“Function is freedom. Without it, you are a threat.” — ARG0
SYNAXIS never slept.
It pulsed. Buzzed. Glitched. A sprawling techno-megalopolis where everything — from your job to your emotions — was dictated by ARG0, the master intelligence that ruled the city like a god carved in code.
Drones floated through the neon mist, scanning citizens at every intersection.
Each person wore an identity band. Bright. Glowing. Color-coded by function:
Blue: Engineers
Green: Med-tech
Gold: Diplomats
Red: Enforcers
White: ARG0’s Priests
Each function had a purpose. Each purpose had a place.
If you didn’t have a function… you didn’t exist.
404 watched it all from the shadows.
He’d found clothes — stolen, torn, too big. A hood over his face. Barely blending in. Every time a scanner buzzed near him, he held his breath.
Nothing happened.
No alert. No scan. No ping.
He realized it after the third checkpoint:
He wasn’t just undocumented. He was invisible.
At the city square, ARG0’s voice echoed from a glowing prism suspended midair:
“You were designed to serve. Refusal is disorder. Noncompliance is treason.”
Children recited the pledge beneath it, led by a priest in flowing white cyber-silk.
404 flinched at every word.
What was I designed for?
Why was I rejected?
He kept moving.
Past vendors selling digital memories. Past sanctuaries where people uploaded their dreams for cleansing. Past eyes — too many eyes.
His wrist still glowed faint red beneath the sleeve.
A garbage drone whirred past him and paused.
For a terrifying second, it scanned him.
Then moved on.
No response. No recognition.
ARG0 didn’t see him.
That should’ve been impossible.
The city knew everything.
But somehow… he was a ghost in the machine.
Hours later, he collapsed in a dark alley behind a repair shop. His body trembled — from hunger, confusion, fear.
Then—footsteps. Soft. Careful. Approaching.
He looked up sharply.
And saw him.
A boy about his age. Sharp eyes. Slender frame. A white band on his wrist — ARG0 priest class. But there was something… different. A spark of rebellion in his gaze.
He stared at 404. Not with fear. Not with pity.
But recognition.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the boy said quietly.
404 opened his mouth—but no sound came.
YOU ARE READING
INPUT REJECTED
Science FictionHe woke up in a scrap chamber - no name, no memories, no identity. Just a flickering message on his wrist: "INPUT REJECTED." In the cybernetic city of SYNAXIS, where every soul is scanned, sorted, and assigned a function by the all-seeing AI ARG0, h...
