I stared out the window as my slow-speaking professor droned on with something ... I wasn't paying attention. My eyelids felt heavy, and I almost slammed my head on the desk when they closed. Just as I was about to drift off into a lovely dream, my professor said something that actually caught my attention.
"The Photon was developed by the Helios corporation around 50 years ago introducing the world to hard-light technology. When it was first conceived it could only make rudimentary holograms of a few shapes. The actual machine was around the size of a refrigerator and was considered a novelty by many, and too expensive for everyone else.
However, Helios kept developing it believing in its untapped potential. Over time they refined the system and reduced its size exponentially. The real breakthrough was when Helios successfully linked the Photon with the human brain. This link allowed the brain to directly control the Photon, drastically increasing its versatility. Rapid success soon followed for Helios and their technology became more and more widespread. Today, nearly eight in ten people have a Photon installed in their head."
The Photon. A seemingly limitless device embedded in the back of your skull. It manipulated the light in the surroundings to your will. I couldn't have been happier when I got one installed a few years ago.
The first day I had the Photon I played with it enough to give me a migraine. I was always looking for new uses for it. At first, I could only make static objects like tables, chairs, and silverware. Eventually, as my understanding of it increased, I was able to make clothes out of light, though they were far from comfortable. Eventually, I even made a functioning bike that I still use to get around.
"... that concludes the exposition," the professor said.
Exposition? That didn't seem right. I realized I must've been lost in my thoughts again. He probably said explanation or something. That made more sense.
As the professor wrapped up his lecture, I stuffed my things into my backpack and headed to the cafeteria. Like always, I scanned my card at the entrance to pay. The scanner let out an annoying beep. Card declined. The cashier had a cheerful look to her that was almost mocking. I tried my card again. Beep. Card declined. "Maybe there's something wrong with the scanner?" I asked with a faint hope in my heart.
"It seems that there's no money left on your account," the lady replied with a smile.
"No money? That's not poss-" I stopped myself when I realized that I might really be broke. All that money I came in with my first year was gone. It was supposed to at least last the rest of my second year. I knew buying all of those overpriced lattes at the campus coffee shop would come back to bite me.
With an empty wallet and emptier stomach, I trudged back to my room. With my current pile of snacks, I'd be fine for a few days at least, but after that? I'd need cash. Fast. I knew there was only one thing that could save me from my predicament. I despised the very thought of it, but it had to be done. I needed a job.
Problem was, I've never been the hardworking type. With the least amount of effort possible, I searched for the easiest way to land a job. It didn't take long to find a site that promised to send my resume to local businesses—no matter what kind of work they did. Perfect. The shotgun approach. If I applied to enough places, someone was bound to hire me.
I threw together a resume in about half an hour and included some "creative" attributes of myself like being hardworking and sociable. For work experience, I even listed "Photon researcher." It sounded impressive enough. I submitted my resume to the website and waited for the job offers to come rolling in.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Finally, I received a notification. I opened it immediately. The position? "Information Examiner." Never heard of it, but it sounded official. There was no actual description of the job—maybe they just figured that it was self-explanatory. The address was listed but the actual business was never given a name anywhere. At the bottom was a note: We'll take anyone at this point. Finish the interview, and the job is yours.
Wait. Finish? Why specify that? The more I reread the offer, the sketchier it started to look. No name, no details ... I felt like I was being catfished. I decided to wait for a better offer.
Two days later, not a single offer since, and my supply of snacks was running dangerously low. This wasn't a time to be picky. It was a time to be desperate. I looked at the sketchy email again. My mind screamed, Don't go. You'll end up dead in a ditch somewhere. My stomach said otherwise. I put together an outfit that had a semblance of business casual and started heading to the address listed on the email. It was time for an interview.