Ryan sat in his kitchen in his UBI house, in front of a plate of pancakes made from UBI mix, trailing his finger over the rim of his glass full of UBI powdered milk staring at the stick of UBI butter. He was supposed to get it out the night before but had forgotten, and it was so cold he didn’t want to try spreading it on his pancakes for fear of disturbing their perfectly bronzed surface. It was something his mom had perfected over the years with their traditional Saturday morning meal, and she hadn’t disappointed today.

  Still, that stick of butter had been enough to bring down a countenance of despondency on his usually lively boyish face. He had just turned sixteen and hadn’t entirely smoothed out the edges of his features yet, something he was increasingly worried about lately. But that wasn’t what had made his mopey attitude so easy to trigger that morning.

  His mother bustled through the room, wearing her work apron—searching for her keys no doubt—when she noticed the look on Ryan’s face. She paused her frantic search and took a moment to sit down next to him, putting her hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry honey, but the extra shift will really help us out, I’ll be back before six,” she said. He looked up and gave her a forced smile.

  “That’s not it, mom,” he said. “I know you work hard to get me into school, and I’m not about to make you feel bad for that.” She too smiled, but her brow furrowed in concern.

  “Then what is it?” she asked before a light seemed to dawn on her. “Is it still about that essay competition? I know you worked really hard on it. I’m sorry you didn’t win.”

  “No, it’s not that either,” he said. “Though now that you mention it…” he let out a wistful sigh. He’d really wanted the first-place reward. The announcement was supposed to come in the day before, at the end of school, but he waited and waited, and no email showed up in his inbox. He shook his head. “No, I just had a weird dream. I can hardly remember it anymore, but it was one of those that really stick with you? The emotion of it, you know?” She gave him an indulgent smile, but he could tell she really didn’t.

  “Anyway,” he said, “It’s nothing. You have a good easy shift and call me if you need anything.” He lifted up her keys from next to the flower vase in the middle of the table, dangling them from his index finger, a self-impressed look plastered on his face.

  “I love you Ryan,” she said, awarding him with a beaming smile before snatching the keys from him, grabbing her purse and jacket, and heading out the door. Ryan sighed again as he heard her feet popping down the porch steps and took a slip of his UBI powdered milk.

  “Maybe that contest thing is bothering me a bit,” he muttered to himself as he set the “drink” back down. He had really pinned his hopes on this one, his ticket off of Universal Basic Income, and a droll life of zero upward mobility. His mother worked two jobs and just barely earned enough to get him into the Elective Schooling system. As a result, he hardly ever saw her, and when he did, she was so completely worn out. But that first place prize. He sighed again wistfully, letting himself daydream a bit.

  To win a pair of the latest in Augmented Reality technology from the Sifting Corporation. PerSpective Goggles. He heard the over-the-top used car salesman voice from the commercials. “PerSpective Goggles. They’re Sleek, they wrap around your head, they’re cool.” But it wasn’t even the superficial stuff, like the smooth design, the nearly limitless battery life, or even the most advanced sensor technology on the planet. It was the PerSpective Vision operating system, with its gamification approach to interacting with the world. It had a Contribution Point system, in which you could earn “CP” by completing daily tasks and quests. The CP could be converted into real money, meaning that despite its hefty price tag, the goggles would eventually pay for themselves, and more.

  He saw it as a chance to get a leg up in the world, to give back to his mom, and maybe take a load off her shoulders. Or—dare he wish for it—get out of District 7 and move into the big city. But alas, something came up, the announcement never came, and there were even some rumors that the Sifting Corporation was facing some legal troubles. At least Ryan had read as much in some online forums. Now it was back to trying to catch the eye of one of the several Academy’s in Inner City. But his academics had been struggling of late, and they really only looked at the best of the best for scholarships. There was no way his mother could afford the tuition costs. It would kill her; he was sure of it.

  “Ahk, quit moping,” he told himself, stood up and dumped his drink down the sink. He slid his pancakes into the Atomic Disintegrator (it was just a fancy trash can) and hit the button. It blurped. It was supposed to whir. Ryan hit the button again. Blurp. He noticed a yellow symbol flashing on it and let out a groan. The waste compartment was full.

  “Dang-it,” he swore and hit the eject button. There was the familiar sound of the latch disengaging, but the container didn’t pop out. “Double dang-it,” he grumbled as he knelt down to get a better angle, put his hand on either side of it and rocked the waste compartment back and forth until the container finally popped out.

  “Time to take out the trash,” he said to himself and slipped on his shoes. With advancements in waste disposal technology, he really only had to take out the trash once or twice a month, and even then, the container outside wouldn’t be emptied out for a year. He shimmied his feet back and forth until he got them into his shoes and then popped out the door, nearly tripping over a package that had been sitting there. It was maybe half a meter wide by half a meter tall. How had his mom not seen this? Ryan set down the waste box on the porch railing and picked up the box. It was addressed to him: Ryan Donovan, UBI Housing Lot 3, District 7. The return address said—his breathing stopped—Sifting Technology Division, Altera Tower, Inner City.

  His initial goal forgotten Ryan carried the precious package into the house, kicked off his shoes, and carried it reverently up to this room, almost tripping over the pile of clean clothes only to trip over the pile of dirty clothes, twisting to recover as he fell onto his bed. He used a pair of Scissors to cut the tape on the package and popped it open to reveal, in gold leaflet set against a white background, the instantly recognizable S logo of the Sifting Corporation, and below it, the name PerSpectives3. He slid the exquisitely designed box out of its sheath, tossed the empty package to the side, and set it in his lap.

  His heart raced in anticipation as he lifted the lid. Inside, on a cradle, sat the goggles—a sleek, black, and silver frame, transparent lenses with a holographic rainbow glint to them, and the almost imperceptible optical cameras spread evenly around.

  Ryan gently extracted them from the cradle. He had dreamed of this moment for years, been begging for a pair ever since version two, but his mom had always said they were too expensive. One day, his English teacher had presented a district-wide essay competition to the class, the prize being those very goggles. He wrote an essay on the Minerva Incident, something that was at least indirectly responsible for his absentee father, and apparently, the amount of passion that instilled in him to research and publish his essay had bled through into the paper. The evidence of that was sitting now in his hands.

  Without further ado, he slid the frames onto his face, drawing the smooth strap around the back of his head. He didn’t need the instruction manual—he’d already spent hours of his life watching videos and reading forums about this wonder of technology. He double tapped the right side of the frames, and a soft chime sang into his ears. A three-dimensional logo popped up in the center of his field of view, so solid and realistic he felt like he could touch it. The logo started as an elongated letter S, which began to spread apart, pulling letters in from some far distance in the center until it spelled “Sifting.” The word “presents” faded into existence below it, and then it read “Perspective Vision,” the words wrapping around his head with an accompanying surround sound effect. A system message popped up.

  A composite of his own face began constructing itself in his field of view, first as a series of points, then wires, then flesh and features. An enhanced view of his retina appeared on the other side.

  “Uh, Ryan, Ryan Donovan,” he said after a hesitant start.

  The composite image shunted off to the side.

  This one Ryan had been brainstorming for months and was ready to blurt out the answer. “Aitherios!” He winced at his own eagerness. Nerd.

  Welcome to Perspective Vision, Aitherios. Please stand by as we connect to your local server. Connected to District 7 Network. Initiating default HUD.

  His composite face, off to the side, became a rotating body, beneath which appeared biometric data. In the upper left corner, there was a counter for contribution points, currently showing 0 CP. To the side of that was an Envelop icon, a Scroll, a Shopping Cart, and a Gear. The envelop was flashing and had a number 1 pulsating in its corner, so he focused on it. The envelope expanded into his center view and opened with the sound of sliding paper. His first message.

  The moment his eyes read the last word, the message was marked as read, and the counter next to his CP shot up to 100. Nice. Next, he focused on the scroll icon to the right of the mail envelope, and like before, the scroll expanded into his view, this time unrolling itself.

  “Act of Kindness?” Ryan said. “What kind of daily task is that?” He focused on the trash task, which highlighted, and then moved it to the side of his HUD. He minimized the scroll with an upward movement of his eyes; it rolled back up and took its place next to the envelope.

  Next, he wanted to take a look at the store. He focused on the shopping cart; it shuddered but did nothing more. A system message popped up.

  “Level 5,” he mumbled. No one had mentioned a leveling system on any of the sites he’d been researching the device on. “Please explain the leveling system,” he said. Nothing happened. “Gah,” he exclaimed. “I forgot to set a wake word.” He focused on the gear icon in the upper part of his HUD, and the settings menu opened after a brief graphic of gears and cogs turning. He eye-scrolled down to the Interface menu and eye-blinked to select the box next to “Wake on Command.”

  He did a shifty-eyed look about the room, for no one but himself, and said, “Helios.”

  “Helios, please explain the leveling system?”

  As Ryan absorbed the information, in the periphery he could see all the objects in his room being highlighted and catalogued in rapid succession. Just as he started to get self-conscious about the amount of dirty clothes he had scattered around, a new message appeared in his HUD.

  Ryan hesitated for a moment, considering the offer. Then, he selected "Yes." Immediately an intense chime sounded, and a countdown timer flashed in his vision, red numbers counting down from sixty minutes before minimizing to the top corner of his display. The task began with a prompt: "Clothing pickup—0/50."

  As he bent down to grab the first piece of clothing. Once he had tossed it into the laundry basket, the system registered his action: "Item 1 of 50 complete." He moved faster, picking up socks, shirts, and jeans, each piece adding to the count, the system keeping track of his progress. The timer continued to tick down in the corner of his vision, a constant reminder of the urgency of the task.

  As he worked, Ryan’s mind began to wander. The mundane act of cleaning created a space for his mind to tinker with things he generally left to the periphery. He thought about his mom, how she had raised him as a single mother, working tirelessly to keep everything in order. Guilt tugged at him as he realized he could have done more to help out, to lessen her burden.

  His thoughts drifted to his absentee father, the man who had left them both behind. His mother had always described his father as having an unhealthy obsession with finding the man responsible for the Minerva Down Incident. Ryan had heard the story countless times—how his father had been so consumed by a new "lead" that he completely missed the moment when Ryan's mom had tried to tell him she was pregnant. And then, just like that, he had vanished, leaving behind a heartbroken pregnant wife.

  When Ryan entered high school, the mystery of his father’s obsession became his own. He started looking into the Minerva Down Incident himself, trying to piece together the fragments of a story that had defined so much of his life. It was tough to find much from the time preceding the Crisis; many digital records had been corrupted during that tumultuous time, but his local librarian, Mrs. Oaks took pity on him and used her connections with other districts to help him piece things together.

  That research provided the foundational knowledge he later drew on for his essay, the one that had won him the Perspective Goggles. But the essay had been more than just an assignment—it was a way for him to process his father's absence, to seek some connection, however distant, to the man who had left him behind.

  The task log added new objectives: "Organize desk—Bonus points available. Make bed—Bonus points available." Ryan moved through the room with a newfound determination, tackling each task not just for the contribution points but as a way to bring some order to his chaotic thoughts.

  Finally, the first part of the quest ended as he gathered the last of his clothes and headed to the laundry room. The chime sounded again, signaling the completion of Part One. The display updated: EventQuest—Part Two: Start laundry. Do you accept?

  Ryan sighed but nodded. He might as well finish what he started. As he loaded the washing machine, he heard another chime and noticed a new prompt flashing in the corner of his vision:

  He had only walked past the kitchen briefly on his way to the laundry room, yet the PerSpectives had picked up on the fact that it was messy, and somehow surmised it had to do with his mom not having time to do them? The deductive reasoning was a bit suspect, he thought, but on the other hand, that sweet CP he’d promised his mom he could earn was calling out to him. Hey selected yes.

  The PerSpectives scanned the kitchen counter and highlighted the dishes with different pastel colors, making it appear as if they had auras surrounding them. Plates emanated a lavender glow, cups were pink, and silverware yellow. The operating system broke down the chore into sub tasks, sorting, rinsing, and placing them in the dish washer. He began stacking the dishes to the side of the sink so he could have enough space to scrub properly. Some of the dishes hadn’t been cleaned in a while and the food had formed a molecular bond with the material. Why didn’t his mom ever yell at him to do his chores? She must have been so by the time she got home. He began scrubbing.

  While he worked the PerSpectives took it upon themselves to open up a news feed for him. A rectangular screen came into being, as if it were a tablet sitting on the shelf behind the faucet, allowing him to glance at it while he worked without obstructing his view or causing him any disorientation.

  “An astral fissure opened above the Argon building in inner city last night,” a female reporter was saying as footage of the city at night was showing on the display. Ryan’s hackles rose at that information, and he gave the broadcast closer attention. On the display, chaotic lights lanced in electrical arks above one of the tallest buildings in the city, a stark contrast against the black of the sky. The footage appeared to have been taken by a civilian, as it was initially focused away from the action. There was an explosion which caused the video to shudder wildly before centering in on the accident. “The initial spike in radiation caused several craft to collide with each other, resulting in an explosion that rocked the towers nearby. Three people were killed in the crash instantly, while six more were hospitalized.”

  An astral fissure, Ryan thought, how long had it been since one of those made the news? He was working with mounting frustration on a bowl that had once held oatmeal, which had since been transmuted into some form of indestructible concrete. Five, or six years? He gave up on using the sponge and grabbed a metal spoon to try and chip away at it. I was in sixth grade when that one that took down one of the seven towers in Inner City, so yeah, five years. Geeze. The reporter continued her story.

  “The Ministry of Integrity dispatched their Alpha Team to repair the rift almost immediately, and it was sealed in a matter of hours. We reached out to the Ministry for comment, but they have not replied as of the time of this broadcast.” Ryan glanced up from his excavation of mount oatmeal at the mention of the Alpha Team, but there didn’t seem to be any footage of them. His friend Lisa would probably be having a field day with this story. She had an unhealthy obsession with potential Incursion Events. Ryan gave up on trying to remove the oatmeal from the bowl and decided to just fill it with water and deal with the rest of the dishes while it soaked. The newscast had brought on an “expert” to discuss the event of the previous night.

  “We haven’t seen a rift this large in almost a decade,” a man was saying. He was dressed in a tweed suit, which was probably nice when he bought it, but clearly had a stain on the vest he was trying—and failing—to hide with his coat. He had greasy hair that was combed tightly against his scalp, and his thick glasses magnified his eyes, making him look almost alien. “The one that took down the Richter Tower, five years ago, was not even half the size of what was forming last night.”

  “Would you consider this an isolated incident?” the reporter asked.

  “It is hard to make any predictions at this point.” The man pushed his glasses up his nose, causing his eyes to become a little more human. “In the past, if there was a large enough tear, we would expect there to be a few smaller distortions form as a sort of ripple effect. Something of this size. Well, it does no good to speculate. If there isn’t anything within a few days, I would say we’re safe from a full-on cascade effect.”

  “What would have caused such a large tear to form, professor?” she asked.

  “Again, it is difficult to speculate. I have railed against this administrations lack of transparency for some time now, but have been stonewalled and shut down at every attempt. The Ministry has been keeping us in the dark about how much the fabric of reality was truly damaged during the crisis and I—”

  “Thank you, Dr. Kettleman,” the reporter cut him off before his tirade could gain more steam, clearly regretting having asked that last question. “We would like to make clear,” the newscaster said with a hint of annoyance, “that we do not condone any conspiracy theories on this network. That being said, we will be keeping a close eye on the developments as they unfold.” The important facts of the story already having been laid out, Ryan had somewhat tuned out during the commentary. He would be able to discuss things with his friends when he met up with them the next day. He had a lot to talk to them about, he thought, glancing around at his interface.

  Ryan had made enough progress on the dishes that he felt ready to start filling up the dishwasher. He dropped open the door and pulled out the bottom rack. Like it had with the dishes, the PerSpectives scanned the compartment and then highlighted areas matching the their aura colors, providing him with what it considered to be the optimal placement of each dish. He started stacking in plates, getting a little chime in his ear each time he matched one up with the corresponding color. He noticed tiny numbers adding up in his vision. Is it giving me a bonus multiplier for how many dishes I put in at once? Nice.

  The news report had him thinking about the Crisis. An event that occurred right around the time he was born, shaping the state of the world he grew up in more than the Minerva Down Incident had shaped his father’s. It had not been lost on him that the Crisis occurred soon after his dad’s disappearance, but none of his research had managed to make a connection between the two. There was never any public acknowledgement that the Minerva Down Incident and the Crisis were related, but somewhere in his gut he felt they had to be somehow. He thought of it as his own personal conspiracy theory that he didn’t mention to anyone else.

  As he let his thoughts meander, he finished loading the dishwasher, finally got that oatmeal bowl taken care of, and wiped down the counters. He was ready to get outside and see what he could get up to with his new augmented reality device. He wanted to see how much CP he could earn before his mom got home. He grabbed his jacket from the entryway closet and slid it on as a new system message popped up on his screen.

  A progress bar appeared below the icons in his upper left vision, flashing as the system calculated how much he earned. After a moment it filled itself up about two thirds of the way. Almost made it to level two, he thought. Also, the 335 CP he now had made him grin stupidly. He stepped outside to see what trouble he could get up to with his new device.