The ancient, mechanical roar that shook the concrete floors of the shelters was the sound of Vivaricus's most terrifying law.
Silence. In this system, noise is an error code. The groan of a human writhing in pain, the wail of a starving infant, or the innocent whimper of a motherless pup... in the sterile world of the Masters, these are nothing more than "parasites."
Their sensitive ears and high-definition lives cannot endure the sound of our misery. Thus, the System intervenes with surgical precision. Sensors measure the decibels, coordinates are fixed, and within seconds, the earth opens like a giant's maw to swallow the "noise pollution." Being buried alive is the noise control policy of Vivaricus.
When the pup's shrill cry tore through the air, the lethal sinkhole began to whirl right at our feet like a hungry vortex. I felt the silent screams of Joseph and Adalin shouting, "Dorian, stop!" and their hands tugging at my arms, but I did not stop.
I threw myself onto that shivering pile of bones, onto that poor, skin-and-bone creature. I lunged at it not to save it, but as if to strangle it.
Do you know the weight of silencing a living thing with your own hands? Beneath my palms, I could feel that tiny heart beating—the last flicker of life between its ribs. As I cut off the dog's breath with my weight, the pure terror in its eyes was reflected through my lenses onto the Masters' screens.
"Shhh..." I whispered, as sweat and radioactive dust stung my eyes. "Don't breathe. If they hear you, they'll bury us both at the bottom of this pit."
The System's drones, buzzing above us, scanned for the "problem" with their thermal cameras. Movement had ceased. The sound was cut. When the dog went limp in my hands, the sinkhole halted with one final rasp. The earth closed with disappointment, like a beast that hadn't had its fill.
I slowly stood up. My chest was heaving. "Shhh, be quiet little friend," I said, stroking its head. I reached for that sacred and wretched treasure in my pocket: a synthetic piece of dried meat, tasting of plastic, saved from my daily rations.
This wasn't real meat. In our world, cows, bears, and those majestic creatures were sacred property raised only for the Masters' palates.
The scent of real meat was known only by the elites living in the luxury of the old world on those secret islands, and by those in the vampires' "pet human" collections. We, however, were condemned to these chemical wastes produced in labs—scraps that never fed the soul.
I shoved the coin-sized piece into the dog's mouth. While it ate, I retreated into the shadows at the corner of the shack.
Radiation had rotted not only our bodies but our souls as well. We had become savage enough to save a dog by choking it, and debased enough to be grateful for a morsel of fake meat. But at that moment, the wet tongue of the dog licking my fingers reminded me of something.
The Masters could control everything—the sinkholes, the lenses, even the rivers... But beneath these ruins, there was still something that did not fit into their algorithms.Sharing. Sharing pain, sharing death, and perhaps one day, sharing that great rebellion that would finally break this silence. If you feel pain, you are alive; if you feel their pain, you are still human.
When Adalin came to my side and took my hand, I felt the embossed script on her fingertips.
"The time is coming."
We moved in unison to avoid being mugged. I was preparing to head down to the showers. Even the things I carried—a pair of torn underwear, an old jacket left by my father, patched trousers sewn by my mother—were items worth stealing in this world.
As I walked through the damp, metallic-smelling corridor beneath the shelters, my footsteps synchronized with the rhythm of the rusty pipes. As I drew closer to those concrete cells they called "common showers," I felt the lenses at my temples heating up.
This was the physical sign that more viewers were joining the broadcast. In Vivaricus, privacy was a concept that had died long before the nuclear war. Now, every second, every bodily function, every naked moment of ours was served as an appetizer on the Masters' screens.
The situation for young women was even more tragic; they were treated as "investment" objects. Their families would raise them carefully on synthetic soups, hoping to catch the attention of a Vampire Lady or Lord to be accepted into the palace as a "pet" or a "blood bank."
As for us men... we were the lowest stratum of this system—nameless cadavers elided by infection and brute force, clutching at each other's throats before seeing thirty.
Through the broken tiles of the inner cabins, I heard the whispers of my friends.
"The harvest is approaching," Ulysses said, his voice as natural as a pipe creak. He couldn't say 'rebellion.' "The roots beneath the earth no longer fit in this pot. If they don't give us water, the concrete will crack."
"If the concrete doesn't crack, the seeds will suffocate," Adalin added, turning on the rusty shower water. "Everything that does not see the sun is doomed to rot, but rot is also a form of change. The soil renews itself."
Accompanied by their coded, nature-themed whispers of revolution, I entered my cabin. System messages began to pop up one by one before my lenses.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: SHOWER ACTIVATION GRANTED.]
[VAMPIRE LADY 'X' IS UPGRADING YOUR AMENITIES: RADIOACTIVE WATER HAS BEEN CONVERTED TO DRINKABLE FILTERED WATER.]
An offer flashed before my eyes, tightening around my heart like a vice:
"OFFER: Snort water through your nose while kneeling in exchange for a second-hand bathrobe. ACCEPT / IGNORE"
I ignored it. I clenched my fists. My honor was the last sanctuary I held onto in this wretched world. I closed my eyes.
Like a blind man, I washed myself by touch alone. As I slid my hands over my shoulders, hips, and along my ribs, I memorized the map of my own body. As long as I didn't look at myself, those thousands of vampires watching me saw only a silhouette. But the System fed on my humiliation.
"OFFER: Open your eyes and look at yourself with your legs spread. In exchange, a bowl of fresh meat broth (Non-synthetic). CONFIRM / IGNORE"
I ground my teeth so hard my jaw ached. The water flowing from the tap was that greenish, filtered radiation residue, carrying the scent of dead fish. I took that fifty-year-old scrap of soap from my father—a sacred relic now thin as paper—and rubbed it into my wet palms without letting it touch the stream. I couldn't let it melt away. That soap was the only clean thing left from the old world.
As the mud seeping from under the cabin passed between my toes, the image in my lenses suddenly froze. The screen turned blood red.
"WARNING: A USER HAS REQUESTED ACCESS TO ALL YOUR BROADCAST RIGHTS!"
"WARNING: A USER HAS MARKED YOUR PUBLIC SUBSCRIPTION AS PRIVATE-ONLY!"
My breath caught. The mocking whispers of thousands of viewers were suddenly cut short. A profound silence fell. And then, that final message was stamped onto my soul like a seal.
"NOTIFICATION: YOU HAVE BEEN RENTED BY A USER FOR A PERIOD OF 70 HUMAN LIFE YEARS. OWNERSHIP TRANSFERRED."
My knees trembled. I was no longer the common property of the system. I was someone's private property, a private toy.
I didn't know who they were, but seventy years... that meant the sale of my entire life, perhaps even the children I had never seen.