his mind's eye.