Prologue:
"2047"
Twenty point three billion heartbeats. Twenty point three billion mouths breathing recycled air. Twenty point three billion souls, packed into the husks of cities that died a decade ago. To most, these numbers had lost all meaning. How can you grasp a figure so vast when you're focused on counting the water droplets in your family's weekly ration? When each precious drop means the difference between life and death?
In New York's Tower District, people were stacked in fifty-story housing blocks, resembling piles of forgotten cargo. The fortunate ones secured six-by-three sleep cubicles near air-cycling vents. The less fortunate suffocated slowly in central units, the metallic tang of rusted air, forever on their tongue. At night, the sound of millions of people inhaling within their boxes rose up the towers, echoing the rasping wheeze of a dying giant. Each breath a reminder of survival, each exhale a countdown to morning.
Alex had always thought of himself as a survivor. He remembered the days when he could look out from his apartment and see a skyline, not just crumbling concrete and desperation. But now, as he stood in line for his ration of water, he felt hopelessness settle over him like a leaden shroud. His younger sister, Lily, lay in their shared cubicle, her small body frail and weak, battling a sickness that no amount of rationed medicine could cure. The thought of her suffering gnawed at him, and he'd already gone three days without a sip of water, sacrificing his share so she could have a little more. Each passing hour carved deeper lines of thirst across his consciousness. He would have to send her away soon. If he could.
He'd heard whispers of the Deep Levels in Mumbai, where a hundred and fifty million people were crammed into underground warrens stretching thirty stories deep. Some said entire levels fell silent overnight, leaving behind only brittle bones and dust. No one asked why; everyone already knew. The silence was answer enough.
Rationing began with water. Simple enough: this many people, these many liters. Basic mathematics of survival. But numbers provide little solace when your sister's cries echo in your mind, and you know you're powerless to change fate.
Rationing began with water. Simple enough, this many people, these many liters. Basic mathematics of survival. But numbers provide little solace when your sister's cries echo in your mind, and you know you're powerless to change fate.
Today, they rationed everything, food, medicine, living space, even air in the deepest levels of the megalopolises. Each person received their allocation, measured down to the milliliter, the calorie, the cubic meter. It was all calculated. Cold. Unforgiving. Every breath counted, every morsel weighed, every drop measured against survival.
The Global Resource Committee's announcement surprised no one with its content, only its timeframe, complete systemic collapse within five years. Even with maximum rationing, humanity had less than half a decade before the planet's support systems failed completely. The population grew by nearly a billion each year while resources dwindled to nothing. Simple math they said, fourteen billion must die for the remaining six billion to have any chance.
Then came NeuroTech Solutions with their proposal.
As Alex stood in the ration line, a sleek, brand new, high-definition screen embedded in the wall lit up with an inviting glow. The colors were too bright, the music too cheerful, both an obscene contrast to the decay around him. "WELCOME TO THE ULTIMATE DIVE! HUMANITY'S NEXT EVOLUTION!" The ad played a montage of rolling green landscapes, crystal-clear rivers, and endless blue skies. A city of golden towers stretched across the horizon, filled with laughing people, healthy, whole, untouched by hunger. Warriors clashed in dazzling combat, mages wove light into impossible shapes, explorers stood atop snow-capped peaks, gazing over new digital frontiers. The Ultimate Escape. The Ultimate Adventure. The Ultimate Second Chance.
The line shifted, a flicker of hope stirring in the bodies. Someone ahead of Alex barked out a sharp, lifeless laugh. "My cousin signed up last week," the man proclaimed. "Said it was going to be paradise."
Alex didn't respond. He just watched. He felt each breath settle heavy in his lungs, the dry burn of his throat. His stomach gnawed at itself, a hollow void clawing for sustenance. The screen's glossy surface reflected back eager faces, eyes wide with the kind of hope that only desperation could birth. Alex saw the smiling warrior for what it was, a carefully crafted illusion, designed to seduce. It was a lie, of course. But a beautiful one. A game, of all things, using technology most had only heard whispered about in tech sectors. Virtual reality, they claimed, though the concept felt like science fiction to a population more concerned with finding their next meal than understanding digital realms.
He couldn't shake the feeling that this was a cruel game of fate. He knew the odds, the math was clear. Most would not survive. It was after all a way to reduce the population. To survive in the Dive, you had to earn your way. Yet here he was, contemplating the unthinkable, entering the game, playing a role in this digital spectacle of false hope.
The premise was simple, volunteer to play, and if you were strong enough, you could live a magical, wonderous life. But the truth lurked beneath the promise like a shark beneath still water, this was population control dressed in neon and digital dreams. They were calling them "pods," the coffin-sized units where Players would store their bodies, while their minds navigated digital worlds. Billions were being installed in every corner of the world.
In Singapore's processing centers, hastily converted from luxury hotels, the once-opulent lobbies now swelled with the same desperate masses as Mumbai's makeshift warehouses. New York's facilities had been stripped of their former grandeur. Once rich and powerful Wall Street executives, now stood alongside factory workers as equals. The trappings of wealth had become meaningless trinkets in humanity's final hours. Each city's approach differed, but desperation spoke a universal language. A language of survival, of hope, of last desperate wagers placed in the dark.
Alex thought of Lily, of the desperate hope that had driven people to such lengths. He felt the sharp edge of fear and sorrow cutting through his mind. Would this be his escape, or simply another layer of shackles? He pondered whether it was better to face death in the real world or to chase a fleeting illusion in a digital realm. Lily's labored breathing from their cubicle answered more clearly than words ever could. If he entered, she could follow.
Some would enter seeking glory. Others just desired a quicker end than what rationing offered. The wise ones knew it didn't matter, dead was dead, whether it came in a pod or a sleep cubicle. But hope is a funny thing; it can sprout in the cracks of even the most desperate time. Like weeds through concrete, it persisted.
In less than a month, the first wave would enter the game. Millions of souls trading one kind of box for another, grasping at the faintest hope of survival.
In the Tower Districts and the Deep Levels, people gathered around allocation terminals to watch. They called it brave. They called it necessary. They called it a sacrifice; one humanity could not refuse. The words echoed hollow in crowded corridors.
Alex knew better. No one called it what it was—humanity's largest mass suicide, wrapped in circuits and light. But it was the only chance they had. The only hope left in a world of measured breaths and counted droplets.