Drew

  Drew was on a mission to ignore everything. The hum of the car, the heavy music thumping in his ears, the sprawling scenery. It was his favorite feeling to drown in.

  Their car glided smoothly through the hyperloop tunnels, matching pace with the stream of vehicles beside them. Beyond the transparent tubes, South Mekka stretched endlessly.

  The city rose in layers—metal and glass stacked towards the clouds. Neon boards popped out with hologram characters, wrapping entire buildings in shifting colors. A maze of hyperloop tunnels wove through the city like threads, rising and falling like a rollercoaster. Far below, pedestrians appeared like tiny pixels, moving through their routines.

  For all his annoyance, Drew couldn't deny the southern district had charm. The buildings were taller, boasting sky gardens that spilled over multiple levels. Even the advertisements felt premium—luxury car models, immersive cloth skins, branded furniture. Everything felt curated for the rich.

  A sharp ping cut through the music just as the bass was about to drop.

  “What is it now, Mom?” Drew groaned, yanking the volume down.

  His mother lay beside him on the orange sofa seat, dressed in a simple red dress with matching shoes. She looked tired, faint lines returning to her face. She’d disabled her medication again.

  “Mackon is saying something,” she replied, her voice thin.

  Drew’s frustration spiked.

  “Good news, Drew. You got admission in SMD,” Mackon turned slightly in his seat.

  He had a neat, military buzz cut and a controlled beard, but it was the thin scar running straight across his eyes that Drew fixated on. It was the only thing about the man that brought Drew any satisfaction.

  “This will be great for you,” Mackon continued. “It’s the best school in all of Mekka.”

  Sara’s lips curved into a tired smile, but Drew just leaned back. “My old school was perfectly fine,” he muttered.

  Was it? He barely spoke to anyone there. Most of his teachers despised him.

  But at least it hadn’t been a favor.

  “Drew, this wasn’t easy,” his mother snapped, her patience thinning. “Mackon had to pull a lot of strings to get you in.”

  “It’s alright, Sara,” Mackon intervened, his tone maddeningly patient. “He just needs time to adjust.”

  However, for the rest of the journey, Mackon kept shooting him wounded glances. Whether he was genuinely disappointed or simply trying to make him feel bad, Drew didn’t care. He turned his gaze back to the window.

  The car decelerated as a massive structure rose to meet them. At its center, a massive screen flashed the word SKYREACH, clouds spiraling artfully around the letters.

  And it lived up to the name. Drew counted over five hundred levels, each fitted with glass balconies and suspended sky-gardens.

  The car veered into another tunnel and descended, dropping them at the entrance before continuing down toward the parking levels.

  “This looks nice,” Sara murmured, eyeing the building from top to bottom.

  They stepped through the glass doors into a lounge bathed in warm gold light. A reception desk stood at the center, surrounded by sculpted sofas and carefully arranged plants.

  “I need to handle some legalities,” Mackon said, already heading toward the desk. “Go on up. Apartment 6C, two-hundred-fifth floor. Make yourselves at home.”

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  Drew and his mother approached the elevator. Soft jazz played as the doors slid open. Drew tapped the two-hundred-fifth floor.

  “This place is luxurious, isn’t it?” Sara asked.

  He couldn’t deny it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  “Drew, he paid for everything. Can you at least show some gratitude? Maybe a simple thanks?”

  “It won’t make up for what he did.”

  Sara’s voice softened. “He’s trying.”

  The elevator doors opened before she could finish.

  The corridor mirrored the golden glow of the lounge. They stopped at a door with a screen displaying 6C.

  “Welcome, Drew and Sara Zuffers,” a pleasant robotic voice chimed as the door slid open.

  Inside stood a pristine living room. Yellow light traced subtle patterns along the walls and furniture, illuminating the space in warm elegance.

  “Go check out your room. Your stuff should be arriving soon,” his mother said, disappearing down the hall.

  Drew stepped into his room.

  “Welcome, Drew. I have paired with your device,” the room’s AI greeted.

  The room was minimal, featuring a bed, desk, and wardrobe. A hexagonal wall panel dominated one side of the wall. He flicked on his wristphone and tapped through the controls. The panel dissolved into transparent glass, revealing the shimmering skyline of South Mekka in all its glory.

  Everything about the place was beautiful.

  He hated it.

  Accepting it felt like betraying his father.

  With a sigh, he flopped onto the bed and flicked his wrist. A holographic HUD projected into the air, displaying his body metrics, location, weather, and a wall of notifications.

  A Blingo alert pulsed at the top.

  “Rebels clash with Mekkan forces. The Punk strikes again. Pure bling follows.”

  He tapped it immediately.

  The video was dark, chaotic. Gunfire traded back and forth across the frame. Mekkan soldiers fired from behind barricades.

  Then the camera swung.

  A figure in sleek black armor stepped forward. Electric blue lines pulsed across the suit, converging into an illuminated R on the chest. A helmet concealed his face. The word PUNK was spray-painted across it in graffiti style.

  The figure moved with theatrical precision, twin pistols deploying into his hands. The camera switched to the soldiers dropping one after another as clean shots rang out.

  Within seconds, the firefight ended, followed by cheers from the Rebels.

  The camera panned back to him. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his helmet and tossed it at the lens.

  The feed cut to black just before his face could be revealed.

  Over a billion blings, Drew gasped. It had only been an hour. Social media was already flooded with clips about it.

  “The Rebels are my heroes, and they proved that once again—”

  “Guys, I’m the real Punk. I hide my identity because—”

  “The Rebels are terrorists glamorized by the media—"

  “Guess what? I joined the Rebels today—”

  “The Punk just asked me out on a date—”

  Drew sighed and closed the app.

  For years, the Rebels had owned the internet. A young resistance challenging the government. They posted through anonymous accounts, spreading their propaganda and leaking cinematic battle clips.

  Drew was as obsessed with them as everyone. But he couldn't tell if they were actually fighting for a cause or just chasing popularity. Nobody seemed to care, however.

  A mechanical hum interrupted his thoughts.

  A drone zipped into his room, lowering a crate before vanishing. Drew’s mood finally lifted.

  He tapped a command on his phone. The crate hissed open, and a mess of cables, microchips, and tools spilled out. From the center of the junk, a small red shape stirred.

  “Hello, Master Drew,” a familiar voice chirped. A tiny robot, barely a foot tall with cartoony wheels for legs, rolled out of the debris.

  “Hey, Chip,” Drew whispered, sitting on the floor. “You, okay?”

  “Systems nominal. I do not enjoy being in a crate,” Chip replied, his face-screen flickering into a pixelated smiley face.

  Drew chuckled at the response. To anyone else, it appeared nothing more than a toy.

  “Hey Chip, can you show me any more footage from dad?”

  “Bringing right up.”

  The smiley face vanished, replaced by a video feed. A man appeared—brown skin, ruffled black hair, and a goatee that was perpetually in need of a trim. Everything about his face matched Drew.

  His father stood in the cramped workshop of their old house. Electronics and wires cluttered the surface, barely leaving any space for walking.

  A pair of lenses adorned his eyes, zooming in and out as he studied the circuitry before him.

  He spoke as he worked, explaining connections and energy flow. As a child, Drew would spend hours sitting with him in the tiny room. He never understood the mechanics. He just liked listening.

  The voice always felt like a melody, filling him with warmth.

  One clip blurred into another. Then one more.

  Drew didn’t even notice when sleep took him.

  A scream tore through the darkness.

  His scream.

  He was back in his old apartment, screaming until his throat burned.

  He watched as his father was dragged by a bunch of soldiers in Mekkan uniform. He tried to fight, but they had him overpowered.

  One of the soldiers locked eyes with Drew, staring down at him with almost a pity.

  The light shone brightly against his face, illuminating the thin scar running straight across his eyes.