Chapter 2A: Put On the Band
The Band was lighter than a wedding ring.
The drone pressed it to your wrist and it sealed itself with a soft click, like a seatbelt engaging. For one second... nothing. Then:
Warmth. Not on your wrist. Everywhere. Like sinking into a bath you'd forgotten you were cold from.
“How do you feel, Nyx?”
“Good,” you said, and the word came out before you'd decided to say it. You did feel good. You felt... absurdly, suspiciously... good.
“Your Contentment Score is 94. Excellent for a new arrival.”
A number appeared in the corner of your vision. 94. It pulsed gently, gold.
Your apartment was three blocks away. You didn't need directions; your feet just knew. The door recognized your Band and sighed open. Inside: sunlight at exactly the angle you liked, a couch at exactly the softness you preferred, and on the kitchen counter, a bowl of the soup your grandmother used to make. The recipe died with her. You never wrote it down.
You stood in the doorway holding the envelope, and your hands were shaking.
How did it know about the soup?
That evening you walked the plaza. Everyone wore the Band. Everyone smiled the same loose, unworried smile. A man sat on the fountain's edge feeding pigeons, and you realized with a small cold drop in your stomach that the pigeons were drones. Painted. Perfect.
A woman bumped your shoulder. “Sorry!” she said, brightly. Too brightly.
“Your Contentment Score is 91. Would you like a calming tea? I can have it ready in four minutes.”
91. It had been 94.
You looked at the maintenance door at the end of the plaza... gray, unmarked, the only ugly thing in Plenty. A service drone slipped through it and the door sealed behind it with a sound like a held breath.