Red Alert

The auditorium buzzed with synthetic optimism—curated lighting and the faint whiff of "Ambition No. 5"—Herizon’s signature fragrance, made to evoke confidence and productivity. The walls were plastered with the company’s latest slogans: 

MANIFEST SUCCESS. MAXIMISE IMPACT. 

EMPOWERED WOMEN EMPOWER THE FUTURE.

Lia shifted in her seat as Celeste Vale, Chief Visionary Officer, walked onto the stage. "Ladies, leaders, luminaries," Celeste beamed. "It’s been forty years since we were told to LEAN IN. Today, we don’t just sit at the table—we OWN the table. We MONETISE the table!"

Lia shared a look with Mira as a huge applause swept through the room. What next—sell shares in the table? Worship the table?

Celeste launched into the ShEO of the Month segment, but Lia was already zoning out.

Mira nudged her. "SheEO. That’s new."

Lia smirked. "Guess Employee of the Month wasn’t empowering enough."

They both kept straight faces, clapping at the right moments. They knew better than to get caught looking anything less than incredibly inspired.

"Drinks after?" Mira murmured.

"God, yes."

The rooftop bar overlooked Ascendra. In the distance, Zenith loomed, home to the world’s biggest companies. Zenith’s skyscrapers dominated the skyline. The Glowspire, home to Herizon’s headquarters, stood like a glittering ornament.

"What do they even do all day up there?" Lia asked, swirling the last of her Boss Babe Bellini.

Mira grinned. “Reaching the Pinnacle of Human Potential,” she said, mimicking the glowing sign spinning around the spire.

They both laughed.

“But seriously,” Lia pressed, “what else is there? How much more ‘developed’ can we get?”

Mira shrugged. “Apparently so much more, if you just optimise enough.”

Her wrist display buzzed: REMINDER—TESSA'S BIRTHDAY.

"Shit. I need a gift." She sat up. "I was gonna check out this old shop in Strive."

Mira’s expression tensed. "You’re going there?"

"It’s not a war zone."

"No, but… you know."

Lia rolled her eyes. "Just a shop, Mira. Not the apocalypse."

Mira hesitated, but let it go. "Fine. Just don’t breathe too deep."

Lia stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I’ll text you when I’m back."

Mira called after her, half-kidding, half-serious—

"If you haven’t been kidnapped by anti-brand extremists or whatever."

Lia stepped off the train and immediately noticed the difference.

The air felt heavier, lacking the crisp artificial freshness of Ascendra. No personalised ads, no AI-generated affirmations. Just old static signs, some barely lit.

She walked quickly. Strive wasn’t dangerous. Just... stagnant.

Lia pulled out her wrist display, following the map. She wasn’t here to analyse the atmosphere. Just in and out. A gift for Tessa.

The streets felt bare without towering holograms and endless slogans. The buildings weren’t reflective glass but real, rough, actual brick.

She pushed on, keeping her eyes on the shop location blinking on her interface.

Lia stepped into the shop, the air filled with a strange, unfamiliar mix—dust, aged wood, and a hint of spice. 

She wandered through the cluttered aisles. Nothing here was curated. No AI had optimised the display for maximum appeal. It was chaotic—old, unpolished, real. 

She picked up a trinket box with chipped lacquer and delicate filigree winding along its surface. Tessa would love it. But as she turned toward the counter, something else caught her eye. 

A red rose hairpin. 

She stopped in her tracks. 

The rose was a deep and rich red—a bold contrast against the dull metal setting. A shade she hadn’t seen in years. Not in shops. Not in ads. Not anywhere. 

Lia hesitated. It wasn’t in her brand colours—light cyan and tropical indigo. Red was bold. Loud. 

She handed over her credits before she could change her mind. 

Brushing the right side of her hair from her face, she pinned it into place and glanced at her reflection. It made her hazel-green eyes sparkle. 

Just an accessory, she told herself. Just a colour. But it felt like so much more.

Lia stepped out of the shop, the cool metal of the hairpin pressing against her scalp. 

She walked for a bit, adjusting to Strive’s rhythm. Music drifted from an open doorway—unpolished, layered, alive.

A café spilled warmth onto the street. No branding. No smart menus. Just people. Lia hesitated. She glanced around, checking for familiar faces. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped inside.

The air buzzed—not with urgency, but something slower, weightier. Conversations filled the space, fluid and unhurried. No one was live-posting or checking their engagement. No one spoke in polished slogans.

She took a seat at the bar, telling herself she was just watching, observing. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass.

"Love the hairpin," a voice said.

Lia turned. A woman grinned, nodding toward the empty seat at their table.

At first, she mostly listened. The conversations shifted between topics she half-understood—old books, history, cities that didn’t exist anymore. It was fascinating stuff.

But it was the way they spoke that unsettled her. Without caution. Without self-editing.

She told herself she was just people-watching. But the longer she sat there, the more she felt it—a quiet relief, a weight she hadn’t realised she was carrying.

She wasn’t part of this world.

Not yet.

But curiosity tugged at her, bringing her back.

The first time, she mostly listened. The second time, she asked questions.

By the third, she was talking.

The third time Lia found herself in Strive, she didn’t even bother making excuses.

She wanted to be there. 

This time, she leaned in more, fully comfortable in their presence. Then, someone mentioned elites. And fascism.

Lia frowned. Surely they weren’t talking about today?

The word felt outdated, tied to grainy black-and-white footage of dictators and crumbling empires. Fascism wasn’t gleaming towers and wellness incentives. It wasn’t women-led companies and leadership summits.

“You think we live under fascism?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “I mean… things aren’t perfect, but isn’t this the most free we’ve ever been?”

They exchanged glances.

“In some ways, sure.”

Lia exhaled. “Exactly. It’s not like they ban books—”

“They don’t have to,” someone cut in. “They just don’t print them.”

Lia opened her mouth, then shut it. 

She had never noticed books disappearing.

But when was the last time she’d read something that wasn’t algorithm-approved, pre-curated, focus-group-tested?

The conversation moved on, but Lia barely heard it.

Something unsettled her.

Not the realisation itself— but the fact that she hadn’t even thought to question it before.

A few days later, Lia hesitated before heading to work.

The red hairpin still sat in her palm.

She’d worn it in Strive without a second thought. But here, in Ascendra, it felt… deafening.

She clipped it in anyway. Why on earth was she so afraid of a small accessory?

At first, no one said anything. But the sidelong glances were there.

“Bold choice,” someone finally remarked, their smile a touch too tight.

Lia brushed it off. People were funny about change.

Then Mira cornered her by the coffee station. “Are you trying to get sacked?”

Lia scoffed. “It’s a hairpin.”

Mira gave her a look. “Yeah? And how’ve your metrics been lately?”

Lia said nothing.

Later that afternoon, she was summoned to the office.

“We care very much about freedom, as you know,” her boss said, smiling in that unsettlingly smooth way. “And fairness.”

Lia nodded, waiting for the point.

“You’re free to be whoever you want to be,” her boss continued.

“We just want to ensure you’re in sync with the company vision. We’re a family, after all.”

The unspoken message was crystal clear.

Lia unclipped the pin and slipped it into her pocket. “Of course.”

That evening, as she walked home, she clipped the pin back in.

Except living the brand didn’t stop at 5 p.m.

At home, she checked her metrics. Her engagement had nosedived.

At first, she thought she was imagining it. A glitch, perhaps.

But no.

A few days passed, and nothing changed. Her posts barely registered a blip.

Then, she noticed something.

Several of her connections had vanished.

Not inactive. Gone.

Her chest constricted.

To distract herself, she reached for one of the zines from Strive.

The pages felt substantial, weighty. Real.

The text spoke of a world she scarcely understood. A world where every human need had been commodified and weaponised to amass as much wealth as possible for a select few.

She traced her finger along the page, reading about elections. People once saw voting as the ultimate freedom, but the book described elections as mere theatrics manipulated by big businesses. These businesses eventually merged into conglomerates like Unity Shield (military), CiviSight (security), and Veritas (media), all in Zenith.

Yet, people believed they were freer than ever.

Lia glanced at the index….war, climate change, collapse of nations…and pushed it aside.

She knew that if she delved deeper, she’d only uncover more reasons to question the world she inhabited, and she wasn’t prepared for that yet.

Lia had always known the corporate jargon was rehearsed, but now, it felt hollow.

She sat in a meeting about "Feedback-loop Living", Herizon's newest initiative.

"By integrating real-time analytics into personal relationships," her manager droned, "we can ensure maximum return on investment—friendships, networking, and romantic connections can be data-driven for efficiency."

"This is what every customer has dreamed of," her manager said, smiling.

Lia hesitated. Then, before she could stop herself—

"Is it though?"

The room fell silent. Mira stared at her, wide-eyed, as if to say, "Are you mad?"

Lia felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

"I mean... how can customers know what they want," she continued carefully, "if they don't know other options exist?"

The silence stretched on, thick as treacle.

Her manager's expression didn't shift, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes.

"Questions are encouraged here. But we trust the data."

The meeting continued as if nothing had happened.

But a few hours later, an update landed in her inbox.

She was off the Noventra Project.

No explanation. Just reassignment.

She stared at the message, her stomach churning.

Her gaze flickered to the office walls, adorned with motivational posters.

BE BOLD. BE BRAVE. DISRUPT. INNOVATE.

She exhaled sharply, turning back to her screen.

Her messages had stopped coming in.

A handful of unread notifications sat untouched.

People were keeping their distance.

So this was how it worked.

Conversations from her Strive visits echoed in her mind.

They can just nudge people into silence.

Lower their engagement. Make them disappear.

Over the next few days, her stats were at an all-time low, despite having taken the hairpin out and not asking any more perfectly reasonable and innocent questions.

Lia pulled up her interface, scanning the highest-ranking posts.

Every single one of them had something in common. Brand loyalty. Relentless positivity. Total compliance.

The most meaningless affirmations were rewarded.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples.

It wasn't just about engagement.

It was about control.

Who was seen. Who was erased.

Lia sat at the table, her fingers trailing absently along the rim of her glass. The conversations swirled around her, the vibrant and unfiltered talk typical of Strive, but tonight there was a tightness in the air.

People leaned in closer to speak. Voices dipped just a tad lower. A few glanced toward the entrance when the door swung open, as if checking for someone who didn’t belong.

She hadn’t noticed it before. But now, it was like an undercurrent humming beneath all the streets of Strive.

Something was shifting.

She just didn’t know what.

Trying to shake it off, she blurted, "So if the corporations don’t care about people, why did they engineer clean air and water?"

A flicker of surprise passed over a few faces. 

"Where d'you reckon has clean air?" one of them asked.

Lia hesitated. "Well… Ascendra does."

"And?"

She frowned. "Prospera, Amplia…."

"Exactly."

Lia blinked.

They let her sit with it.

Then someone said, "Strive's air filtration's been on the blink for years. D'you know how many kids here have lung conditions? How many people lug oxygen devices just to go about their day?"

She swallowed, suddenly aware of the slight hum of a portable filtration unit strapped to someone’s back.

"But we’re not rich," she said quickly, heat rising in her chest.

"People in Ascendra have to work hard. It’s not like we’re Empiria or Zenith—"

One of them tilted their head. "Who gets to work hard?"

She frowned. "Anyone, if they put in the effort."

"Yeah?" They studied her. "You ever notice who actually gets to climb?"

The words caught in her throat.

"You ever seen someone in Ascendra with a DIY prosthetic?" someone else asked.

Lia didn’t answer.

"Here, people make their own," they continued. "Black-market neural mods, home-rigged mobility implants, whatever keeps them going. Not everyone can afford corporate healthcare."

Lia’s stomach twisted.

In Ascendra, if you had an implant, it came with a warranty and a brand partnership.

Here, you built your own survival.

"But it’s not just about money," someone else added. "It’s about who fits the image. You ever notice how there aren’t many old people in Ascendra? Or disabled people? Or—"

They paused slightly, then said carefully, "People who don’t fit the aesthetic?"

Lia’s pulse ticked up.

She had noticed things—small things. But she had never pieced them together.

There were hardly any visibly disabled people, hardly anyone who wasn’t thin, polished, camera-ready.

Sure, there were a few executives with silver hair or a cane, but—

"Branding," someone else said, reading her expression. "Same reason they let a few women into the big boardrooms, a few Black and brown faces, a few queer couples in ads. But it’s only ever to flog more things.”

Lia exhaled sharply.

It was true. The empowerment campaigns, the “inspirational” CEO stories, the way every corporation carefully curated its diversity—all of it was aesthetic.

Someone chuckled, shaking their head. "And the moment you stop fitting the brand?"

Another voice joined in, lighter, but pointed. "Like, say… you wear something different? Ask a few uncomfortable questions?"

Lia stiffened.

"And that’s just your job." Someone leaned forward. "You ever wonder why you don’t hear about any of this on your feeds?"

“Or hear about anyone in Strive? Or what’s going on in Egalis?” Said another.

A beat.

"There’s no independent press. There’s no independent anything anymore. Nothing the corporations don’t want you to see will reach the masses."

She inhaled sharply. "But—"

And then she remembered the graffiti she saw last week.

FIRST THEY CAME FOR THE JOURNALISTS.

She had barely noticed it at the time.

And now, she realised—it was gone.

Scrubbed. Erased.

The news broke fast.

Red roses. Painted onto buildings. Glowing on hacked billboards. Stitched into clothing.

A growing threat.

An attack on our way of life.

Extremists want to tear down our progress.

The rhetoric was relentless.

Red equals regression.

The past has no future.

Protect your freedom. Reject the red.

She ought to have laughed. It was absurd. It was a colour.

But she wasn’t laughing.

Because she saw it happening in real-time. People who had never thought twice about red were now reposting warnings, parroting concerns, demanding action.

Security reinforcements had been deployed at the border between Ascendra and Strive. CiviSight drones patrolled the transit stations, scanning faces. Checking for threats.

Herizon released a statement:

A Commitment to Safety and Stability.

"At Herizon, we believe in progress. We do not stand for regressive, extremist ideologies that seek to divide us. We stand together. For the future."

Lia’s breath was shallow.

The whispers. The graffiti. The unease she had felt in Strive.

They weren’t just isolated moments.

Something was coming.

And the system was crushing it before it could rise.

And then—

A video.

Blurry footage. Faces distorted, figures moving fast in the shadows.

KNOWN TERRORISTS SPOTTED IN ASCENDRA – ARE YOU SAFE? 

Lia’s chest went tight.

Because one of those figures looked like someone she knew.

Someone she had shared drinks with. Laughed with. This was a mutual aid organiser who helped their community.

And now, overnight—

They were a terrorist.

She wasn’t breathing.

Her mobile buzzed.

MIRA: u seeing this??

MIRA: wtf is going on

Lia swallowed.

The edges of her world felt like they were warping.

She thought about the quiet shift in how people treated her. The subtle distance. How her stats had flatlined.

How easily associating a symbol with a word—terrorist—erased everything.

No context.

No nuance.

Just bad. Wrong.

Everything she had read, everything she had questioned, was no longer abstract.

The puzzle pieces clicked.

This wasn’t about safety.

It was about protecting profit.

And the worst part?

It was working.

People believed it.

They didn’t even need to be forced.

They did it willingly.

Eagerly.

The system didn’t just shape their choices.

It shaped what they could even conceive as real.

Her engagement wasn’t just lower—it was dead. She wasn’t trending. She wasn’t getting recommended. She wasn’t being seen. In a world where your marketability is everything, it was like watching herself disappear in real time.

Her fingers curled around the red rose hairpin. She had shoved it into the back of a drawer days ago. But now, she held it again, turning it over in her palm, the cool metal pressing into her skin.

A symbol she had barely noticed before was suddenly everywhere.

Lia stood in front of the mirror. She looked at herself—the version of her that still belonged to Ascendra. How her carefully curated future was crumbling.

She raised the pin, pressing it lightly against her temple, as if testing its weight.

She could clip it in. Wear it. Choose a side.

Or she could tuck it away again, pretend none of this was happening.

Her reflection held her gaze.

The pin sat in her palm.

She wasn’t ready.

But she wasn’t putting it back.