Chapter Text
“The government is merely conducting community renewal and beautification, while dispersing irrelevant social idlers, Mr. Blade. Refrain from reckless speculation. ”
His superior cast him a stern, detached glance, laced with disapproval, making his already pinched features seem all the more austere.
He averted his gaze and nodded slightly.
“Yes, boss,” he replied briskly, “the facts speak for themselves.”
Then, fingers flying across the keyboard, he typed:
"Local residents were forcibly removed by unidentified personnel after opposing demolition. This action raises pressing questions: Is San Francisco’s democratic government truly upholding the 'American spirit'? Does it genuinely care about the core issues of class division and economic inequality—or is it simply bulldozing the slums with brutal efficiency?"
Finished, he glanced up and offered an obliging smile.
The man stared at him, as though searching for something—but behind the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes betrayed nothing. After a grunt and a brief nod, the superior’s gaze drifted toward a female colleague’s posterior at the other end of the office.
He sat silently in front of his screen for a moment, then hit Ctrl+S to save the document and stood up to head to the break room.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fucking hell.”
He cupped the mug in his hands, watching the coffee grounds dissolve into the boiling water. Steam rose to shroud his sharp face in a soft fog; his lenses clouded over.
Returning to his desk, he set the mug down with a sharp clatter. A swirl of steam rose again before him.
[Day 1: Monday]
Half-asleep, the first thing Techno registered was a biting chill. The cold pierced through the air, seeped into his skin, and soaked inch by inch into the bone. Had he forgotten to turn on the heater last night?
He shivered, curling deeper into the blankets in a futile attempt to hold on to some scrap of warmth. Must’ve forgotten. Now his whole body was stiff. Suppressing a low groan, he finally decided the cold was too much—he had to get up. Maybe this time he’d actually turn on the heat.
Damn it, it hadn’t been this cold when he went to bed…
Eyes still shut, he reached across the bed in search of soft cotton, trying to wrap himself back into some cozy corner. His fingers brushed against the comforter, and in that half-conscious moment, he drifted back to sleep.
In his dream, he stood at San Francisco’s harbor. He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.
Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.
The bird opened its beak and said: “BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!”
He jolted awake. The shrill radar alarm blared through the room.
Techno groped under his pillow and jabbed at the volume keys until the sound finally cut out. The world was still a blur. Bringing the phone closer, he squinted at the screen, barely making out the time: 7:00 AM.
“So early?” he thought groggily.
Why had he set such an early alarm?
His head was still floating somewhere in last night’s dream, his thoughts dragging like sludge. He rolled over, trying to sink back into sleep—then promptly lost his balance and slammed onto the floor.
A sharp pain shot up his spine to his brain, fully waking him. Rubbing his right arm, he scrambled to gather his still-drowsy limbs and staggered back onto the bed.
He reached for the nightstand, found his glasses by muscle memory, and slid the cold frames behind his ears. The hazy world snapped into focus.
That’s when he noticed it.
The calendar on the wall—he had never seen that picture before. It was a page he had no memory of, printed with a scenic view of San Francisco’s harbor.
He stared at the calendar, a chill crawling up his spine. The water in the image looked gloomy and still, its gray-blue surface occasionally flecked with light. The faint outlines of cargo ships in the distance appeared both unfamiliar and eerily familiar, as though he had seen this scene in a past life.
“What the hell...” he muttered, rubbing his forehead, trying to dispel the haze. He was sure that image didn’t belong here. He didn’t even remember owning a calendar like that, let alone one showing a bleak, coastal San Francisco.
He reached out and touched the edge of the calendar. The texture was rough against his fingertips, cold and real.
It had been a long time since he last visited the San Francisco harbor, probably not since the pandemic. Images of the place floated vaguely in his mind, stirring a faint, unplaceable sense of disconnection. Suddenly, he couldn’t shake the memory of sharp, birdlike eyes surrounded by white feathers.
Techno blinked and rubbed his arms against the chill. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Outside, the sky was still dim, bathed in the muted tones of dawn. Shadows draped over the streets, where only a few figures wandered. The cold wind swirled dried leaves across the empty sidewalks, carrying that unique winter morning dampness.
Where the hell am I? Is this still California?
Techno let out a long sigh, gripping the window frame. The cold metal bit into his palm.
Returning to his bedside, he spotted a small slip of paper on the desk.
On the paper, in messy handwriting, was a single sentence:
“Wake up. You’re already on your way home.”
His heart lurched.
He snapped awake in a warm bed.
Birdsong, city noise, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the world bathed in dapple shade and gold.
Techno blinked, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and sprang to his feet.
Something was off.
He staggered toward the unfamiliar calendar on the wall.
July 1st, 2021. A red circle around the date, labeled: “First day of internship!”
It felt like waking up from a long dream. H e turned and looked around.
This wasn’t his room. Suddenly, he realized.
His dark wooden desk had been replaced by a cheap plastic folding table. His gaming chair was gone, swapped out for a light-colored wooden chair. His PC, monitor, and keyboard—gone without a trace.
His heart raced, fingers trembling slightly as he flipped through the calendar. The June page came into view, with a photo stuck on it—his graduation photo.
No. Impossible.
In the photo, he stood in a graduation gown against the red brick walls of a university, gaze clear and confident, a faint smile on his lips. Sunlight filtered through tall oak trees, casting mottled shadows behind him.
This photo doesn’t exist.
He never graduated from college.
He had gone to bed worrying about the next day’s DSMP storyline. Stayed up until two, finally closing his notes and dropping off a Discord call with Wilbur whilst complaining about a dull ache in his shoulder. His shoulder had still been aching faintly as he lay down, exhausted, and fell asleep against the wall.
He raced to the desk and spotted a familiar Lenovo laptop. Beneath it, a diploma with ornate cursive lettering peeked out. There was no time to examine it closely. The sluggish startup of the computer gnawed at his nerves. He couldn’t wait. Time was slipping away —
He clenched his fists and, still unsteady, pulled open the door.
Beyond lay a dimly lit apartment hallway.
This wasn’t his home.
This wasn’t his life.
This was not him...
Techno stood at the threshold, palms sweating. His mind scrambled for logic, for clarity, but thoughts blurred like TV static. Even focusing was painful.
His room. The calendar. The graduation photo—everything was misaligned, distorted, as if time and space had been twisted into some grotesque parody of reality.
He stared down at his hands, his pulse thundering to the point of suffocation.
The chill on his fingertips and the faint mildew in the air were too real, stabbing into his senses.
Techno inhaled deeply and finally forced himself to step forward, moving slowly down the hallway. The walls were peeling; flakes of old paint clung to the corners.
From the end of the corridor came a low murmur.
He approached a slightly ajar door, the source of the whispers. Hesitating for a moment, he reached out and pushed the door open.
The murmurs stopped.
The room beyond was dark, save for a single amber desk lamp casting its dim circle of light. On the desk, a scattered stack of letters.
Techno hesitated, then stepped forward and picked up the top envelope.
His name was written on it: Alex.
(The wild thought of being doxxed and kidnapped by some crazy stan flashed through his mind. He clenched his teeth and shook the paranoia away.)
“Wake up, you are already on your way home.”
The letter repeated the same phrase, the handwriting as sloppy and blurred as the previous note, echoing an inescapable fate.
He gripped the page. His throat tightened.
Home?
Home to where?
Forcing back the rising unease, he set the letter down and rummaged through the rest of the stack. As he moved one aside, a small photograph slipped out from the stack.
It was a blurry image of a figure standing at the edge of a blue, endless sea, gazing out toward the horizon.
He stared at the image, overcome with a strange sense of recognition he couldn’t explain.
Who was he?
Where was he?
Where was he supposed to be going?
Techno closed his eyes and took a long breath. He clutched the photo like a compass, hoping it might somehow point him home.
When he opened his eyes again, he woke on a cold bed.
The radar alarm tore through his ears.
He reached for his phone, nearly poking himself in the eye with his glasses as he hurried to sit up.
July 1st, 2021. 7:00 AM.
First day of his internship.
He could not be late.
“If I’m late, I’ll just quit,” he thought dryly.
Dragging himself out of bed, he slipped on his slippers and stumbled into the bathroom. Cold water splashed onto his face, jolting him awake. When he looked up, water dripping from his chin, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Short, slightly curled brown hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes, partially obscured by thick glasses, stared back at him. His clean-shaven face looked younger than he felt.
“Yup, same face, same BS,” he muttered to himself.
Indifferently, he turned away.
Breakfast had no appeal. His stomach wasn’t interested, and his habits from college had long since dulled his morning appetite. He threw on a shirt, adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, and gave himself a quick once-over.
The tie was straight. The shirt wasn’t wrinkled. At the very least, he looked like someone who would show up to work on time.
“Well, today’s the day I officially become a corporate drone,” he mumbled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
he grabbed the ever-disappointing cup of instant coffee and knocked it back in one go. The bitter heat hit his stomach like a punch. In the kitchen, he idly scrolled through the spam in his inbox: banks, gyms, and online retailers that still couldn’t spell his name right.
The clock ticked closer to his deadline. He shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed his bag, checked his keys, and bolted out the door.
The air outside hit him like a wet slap. Skin crawling as he made his way to the subway station. The bustle of commuters, the metallic screech of trains, and the distant honking of horns all blended into a familiar cacophony.
Techno’s feet carried him through the throng of people, his face expressionless.
“You can be an uncompromising idealist, or you can be a groveling corporate sellout,” he thought bitterly. “ But hey, what’s an idealist without a paycheck? A joke. ”
His pace quickened. He scanned the faces of passersby without truly seeing them. On this street, he was just another person late to work, caught in the same endless routine.
The subway doors slid shut behind him with a hiss. He leaned against the handrail, scanning the crowded car. Most passengers were glued to their phones. Occasionally, someone would glance up, their eyes briefly meeting his before darting away.
“If I were an automatic coffee machine,” he mused, “no one would notice the difference.”
His stop came. Like a sardine spat out of a can, he was shoved out with the others, blank-faced professionals and bleary-eyed workers, all marching in unison with eyes to the ground.
He didn’t try to resist the current. The faintest smile had already slipped from his face. Hands in his pockets, gaze on the floor, he walked quickly.
Through the lobby. Up to the elevator. He waited.
The elevator dinged. Doors opened. He stepped into the corner and watched the floor numbers climb, catching a glimpse of his tired reflection in the mirrored panel.
The elevator stopped. He stepped out.
The moment he walked into the office, someone shouted:
“Hey, new guy!” someone called out almost immediately. “Intern, right? Could you grab me a coffee?”
He pretended not to hear, eyes fixed on the ground, and made a beeline for a desk in the corner. He draped his lanyard around his neck, the bright green tag that read “Intern” glaring back at him.
Ten minutes of pretending to be deaf later, a stack of heavy folders landed on his desk with a thud.
“Hey, you’re the new grad, right?” a voice said beside him.
He looked up in quiet despair, praying the person wasn’t talking to him.
“Alexander Blade?” The man squinted at his name tag. “Mind if I call you Alexander? I’m from editorial. These are today’s drafts and reference sheets—just gonna leave these here for now.”
“Actually, I go by Alex—”
“Perfect, I’ll take that as a yes. Have a nice day! Oh, and grab me a coffee too, would ya?”
The man was gone before Alex could even open his mouth.
He watched him go, speechless.
“...I’m a reporting intern, not editorial,” he muttered.
The day passed in a blur.
Meaningless work. A constant churn of tasks. By the time it hit six, he realized he hadn’t retained a single thing. Faces, files, voices—they all bled into one.
The office clock pointed to six sharp. A few coworkers rushed to pack up and leave. He stood, gathered his things, and pulled on his coat.
As he stepped out of the building, a crushing weight settled on his shoulders—as if a giant hand had closed around his chest, squeezing.
Outside, the city was still in motion. Neon lights flickered. People bustled down the streets. He made his way toward the subway, muscles sore like he’d aged ten years in one shift. There was a faint, gnawing emptiness under his ribs.
He looked down at his phone. One unread message.
Mom:
Remember to take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard. You can always talk to me.
He stared at the screen. Some feeling, sharp and unfamiliar, crawled up his throat.
After a pause, he replied: I know.
Then he pocketed the phone and walked on, letting the flow of strangers push him toward another grey, exhausted evening.
He lay on the bed, staring at the calendar on the wall. The photo on the cover—San Francisco’s harbor—looked especially dim in the lamplight.
He turned over, and just before switching off the light, his eyes flicked to the photo on his nightstand: a blurry silhouette standing alone at the edge of a blue sea.
Who was that?
That question lingered, heavy and shapeless, as he sank into sleep.