Dümped

They haven't starved like we have. They hoard the food, handing it down to us only when it's rotten and spoiled. Food and shelter used to be basic necessities. Now, only the rich eat and sleep.

We will slaughter them in their slumber—for our hunger has turned into anger."

A man stood on a crumbling balcony, his voice booming over the gathered crowd. After the meeting, Ray and Sandra were talking when he approached them.

"Sandra, this is Mike. He's the leader of our revolution," Ray said.

Sandra extended her hand to shake his, but Mike only looked at it, leaving her hanging.

"Do you think this is a joke? You didn't join a country club. We mean business here. We want change. How can you claim to fight for change when you act no better than those who oppress us?"

Sandra glanced at Ray, expecting him to say something in her defense, but he remained silent. Without a word, she turned around and walked away.

Ray hurried after her. "Leaving so soon? Don't let what Mike said get to you. That's just how he is—he takes the revolution too seriously. Everyone is welcome here, especially beautiful people like you."

Sandra didn't smile. She didn't even look at him. She simply kept walking.

"I can't believe I almost fell for that," she muttered under her breath. "What did I expect from someone I met at an activist meeting?"

She decided against attending Nullify meetings but still lurked on the forum, reading posts in silence. Ray kept sending her direct messages. She ignored them.

One night, as she lay in bed, a deafening bang shattered the quiet.

Was that the attack?

She rushed to the window. Outside, fire rained from the sky. The world burned. A meteorite the size of a tennis ball hurtled toward her. She barely had time to duck before it smashed through the glass, sending shards flying and igniting her carpet.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the water pitcher from her bedside table and doused the flames. The rock shimmered in the moonlight, its surface shifting colors depending on the angle. She reached for it—but yanked her hand back instantly, a sharp pain searing through her palm. She exhaled sharply, blowing on the burn.

Then, another meteorite struck.

She didn't even see it coming. It hit her square in the face, and she crumpled to the floor. Time lost meaning. She lay there, dazed, pain radiating through her skull.

A bang at the door. Then another.

She barely registered it at first. But the next sound wasn't a knock. Someone was trying to break in.

Dizzy, she forced herself to move, crawling toward the door. She slumped against it, her body a weak barricade. It wasn't enough. With little effort, the door pushed open, sending her tumbling backward.

A fireman loomed over her.

"You broke my door," she muttered, barely conscious.

"I'll fix it," he said, lifting her effortlessly onto his shoulder.

"You better," she mumbled, twisting slightly to see his score. But there was nothing. No numbers. No ranking.

Confusion flickered through her hazy mind.

She didn't realize how badly she was hurt until they wrapped her right eye in a bandage.

That's why I couldn't see his score. The thought barely formed before she lost consciousness.

She woke to the steady beep of hospital monitors. Morning light filtered through the blinds.

Instinctively, she reached for her face, but a firm hand stopped her.

"I wouldn't do that," a nurse warned, gently adjusting the bed to sit her up.

"It itches," she muttered, blinking against the dull ache in her skull. "How long do I have to keep it on?"

About six weeks. That's what the nurse had said. Sandra was discharged with instructions to return in six weeks. But by then, everything had changed.

At first, the systems went down—communications, power grids, even the human stock market. The SVI scores, once the measure of a person's worth, were frozen at their pre-collapse values. But with the world crumbling, they no longer mattered.

Then the mutations began. Crops grew monstrous—corn cobs tripled in size, fruits and vegetables sprouted extra layers of skin, some hard as stone, others covered in spikes or reeking of chemicals. Some became outright toxic to humans.

Animals changed too. Species fused in impossible ways. And some people… changed with them. Mutations granted strange, unpredictable powers.

Sandra wasn't one of them. Fortunately or unfortunately, she wasn't sure.

"I might've ended up with frog features or something. Who'd want that?" she muttered, watching a girl down the street sprout feathers.

By the time six weeks had passed, the world was unrecognizable. The weak suffered, and the strong adapted.

She returned to the hospital, but it was barely standing. Most of the medical equipment was gone—looted or destroyed. No doctors. No nurses. Just addicts wandering the halls, their eyes hollow, their bodies twitching.

Sandra decided to handle things herself. She found a sharp piece of metal and began cutting away her bandage. She unwrapped it like a child opening a present on Christmas morning.

The moment her right eye was uncovered, she saw it—a single dot, pulsing every three seconds.

Sandra blinked. "Hey… my contact still works."

"Welcome. I am Moderna. How can I help you?"

Sandra glanced at the addicts, expecting to see their scores hovering above their heads. But there was nothing.

"Hey… where are their scores?" she asked.

Searching SVI database… The words flickered before her eyes.

Sandra sighed. "It'd be great if you could actually talk."

Connecting…

A moment later, a voice crackled through the hospital's broken intercom.

"SVI database found."

The sound was harsh, distorted. The addicts groaned and clutched their ears.

Before Sandra could react, movement stirred around her. A shadow passed overhead. She looked up—a boy with bat-like wings was circling above.

Then she felt eyes on her. She turned. A second boy stood in front of her, watching.

"Where are your parents?" she asked.

The boy screamed.

Glass shattered. Sandra stumbled back, hands flying to her ears as shards rained down.

"She's trying to bring back the Stock System!" the bat-winged boy shouted.

More figures emerged from the wreckage—two boys rushed forward and grabbed her arms.

"No! I'm not trying to bring back anything! This is a misunderstanding!" Sandra protested, struggling against their grip.

But they weren't listening.

They were dragging her away.