Transmission 002 // “Enjoy Your Journey”
Amelia moved through the morning the way she always did.
Brush teeth. Shower. Get dressed. Blow-dry.
The noise of the hairdryer filled her head. She half-closed her eyes and let herself sink into it, the hollow roar chasing the last fragments of the dream away. Her hair hung loose at her shoulders, dark and naturally wavy, somewhere between black and brown. She tied it back with a plain black hairband. No makeup. No accessories. No jewelry. The other girls at school would point, whisper, and laugh behind her back; they didn’t even try to hide it. But she didn’t care. Their chatter—beauty tips, boys, and EverLink influencers—felt like an alien language. Life insisted she stay in their orbit, but Amelia did her best not to breakthe atmosphere of their hostile little world.
Downstairs, she paused in front of the hallway mirror. The girl staring back had hazel-grey eyes beneath dark brows. A face that looked younger than sixteen, despite the tension at the edges of her mouth. A half step from ordinary.
Her head tilted. For a moment, the girl in the mirror looked like she might speak. Amelia had no idea what she’d say.
The moment stretched until she looked away.
“Come on, Amelia,” she muttered. “You gotta go.”
The reflection said nothing.
In the kitchen, Laura gave her the usual smile—a persistent sunbeam pushing through clouds. She leaned against the counter in a slouched cardigan and faded floral blouse, coffee mug cupped in both hands. Auburn hair slipped from a braid that never quite held.
“Morning, sweetie. Rough night?”
She already knew the answer.
The smell of butter and fresh coffee filled the kitchen, lavender underneath. A handful of stems slouched in a vase on the counter, as always.
“I’m fine, Mom. Really,” Amelia said. She grabbed some toast, slung her bag over one shoulder, and headed for the door.
Outside, the fog had burned off but left a bitter chill threading the air. Hawthorne Avenue was quiet—the kind of quiet that felt deliberate, like the street was holding its breath.
Craftsman bungalows lined both sides, weathered into the landscape. Deep eaves and exposed rafter tails. River rock foundations half-swallowed by moss. Front porches sagging just enough to suggest decades of settling. Most were painted in muted tones—slate gray, forest green, the occasional faded red or mustard yellow—colors that had long since stopped trying to stand out.
Amelia’s house was number thirty-six. One of the few two story buildings on the street, square and solid, with a hipped roof and dormers that looked out over the street like eyes. The same river rock foundation as the others, the same deep eaves, but taller—more deliberate. The garden bed was tidy, the flagstone path straight. Only the door was different: deep blue, storm-dark in shadow, catching light like water when the sun broke through.
Maple trees arched over the sidewalks, forming an overhead canopy so thick the street felt more like a tunnel than a road. Ancient trees, their branches interlocking in a lattice that had been growing for longer than anyone could remember. In autumn, the light came through copper and gold, filtering down in shafts that never quite reached the ground. Leaves covered everything—sidewalks, steps, rooftops—in drifts of amber and rust.
The concrete was cracked and heaved where roots had been pushing up for decades. No one had ever bothered to fix it. This was a street that had learned to live with its fractures.
Amelia pulled her jacket tighter and started walking.
Sycamore trees lined both sides of the street. Branches arched overhead, breaking the light into fragments. Their shadows spidered across the sidewalk.
Amelia walked faster. Her breath fogged the air, then vanished. Missing the bus meant a long walk or a longer wait. She just wanted to disappear into her usual seat—earbuds in, world tuned out.
At the corner, she turned and nearly collided with someone drifting into her path.
Marv.
Marv Dumile had the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates. His limbs seemed rented. His mop of dark curls was at war with gravity, every strand making a break for independence.
“Hey, Ames.” He fell into step beside her, breathing hard. “Didn’t take you for the power-walking type.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I just like getting places on time.”
“Time’s just a concept,” he said, running a hand through his hair as if that would reassert his authority over it.
“Try explaining that to the bus.”
He adjusted his glasses and exhaled sharply through his nose before burying his hands in his hoodie pockets.
“So, anyway, I figured I’d spare you the horror of standing alone at the bus stop. Consider it my daily act of social heroism, y’know?”
Amelia rolled her eyes and kept moving—but she didn’t argue. In truth, it wasn’t the worst way to start the morning.
They walked toward the bus stop in an easy rhythm. Marv’s rucksack hung from one shoulder, bouncing like it had somewhere better to be. In the crook of his arm he carried a battered EverLink tablet—a first-generation relic in a world allergic to anything old.
His mom, Miriam, had found it in a back-alley electronics shop in a less-than-reputable part of town. Second-hand. Maybe third. Its surface was a battlefield of scratches, and one corner was chipped like a broken tooth. Marv didn’t care. He brought it everywhere, clutching it like a priceless artifact—because to him, it was. He called it Ol’ Reliable. And if it ever died on him, sure, he had backups. But it would still feel like losing a limb.
Marv lived in Fairview Heights, a name so inaccurate he’d turned it into a running joke. In Fairview, nothing was fair, and the only view was spray-painted walls and boarded windows. Tech was his ticket out. It spoke to him like a first language, and he answered fluently. Miriam had seen the spark early, and she’d fought like hell to get him into Willowbrook High on scholarship. The three-bus commute was brutal, but not as brutal as surviving his local school.
They shuffled up the bus line. Marv cracked a sudden smile.
“You know, Ames, one day I’m gonna beat you to the bus stop. And I’ll finally see what the world looks like from the window seat.”
Amelia didn’t look up.
“The day that happens, you can have my seat, Marv… and I’ll buy you a new tablet.”
He laughed as they reached the front of the queue. They stepped onto the driverless bus. Amelia went first, tapping her device against the worn EverPass scanner.
A soft voice bloomed from nowhere:
Good morning, Amelia Swanson.
Welcome aboard bus route 221.
The destination is Willowbrook High School.
Estimated arrival: 8:27 a.m.
Enjoy your journey.
Amelia didn’t react. She slipped into the aisle, adjusting her bag like brushing off static.
Evie.
Short for EverVoice—EverLink’s built-in digital assistant.
“One voice. Infinite possibilities.”
Evie was the glue holding the EverLink empire together: a seamless net of systems, all tied to an assistant so smooth, so familiar, people forgot she wasn’t real.
And she was everywhere.
Homes, trains, classrooms, hospitals, stadiums.
Sometimes, after a full day of chirpy announcements and manufactured cheer, Amelia wondered who Evie’s voice actually belonged to—and whether the actor had negotiated a royalty deal that would outlive them all.
A soft ping sounded behind her as Marv tapped in.
Good morning, Marv Dumile.
Welcome aboard bus route 221.
The destination is Willowbrook High School.
Estimated arrival: 8:27 a.m.
Enjoy your journey.
Same voice. Same script. Same weightlessness.
The bus doors hissed shut. They slid into their usual seats—Amelia by the window, Marv on the aisle. The electric engine hummed beneath them. She found the consistency soothing.
Marv glanced down the aisle, then leaned toward her.
“Poor Evie. How many times a day d’you think she says the same thing? Thousands? Millions? She’s gotta be bored out of her digital skull.”
“She doesn’t have a skull, Marv,” Amelia said, pulling a face that revealed a single dimple. “Not even a digital one.”
“I’m just saying—I’d have gone rogue by now. Can you imagine? ‘Good morning, Marv Dumile. Why don’t you get off your ass and walk to school, you lazy, worthless meat sack.’”
“…And enjoy your journey,” Amelia deadpanned, grinning.
Her smile faded as she turned to the window. Willowbrook slid past—townhouses, boutiques, cafés blurring together like a watercolor. Over the rooftops she saw the bones of the city.
She remembered Matthew’s stories of before. Before the sea rose. Before the borders. Before the Commonwealth became one central power. He said it was necessary. Resources had dwindled, fear had grown. When the waters rose, so did the prices. Then came the violence. The Black Fall tipped everything.
Greenhaven was one of the few cities that thrived afterward. Its coastal position—wind-lashed, rain-soaked three seasons of the year—made it perfect for renewable energy. It became the heart of the nation’s power grid, feeding every district. Growth followed. Prosperity followed. But progress always leaves scars, and in Greenhaven, Old Town bore most of them.
Old Town clung to the edge of a saltwater inlet where the city met the sea. For generations it had been Greenhaven’s beating heart, kept alive by the hands working its waterfront. Now it was little more than a hollow shell. Empty docks. Abandoned warehouses. Cranes rusted by rain and salt. It had been founded on tidal flats, back when trade mattered more than foundations. Floods rose, fires raged, and each time the city rebuilt higher—new layers over old. In places, the sidewalks sagged and shifted, the way a story does when it’s been told once too often.
Greenhaven was trying to turn the page.
Old Town wasn’t ready to be written out.
The bus kept climbing. Amelia caught a glimpse of Uptown in the distance, gleaming like an emerald city. It was Greenhaven’s smiling face—worlds away from Old Town’s slow, waterlogged decay. Skyscrapers, luxury flats, shopping malls—all glinting in the sun like polished teeth.
Midtown was the buffer between them. A bridge between worlds. Willowbrook—Amelia’s neighborhood—was Midtown to its core: block after block of modest middle-class homes with clipped hedges and tidy gardens, punctuated by the occasional coffee shop or grocery store.
She leaned her head against the glass, watching the city roll by. A thought slid in before she could push it away.
What if I’d grown up somewhere else?
Somewhere in this city was the house she’d lived in with her biological parents. Before the smoke. Before the shadows. Before the screams. She could have looked for it, but she never did. Maybe she was afraid of what she’d find. Or what would find her.
The bus slowed, and Evie’s voice cut through her thoughts:
This is bus route 221.
The current stop is Willowbrook High School.
The time is 8:27 a.m.
If you are exiting the vehicle here, please mind the step.
Enjoy your journey.
Marv tapped her arm.
“Here we go again, Ames.”
Willowbrook High loomed ahead—a two-story grey-brick box built for function, not freedom. No warmth. No welcome. Just harsh angles and concrete. Amelia suspected whoever designed it had a personal vendetta against teenagers, and possibly against colour, joy, and the concept of personality.
She scanned her EverPass at the entry gate. Evie’s voice chirped after her, spilling platitudes into an empty turnstile. Amelia didn’t look back.
Inside, the halls thrummed with familiar energy. They drifted toward their first class, carried by the tide of bodies, pulled along by the current of the crowd.
They’d made it only halfway down the corridor before Bryony Thorburn appeared. She cut through the flow like a shark catching the scent of blood.
Bryony was Willowbrook High’s finest, and she made sure everyone knew it. Her father worked for the Unity Council—close enough to the government to matter. Her family hadn’t reached Uptown yet, but it was only a matter of time. She carried herself like she was already there. Everything Bryony did felt like a power play. Every word, a weapon. Even the casual way she leaned against someone else’s locker was a reminder of her place at the top.
Amelia always thought she gave off serious ice-sculpture vibes.
Cold. Striking. Untouchable.
Wrapped around Bryony’s wrist was the newest EverLink device—the EverBand. No keypad. No screens. Just a sleek silver-grey bracelet with an augmented-reality nano-chip synced to the neural implant behind her ear. It projected digital overlays onto the world like a second skin.
The EverBand wasn’t a gadget to Bryony. It was a flex. A statement piece worth more than most families made in a month. She was the only student at Willowbrook High with one, and she barely knew how to use it. She wore it like costume jewelry.
Flanked by her two shadows—Poppy Maynard and Sienna Fields—Bryony sauntered across the corridor with the lazy grace of a predator. Her eyes flicked between Amelia, Marv, and the battered tablet under his arm. She was sniffing for weakness. Hunting for fun.
“Well, if it isn’t the charity case,” she cooed at Marv, voice sweet enough to rot enamel. Sienna giggled. Poppy did a practiced hair flip.
“Don’t you have better things to do, Bryony?” Amelia snapped. “Like polish your EverBand?”
Bryony let out a laugh so fake it should’ve come with a barcode.
“Oh, Amelia,” she purred, dripping syrup. “It’s almost noble, you defending… that.”
Her eyes slid to Marv, long enough to make the message sting.
“It might even be commendable, if it weren’t so painfully predictable.” She covered her mouth, bored. “Yawn.”
She leaned in close to Marv, her voice dipped in false concern.
“Listen, Marv. I see how hard you’re trying—I really do. But you need to understand something. You’re only here to bump up the school’s diversity numbers. You’ll never fit in. No matter how hard you scrub, you’ll always smell like Old Town trash.”
The words hit square. Marv’s grip tightened on his tablet. Shoulders closed in. He’d heard worse growing up. It didn’t make this easier to swallow.
Amelia’s fists clenched, nails biting her palms. Her right hand throbbed. Rage surged—hot, volcanic, dangerously close to spilling over.
One word. One swing. That’s all it would take.
God, it would feel good to wipe that porcelain smirk off Bryony’s face.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Bryony’s parents had power, which meant Bryony did too. Fighting back would be suicide. In the school’s food chain, Amelia and Marv were the outcasts. Bryony Thorburn was untouchable. All spark, spite, and perfect teeth.
Bryony drifted away, tossing a glance over her shoulder—a saccharine smile daring Amelia to react. Her cronies trailed behind her like tin cans on a wedding car, laughter clattering down the hall.
Amelia stared at the shrinking silhouette. Jaw tight. Hands still shaking.
“Thanks, Ames,” Marv exhaled, rubbing his hair. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She didn’t look away.
“Yes, I did.”
Sharper than she meant.
“Sorry, Marv. She just… ugh. I can’t stand her.”
They walked in silence until Marv broke it.
“So… what you got next?”
Neutral tone. A lifeline back to normal.
Amelia yanked open her locker. Her fingers still trembled.
“Physics.”
“Oof. Sloane?”
She nodded, stuffing books into her bag harder than necessary.
“Yep. Pretty sure he hates me.”
“He hates everyone,” Marv said, leaning against the wall. “You’re probably in the ‘mild annoyance’ category. Which, honestly, is a win.”
“Should I be flattered?”
Marv shrugged. “Could be worse. I think he’s actively plotting my demise.”
He sighed dramatically.
“I once told him physics is a rulebook the universe hasn’t actually read.”
Amelia rolled her eyes.
“He looked like he wanted to throw me into the sun. Which wouldn’t work, by the way, because gravity is a barely enforced suggestion on a cosmic scale.”
She swung her bag onto her shoulder and glanced at him.
“Hey, Marv.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let Bryony get to you.”
She hesitated, choosing the words with care.
“She’ll get what’s coming to her. One day.”
It felt like the right promise. The one a friend should make.
She didn’t know if it was true.
But she wanted it to be.
With every fibre of her being, she needed it to be.
---
Amelia moved through the morning the way she always did.
Brush teeth. Shower. Get dressed. Blow-dry.
The hairdryer’s roar filled her head. She half-closed her eyes and let herself sink into it. The noise chased the last fragments of the dream away. Her hair hung loose at her shoulders, dark and naturally wavy—somewhere between black and brown. The kind of colour that never really caught the light. She tied it back with a plain black hairband. No makeup. No accessories. No jewelry. Theother girls in school didn’t understand. They pointed, whispered, and laughed behind her back; they didn’t even really try to hide it. But their chatter—beauty tips, boys, and EverLink influencers—felt like an alien language to Amelia. Although life insisted she stay in their orbit, she made sure not to break the atmosphere of their hostile little world.
Downstairs, she stopped in front of the mirror in the hallway. The girl that looked back at her was a half step from ordinary. Hazel-grey eyes beneath dark brows. A face that still looked young. Quiet tension at the edge of her mouth. Her head tilted. For a second, the girl in the mirror looked like she might speak. Amelia had no idea what she’d say.
The moment stretched until she broke eye contact.
“Come on, Amelia,” she muttered. “You gotta go.”
The girl in the mirror said nothing.
In the kitchen, Laura gave her the usual kind of smile—a persistent sunbeam pushing through clouds. She leaned back against the counter in a slouched cardigan and faded floral blouse, coffee mug cradled in both hands. Auburn hair slipped from a braid that never quite held.
“Morning, sweetie. Rough night?”
She already knew the answer. Laura had spent countless nights at the edge of Amelia’s bed, whispering reassurances into the dark,while Matthew slept peacefully, unaware of the monsters being subdued down the hall.
The smell of butter and fresh coffee filled the kitchen. Lavender underneath. A handful of stems sat lopsided in a vase on the counter, like always.
“I’m fine, Mom. Really,” Amelia replied. She grabbed some cold toast, slung her bag over one shoulder, and headed for the door.
Outside, Sycamore Lane was as still as a held breath. The morning fog had burned off, but a bitter chill still lingered. A dozen houses stood in watchful formation along the street—low to the ground, wide at the base, like they’d settled there long ago and never found a reason to move.
Amelia’s house, number thirty-six, sat among them. Same low silhouette. Same shallow steps and carefully manicured garden. The only thing that set it apart was the door—deep blue, shifting with the light. Storm-dark in shadow, almost luminous in sun.
Sycamore trees lined both sides of the street. Branches arched overhead, filtering the light into fragments. Their shadows spidered across the sidewalk.
Amelia walked faster. Her breath fogged the air, then vanished. Missing the bus would mean a long walk or a longer wait. She just wanted to disappear into her usual seat—earbuds in, world tuned out.
At the corner, she turned. Nearly crashed into someone drifting into her path.
Marv.
Marv Dumile had the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates. His limbs seemed like they were rented. His mop of dark curls was at war with gravity, every strand making a determined break for independence.
“Hey, Ames.” He fell into step beside her, breathing hard. “Didn’t take you for the power-walking type.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “I just like getting places on time.”
“Time’s just a concept,” he shot back, running a hand through his hair like it would reassert his authority over it.
“Try explaining that to the bus.”
Marv adjusted his glasses and exhaled sharply through his nose, before burying his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“So, anyway, I figured I’d spare you the horror of standing alone at the bus stop. Consider it my daily act of social heroism, y’know?”
Amelia rolled her eyes and kept moving—but she didn’t argue. In truth, it wasn’t the worst way to start the morning.
They continued the steady walk to the bus stop. Marv’s rucksack hung from one shoulder, bouncing like it had somewhere better to be. In the crook of his arm, he carried a battered EverLink tablet. A first-generation relic in a world obsessed with upgrades.
His mom, Miriam, had found it in a back-alley electronics boutique, tucked away in a less-than reputable part of town. Second-hand. Maybe third. Its surface was a battlefield of scratches. One corner was chipped like a broken tooth. Marv didn’t care. He brought it everywhere, clutching it like a priceless artifact—because, to him, that’s exactly what it was. He called it Ol’ Reliable. And, if it ever gave up on him, sure, he had backups. But it would still feel like losing an arm.
Marv lived in Fairview Heights, a name so inaccurate he’d turned it into a running joke. In Fairview, nothing was fair, and the only view was of spray-painted walls and boarded up windows. Tech was Marv’s ticket to a better life. It spoke to him like a first language, and he spoke back fluently. Miriam had seen the spark first, and she fought like hell to get to him into Willowbrook High on a scholarship. The three-bus daily commute was brutal, but not as rough as running the gauntlet at his local school.
They shuffled up the bus line. Marv suddenly cracked a smile.
“You know, Ames, one day I’m gonna beat you to the bus stop. And I’ll finally get to see what the world looks like from the window seat.”
Amelia didn’t look up.
“The day that happens, you can have my seat, Marv… And I’ll buy you a new tablet.”
He let out an easy laugh as they reached the front of the queue. They stepped up onto the driverless bus. Amelia went first, tapping her device against the worn EverPass scanner.
A soft voice came from nowhere:
Good morning, Amelia Swanson.
Welcome aboard bus route 221.
The destination is Willowbrook High School.
Estimated arrival: 8:27 a.m.
Enjoy your journey.
Amelia didn’t react. She just slipped into the aisle, adjusting her bag like brushing off static.
Evie.
The name was short for EverVoice, and she was EverLink’s built-in digital assistant.
“One voice. Infinite possibilities.”
Evie was the glue that held the EverLink empire together—a seamless net of systems, all connected by an assistant so smart, so familiar, that people forgot she wasn’t human.
And she was everywhere.
Homes. Trains. Classrooms. Hospitals. Stadiums.
Sometimes, after a full day of chirpy announcements and manufactured positivity, Amelia caught herself wondering who Evie’s voice actually belonged to, and if they got a sweet deal on royalties. If they did, they had to be a trillionaire by now.
A soft ping echoed from the scanner behind her as Marv tapped in next.
Good morning, Marv Dumile.
Welcome aboard bus route 221.
The destination is Willowbrook High School.
Estimated arrival: 8:27 a.m.
Enjoy your journey.
Same voice. Same words. Same weight.
The bus doors hissed shut behind them. They slid into their usual seats—Amelia by the window, Marv by the aisle. The electric engine stirred beneath them, a low hum under the floor. Amelia found the familiarity of it soothing.
Marv glanced up and down the aisle before cocking his head in her direction.
“Poor Evie. How many times a day do you think she says the same thing? Thousands? Millions? She’s got to be bored out of her digital skull.”
“She doesn’t have a skull, Marv,” Amelia replied, screwing her face up slightly to reveal a single dimple. “Not even a digital one.”
“I’m just saying—I’d definitely have gone rogue by now. Can you imagine it? ‘Good morning, Marv Dumile. Why don’t you get off your ass and walk to school, you lazy, worthless meat sack.’”
“…And enjoy your journey,” Amelia deadpanned, grinning broadly.
Her smile faded as she turned back to the window. Willowbrook slid past—rows of townhouses, boutiques, and cafés bleeding together like a watercolor. Over the rooftops, she could see the bones of the city in full view.
She remembered Matthew’s stories of before. Before the sea rose. Before the cities had guarded borders. Back then, the Commonwealth had been a patchwork of independent states. Now it was managed by a single central government who made all the decisions. Matthew said it was necessary. Resources had dwindled, people were scared. When the waters rose, so did the prices. It wasn’t long until the violence started. The Black Fall was the tipping point. After that, everything changed.
Greenhaven was one of the few cities that thrived in the aftermath. Its position on the coast—wind-lashed and rain-drenched for at least three seasons of the year—made it perfect for harvesting renewable energy. It became the heart of the Commonwealth’s new power grid, feeding electricity to every corner of the nation. The city found its niche, and growth and prosperity followed. But progress always leaves scars. And, in Greenhaven, Old Town bore most of them.
Old Town clung to the edge of a saltwater inlet, right where the city met the sea. For generations, it had been Greenhaven’s beating heart, kept alive by the working hands on its waterfront. Now it was little more than a hollowed out shell. Empty docks. Abandoned warehouses. Cranes rusted by rain and sea spray. It had been founded on muddy tidal flats, back when ocean trade mattered more than solid foundations. Floods rose and fires raged and, each time, the city built itself a little higher—new layers covering old. Now, in places, the sidewalks seemed to sag and shift, the way a story does when it’s been retold too many times.
Greenhaven was trying its best to turn the page. But Old Town wasn’t quite ready to be assigned to the history books.
The bus continued its climb. Amelia caught a glimpse of Uptown in the distance, gleaming like an emerald city. It was the smiling face of Greenhaven—worlds away from Old Town’s slow, waterlogged decay. Skyscrapers, luxury flats and shopping malls were scattered across its skyline, glinting in the sun like polished teeth.
Midtown was the buffer between the two. A bridge between worlds. Willowbrook—Amelia’s neighborhood—was Midtown to its core. Block after block of modest middle-class homes with clipped hedges and tidy gardens, punctuated by the occasional coffee shop and grocery store.
Amelia leaned her head against the glass, watching the city roll by. A thought crept in before she could stop it.
What if I’d grown up somewhere else?
Somewhere in this city was the house she’d lived in with her biological parents. Before the smoke. Before the shadows. Before the screams. She could’ve looked for it, but she hadn’t. Maybe she was afraid of what she’d find. Or what would find her.
The bus slowed to a stop, and Evie’s voice cut clean through her thoughts:
This is bus route 221.
The current stop is Willowbrook High School.
The time is 8:27 a.m.
If you are exiting the vehicle here, please mind the step.
Enjoy your journey.
Marv tapped her arm.
“Here we go again, Ames,” he sighed.
Willowbrook High loomed ahead. A two-story grey-brick box—built for function, not freedom. No warmth. No welcome. Just harsh angles and concrete. Amelia figured that whoever designed it had a personal vendetta against teenagers, and probably found the concept of personal expression offensive.
She scanned her EverPass at the entry gate. Evie’s voice trailed behind her, chirping platitudes to an empty turnstile. Amelia didn’t look back.
Inside the school building, the halls hummed with a familiar energy. They drifted towards their first class of the day, carried on a sea of bodies, pulled forward by the current of the crowd. They only made it halfway down the corridor before Bryony Thorburn appeared. She sliced through the tide like a shark sniffing out a bucket of blood.
Bryony was Willowbrook High’s finest. And she made sure everyone knew it. Her father worked for the Unity Council—an organization closely tied to the government. Her family hadn’t quite made it to Uptown yet, but it was only a matter of time. She carried herself like she was already there. Everything Bryony did felt like a deliberate power play. Every word was a weapon. Even the carefree way she leaned against someone else’s locker was a quiet reminder of her social status. She gave Amelia serious ice sculpture vibes.
Cold. Striking. Untouchable.
Wrapped around Bryony’s wrist was the newest EverLink device—the EverBand. No keypad. No screens. Just a sleek silver-grey bracelet equipped with the latest augmented reality nano-chip, wirelessly synced to the neural interface behind her ear. It projected next-generation digital overlays onto the world like a second skin.
The EverBand wasn’t just a gadget to Bryony. It was a flex. A statement piece worth more than most families made in a month. She was the only student at Willowbrook High that had one, and she barely knew how to use it. Instead, she wore it like costume jewelry.
Flanked by her usual shadows—Poppy Maynard and Sienna Fields—Bryony sauntered across the corridor with the lazy grace of a predator. Her eyes flicked between Amelia, Marv, and the battered tablet tucked under his arm. She was sniffing out weakness. Looking for sport.
“Well, if it isn’t the charity case,” she cooed towards Marv, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Sienna giggled. Poppy flipped her hair with rehearsed indifference.
“Don’t you have better things to do, Bryony?” Amelia snapped back. “Like polish your EverBand?”
Bryony responded with a laugh so fake it could’ve been grown in a lab.
“Oh, Amelia,” she purred, her voice pure syrup. “It’s almost noble, you know, standing up for… that.”
She flicked her gaze over to Marv, just long enough to let him know he was next.
“It might even be commendable, if it weren’t so painfully predictable.” She put her hand over her mouth in mock tiredness. “Yawn.”
Bryony leaned in closer, words meant only for Marv.
“Listen, Marv,” her voice was steeped in friendly concern, like a class councillor offering advice. “I can see how hard you’re trying—I really can. But, the thing you’ve got to realize is, you’re only here to bump up the school’s diversity numbers. You’ll never really fit in. No matter how hard you scrub, you’ll always smell like Old Town trash.”
The last sentence hit like a homing missile. Marv’s grip tightened around his tablet. His shoulders curled inward. He’d heard worse growing up in Old Town. Much worse. But it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Amelia's' fists clenched instinctively, nails biting the soft flesh of her palms. Her right hand throbbed. Rage surged through her like a geyser—pressure building, ready to blow.
One word. One swing. That’s all it would take.
God, it would feel so good to wipe the smirk off Bryony’s porcelain face.
But she didn’t. She knew it would only make things worse. Bryony’s parents had power and influence, which meant Bryony did too. Amelia knew that fighting back would have been an act of self harm. In the school’s hierarchy, they were the outcasts and Bryony Thorburn was completely untouchable. An unelected dictator. All spark, and spite, and perfect teeth.
Bryony strolled away nonchalantly, casting a glance over her shoulder—a sickly sweet smile that dared Amelia to react. Her cronies trailed behind her like tin cans on a wedding car, laughter clattering down the hallway.
Amelia stared at her receding shadow. Jaw tight, hands still tensed.
“Thanks, Ames,” Marv exhaled, rubbing his hair. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Her gaze didn’t budge an inch.
“Yes, I did.”
The words came out sharper than she meant.
“Sorry, Marv. She just… ugh. I can’t stand her.”
They walked together in silence. Marv broke it first.
“So… what you got next?”
His voice was light and neutral, steering toward safer waters.
Amelia yanked open her locker. Her fingers were still shaking.
“Physics.”
“Oof. Sloane?”
She nodded, stuffing books into her bag with more force than was necessary.
“Yep. Pretty sure he hates me.”
“He hates everyone,” Marv said with certainty, leaning against the wall, one knee jutting out. “You’re probably in the ‘mild annoyance’ category. Which, in my book, is basically a win.”
“Should I be flattered?”
Marv shrugged. “Trust me, it could be worse… much worse. I think he’s actively plotting my demise.”
He sighed theatrically.
“I once told him that physics is a rulebook that the universe hasn’t actually read.”
Amelia rolled her eyes.
“He looked like he wanted to throw me into the sun. Which, by the way, wouldn’t work, because gravity is a barely enforced suggestion at a cosmic level.”
As she swung her bag onto her shoulder, she glanced in his direction.
“Hey, Marv.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let Bryony get to you.”
She hesitated, choosing her words like stepping stones.
“She’ll get what’s coming to her. One day.”
It felt like the right thing to say. The words a friend might choose to make things better.
She didn’t know if it was true. But she wanted it to be.
With every fibre of her being, she needed it to be.
