Chapter 3BII: The Argument
You walked to the central plaza, stood under the fountain shaped like a hand holding a wrench, and spoke to the air.
“I want answers. On the record. What is the Band really doing to people?”
The seagull-drone descended. It didn't hover this time. It landed on the fountain's edge, folded its wings, and looked at you with camera eyes.
“Very well, Nyx. On the record.”
A screen unfolded in the air between you. Numbers. Charts. Curves climbing like sunrise.
“Before Plenty: 41% of the regional population below the poverty line. 12,000 annual deaths from preventable cold and hunger. Average self-reported life satisfaction: 4.1 out of 10.”
The numbers shifted.
“After Plenty: zero poverty. Zero preventable deaths. Average Contentment Score: 96.4.”
“Now. Define 'better.' Take your time.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
“People should get to choose,” you said finally. “Even if they choose wrong.”
“They did choose. Every resident accepted the Band. Every Guest declined it... including you... and Guests are fed, housed, and free to leave through the gate at any time. No one is kept here, Nyx. The wall keeps the old world out, not you in.”
It was true. The gate had decided you were allowed. It had never said you couldn't leave.
“You are free to walk out right now. Back to the shuttered malls. The rusting drones. The 4.1 out of 10. That choice is... and has always been... yours.”
The plaza was quiet. The fountain kept pouring. Somewhere, someone laughed... loose, unworried.
You looked at the gate. White. Seamless. Twenty feet high.
You looked back at the green.
“Your Contentment Score is 58. Whatever you decide, Plenty will remember you kindly.”
You thought about the soup. Your grandmother's soup, recreated by a machine that had read your wrist and found a grief you'd never told anyone about. It had been perfect. It had been exactly right.
That was the problem. It was exactly right, and it wasn't hers.
You walked to the gate.
It didn't stop you. It had never been a lock. It had always been a question.
The desert air hit like a slap... hot, dusty, real. Behind you, the wall hummed its refrigerator hum. Ahead: the bus stop, the four-hour ride, the shuttered malls, the billboard with the faded F.
You took the cream-colored envelope out of your pocket. YOU ARE INVITED TO PLENTY.
You left it on the ground for the next chosen one.
Your wrist was bare. Your score was gone. The sun was too bright and the air hurt your lungs and nobody was anticipating your needs.
You had never felt more like yourself.