The air here always smells like rotting meat, or maybe I should say like dead bodies in the lower colonies. It's hard to tell anymore. Either way, it stings when you breathe too deeply. As I gaze at the oddly shining star in the sky, I wonder how life would be in the upper colonies. But tomorrow marks the beginning—a step closer to a better life.
Tonight was the first time I've felt anything close to hope—or maybe I'm just afraid. I think fear is the right word. Either way, I'll definitely survive for my sister.
Under the moon, covered by dark clouds and the glowing red light of a floating mechanical filtration system that looks like a drone, the boy closes his eyes, drifting off in thought. It feels like a second before the blinding light of the sun breaks through. It's a new day.
I stand at the train terminal with a single duffel bag, pink and decorated by my little sister, waiting for the gates to open. Around me, I see the other recruits gathering in rows, their faces thin and hollow from years of breathing filtered, poisoned air. Some kids look like they've already given up. I don't have that luxury. My sister needs me to come back.
Her name is DF447. Twelve years old, small even for her age, but sharper than anyone I know—and cute, too. The day I told her I was leaving, she hid it behind her usual bright smile, but I could feel she wanted to cry. People here learn early—emotions get you nowhere. Before I left, I patted her head and promised I'd definitely come back. In return, she gave me a hand-drawn picture of us together and smiled, saying, "For luck, bro. When you come back, I'll take you to the colonies." I meant it.
The loudspeaker screeches overhead, breaking through the murmurs. "All first-level rat Cyber Academy candidates, proceed to Gate 02. Identification required." I pull up my sleeve, revealing the embedded mark glowing under my skin: DM446—that's my name. A man looks at me with disgust and takes out a scanner. It reads my ID, beeps once, and the gates hiss open. He mutters in a low tone, "Fucking rats," as gray walls close in around us while we walk through a decontamination tunnel. Jets of sterile mist spray across our bodies, washing off surface toxins, though the stench of the Earth never quite leaves.
When the tunnel doors open again, we find ourselves staring at a massive elevator cage. Old tech—reinforced steel, hissing hydraulics, lines of blinking lights running down its skeleton. It looks ancient, but that's the thing about the Academy: it's both a relic and a marvel, built from pieces of the past to defend what's left of the future.
A sweet, feminine voice echoes through hidden speakers, calm yet synthetic. "Welcome, Cyber Academy Recruits of Delta Year 3005."
The cage shudders and begins its descent. It moves at a speed that feels unreal, almost as if there's no gravity. The ground above disappears behind us, light fading to a dim red glow. The deeper we go, the heavier the air feels. When the elevator finally stops, the sight steals my breath.
The Academy isn't just a structure—it's a city beneath a corpse. Endless towers of golden glass and steel spiral inward, glowing with blue lights of energy. Floating drones roam the air, similar to the filtration drones on the surface, and conveyor bridges connect one observation deck to another in dizzying arcs. Yet, despite the technology, there's an unease to it all—the kind that makes you feel watched, even when no one's there.
A man in a black uniform steps forward. His build is something else—he looks like a giant. But that's not what makes him stand out; it's the burns covering his entire face. His badge reads COMMANDER ZACK-13. His eyes have that faint gray tint of cybernetic enhancement. "Welcome to the Cyber Academy," he says, his voice clipped. "Your training mission begins in 720 minutes. Follow the markings on the floor. You will be assessed, and depending on your data, you'll be assigned sectors suitable for you. There will be no second chances down here. Those who fail… will die."
I grip my duffel tighter and follow the others down a corridor lit by white pulse lights embedded in the floor. My assigned sector shows up on the hologram in my wrist: Sector D-99: combat system. The dorm room is gray with double bunks and surveillance cameras in every corner. My roommate is already there when I arrive, lying on his back with headphones on. He looks calm, with messy hair covering his eyes and a candy stick in his mouth.
"Name?" he asks.
I didn't think he knew I was in the room. Maybe he wasn't listening to anything?
"DM445," I say calmly.
Silence fills the air when I say my code.
"I see," he says without elaborating.
The way he says it makes me realize he's not like me; he's a Colony-born boy, privileged with wealth and implants that Earth-borns can only dream of. Out of the silence, he speaks again.
"You don't talk much, huh?"
"Same goes for you," I reply.
"I see." He smiles, but there's no real humor behind it.
*Time passes—720 minutes go by.*
The next day begins with our training mission. Before we're assigned a mission, we go through physical endurance tests, weapons compatibility, and cybernetic uplink synchronization. Thirty recruits drop out—all from the lower colonies. The instructors push us past human limits. I feel like I'm going to die while holding the cybernetic gun. One drill forces us into a full neural link with an AI combat system, simulating fights against the infected. They don't warn you about the pain when your neural sync fails—your brain feels like it's being ripped apart by static.
Every failure is logged. Every movement recorded. Somehow, I keep up. Maybe it's because I've been fighting to survive since the day I could walk.
Commander Zack calls a full assembly after practice. Thousands of recruits stand in formation in the main hall—a vast cavern lit by shimmering holograms projecting the Academy insignia: a broken Earth encircled by two perfect rings.
He steps onto the platform, his gray eyes sweeping over us. "Your training mission will begin; you will be deployed to the surface," he announces. "Your mission: defeat a cybernetic monster and bring back its core. The virus concentrations in that area are among the highest recorded. Survive, and your team will earn an accelerated ranking. Fail, and… well, you know your options."
A murmur spreads through the ranks—"Glass Crater." No one's gone there in centuries.
Zack raises a hand. "Remember: humanity didn't lose the world. We threw it away. But the Cyber Academy will take it back."
A guy approaches me and says, "You're DM446, right?" He smiles softly. "Name's Doman. We're on the same team. Let's go meet the rest."
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods. Maybe it's respect. Maybe pity. Hard to tell.
The time has come for deployment. We're given neural interface injections—tiny chips slipped behind our ear to connect us directly to the Academy's network. I feel it fuse with my nerves, humming like a ghost in my skull. A sterile female voice whispers in my head: *"Unit DM446, synchronization stable. Cognitive response—optimal."*
When the transport platform rises to the surface the next cycle, the sky looks bruised—a purple haze over black earth. The masks we wear hum with filtered air and radiation seals, but even through the visor, I can smell the rot of the world. Crumbling towers, cities turned to glass by warfare, endless silence broken only by the wind. Our team descends into the ruins, scanners active. The location of the old NASA archive appears on our maps, buried beneath layers of debris.
Halfway there, static crackles in our comms. Then the sound—wet, guttural, piercing. Movement.
The infected.