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Episode 1 · Teen · 18+ private alpha
Lantern Exclusive
About this story
The terms of service stated that municipal firmware updates were mandatory. They conveniently forgot to mention the orbital death lasers.
Katie Albright was in the middle of explaining biomechanical levers to a failing student when the campus library sealed its doors. The fluorescent lights died, blue energy barriers locked down the perimeter, and a cheerful cerulean interface branded her retinas with a new title: Unregistered Civilian, Level 1.
Apex Dynamics has turned Sector 1 into a live-fire corporate beta trial. The rules are simple: reach the Central Transit Terminal in forty-eight hours, or get atomized when orbital satellites sanitize the grid.
Katie has zero combat training. Her Strength is a miserable 4, running gives her side stitches, and carrying twenty pounds makes her back scream. But she has an analytical hyperfocus for system mechanics, an Army drill sergeant who knows how to hold a frontline, and Apollo—an eight-pound terrier mix whose neural collar translates canine logic into crisp, synthesized English.
The corporate death machines don't care about fair fights. But every software update comes with bugs, and Katie is about to read the fine print.
[APEX MUNICIPAL TELEMETRY | SECTOR 1]
CONTESTANT: Katie Albright
CLASS: Unregistered Civilian [Tier 0]
SECTOR PURGE: 47:59:59 REMAINING
NOTICE: Failure to reach transit gates forfeits life insurance eligibility.
Listen on Lantern
The fluorescent tube light above Brad's chair clicked every eleven seconds.
Katie had counted six intervals before she caught herself. She pressed her heel into the floor and moved her pencil to the diagram between them.
"Start at the shoulder," Katie said.
Brad looked up from his phone. Water from his hair had darkened the collar of his university swimming sweatshirt.
"Mine?"
"The diagram's."
"Oh."
His phone vibrated against the table. He turned it facedown, which improved the situation for almost three seconds.
Basement B-4 smelled of damp paper and the hazelnut coffee Katie had bought upstairs before the cafe closed. A skin had formed across the surface. She had taken two sips anyway. The cup had cost four dollars and thirty cents.
Across the table, Brad dragged a finger from the illustrated shoulder to the elbow.
"Biceps," he said.
"That's the front of the upper arm."
"Right."
"We're looking at the back."
He turned the sheet around.
Katie watched him do it. Then she put her pencil down with enough care to keep the cheap wooden barrel from cracking.
The study room had an oak seminar table, six steel chairs, and a thermostat behind a transparent locked box. The thermostat displayed sixty-four degrees. Katie's department occupied an office suite where only the people with salaries could change the temperature.
She had worn her cardigan anyway. Both cuffs were loose enough to fold over her hands. The right one smelled faintly of dish soap because she had washed a coffee stain out of it in the restroom.
"Extension at the elbow," she said. "When your arm straightens. Which muscle does the work?"
Brad's gaze moved to the clock above the door.
11:56.
He had missed their afternoon appointment earlier. At nine, someone from athletic academic support had emailed Katie with a subject line that began URGENT STUDENT SUCCESS CONCERN. Brad's eligibility review was tomorrow. The library had extended study hours. Katie's contract included academic support.
The email had arrived while she was reheating rice.
"Triceps," he said.
"Yes."
He glanced at the next sheet.
"So why would they put the other answer right there?"
"Because the question is about the movement. The muscle name comes after."
She set her forearm on the table and bent her elbow.
"Hold my wrist. Lightly."
Brad caught it between two fingers. She tried to straighten her arm against the small resistance.
"There. You do this at the end of every stroke."
He looked at her elbow, then at the diagram. For a few seconds his attention stayed where she needed it.
"Oh. When you push the water back."
"Exactly."
She drew an arrow beside the illustrated forearm. Brad took the pencil and added one of his own. His arrow pointed the right way.
At sixteen she had spent whole evenings working backward from the answers to odd-numbered math problems, trying to find the step she hadn't understood in class. Her homework took hours. When her mother called her lazy for sitting with a book, Katie kept her eyes on the page. Sometimes she read the same paragraph several times before the words made sense again. She kept a college brochure inside her math book. Between problems, she looked at the residence halls and wondered what it would be like to have a room there.
Katie let the moment settle before she reached for the next sheet. He could do the work. She had seen him do it twice this evening. She needed to find the right route into each question, and she needed him to stay with her long enough to take it.
She smiled at him. Encouraging, with her teeth covered. The expression worked well with nervous first-years and people who thought she was angry because she had stopped talking.
Brad slid the paper back. "So could you mark that one done?"
"There are twenty-three more."
"Yeah, but that's basically the same question."
Katie looked at the remaining diagrams. Rotator cuff. Forearm flexors. Lower leg. An entire human body of ways to be wrong.
"We can get through them."
Her laptop screen dimmed. She touched the trackpad and found the spreadsheet behind her lecture notes. Forty-seven lab reports remained ungraded. The cell beside her name in next semester's staffing plan still said PENDING.
She closed the spreadsheet.
Brad tapped his phone twice beneath the table.
"The thing is," he said, "Coach mostly needs the completion form."
"The form says you demonstrated understanding."
"Right. Which I'm doing."
Katie folded the end of her sleeve under her palm. There was a raised seam inside it. She pressed the seam until its edge became distinct from the table's cold surface.
She could identify every stage of the conversation. Request. Explanation. Second request in different words. Mention of someone with authority. Eventually, an email asking why she had made this difficult.
She had done enough of these to know the sequence. Knowing the sequence had yet to make her good at stopping it.
"Show me the next movement," she said.
Brad sighed through his nose.
The ceiling light clicked.
A cart rattled somewhere beyond the study room. The sound came through the ventilation grille above the frosted door: three short wheel bumps, a pause, then another. Katie glanced at the grille. A gray ridge of dust had gathered beneath its lowest screw.
She should report that. She should report the loose floor tile by the stairs and the exposed edge on the photocopier tray. There was probably a form. There was always a form.
Brad stretched both arms above his head. His shoulders filled most of the chair back.
"Could we take five?"
"We have four minutes before midnight."
"So, basically, yes." He stood as Katie lifted her coffee before his sleeve could knock it over.
And, without warning, the lights went out.
For half a second she could see the laptop, Brad's phone, and the thin green bar over the emergency exit at the far end of the corridor.
Then something struck a note inside the room, making Katie's teeth hurt. The sound climbed until she could no longer tell where it came from. She clamped both hands over her ears. Her chair scraped backward, and the scrape vibrated through the table, her wrists, and the soles of her shoes.
A blue line ignited along the baseboards.
Brad swore.
The door lock slammed hard enough to shake the frosted glass.
Katie tried to stand. Her knee caught the table leg. Pain broke through the noise. She held on to it to keep her head. Knee. Table. Floor. The blue strip ran beneath the door and around the room in an unbroken line.
The thermostat screen displayed a loading symbol.
Brad was at the door, pulling the handle with both hands. "Hey!" The alarm dipped and Katie heard him hit the glass with the heel of his fist. "Someone open this door!"
Her laptop went black. White text appeared across the screen.
Apex Dynamics
Municipal services update
Please remain available
A white point opened in front of Katie's right eye.
She jerked her head sideways. The point moved with her.
"Brad."
He pulled the handle again.
"Brad, there's something in my eye."
He turned. His phone lit his face from below. Above his left cheekbone, a white spot moved across the skin. A smaller red point followed it.
"You're getting it too," she said.
He slapped at his face.
The room tilted.
Katie caught the table with her forearms. Her stomach cramped against the edge. A bright grid passed across her vision, and the white point split into several copies. For a moment she could see the shelves through the wood grain beneath her hands.
She closed her eyes.
[Apex municipal onboarding]
Identity verification in progress
Please maintain a stable viewing position.
Repeated withdrawal may delay service activation.
The words remained.
She opened her eyes, bent over her coffee, and swallowed hard. "Stop moving," she told Brad.
"What?"
"The scan. It says stay still."
"How are they scanning us?"
"I don't know." It came out too quietly. She tried again. "I don't know."
The red point stopped over Brad's pupil. He froze.
Katie fixed her gaze on a dark scratch in the tabletop. The scratch had two branches. Someone had filled one with old correction fluid.
The scan tightened. Pressure built behind her eyes. She counted the edges of the scratch until the system finished.
[Identity match confirmed]
Albright, Katie
Municipal record: active
Trial enrollment: mandatory
A cheerful three-note chime sounded through the ceiling speaker.
Katie's fingers had gone numb.
The chime played again, a little louder, and a woman's recorded voice filled the room.
"Thank you for your patience during this exciting infrastructure transition. Apex Dynamics is committed to creating safer, more responsive urban environments."
Brad stared at the speaker. "Is this a drill?"
The recording continued. "Your participation will help shape tomorrow's public safety solutions."
Katie reached for her phone. It had slipped beneath the worksheet. She picked it up and missed the side button twice. The screen displayed the same Apex logo as her laptop. Her emergency-call shortcut opened a progress circle, stalled, and returned her to the logo.
"Emergency services," Katie said into her phone.
The speaker continued. "To reduce unnecessary administrative burden, enrollment has been completed on your behalf."
"Emergency services," Katie repeated. Her phone stayed on the Apex logo.
Brad shoved his phone toward her. "Mine won't call either." His screen showed a thumbnail of his own face above a red connection symbol.
His wrist pressed against her hand. She moved back too quickly and struck her hip against a chair. "Sorry," she said.
"Can you get the campus network?" Brad asked.
She tried. The settings icon opened a blue window inside her vision.
Katie lowered the phone.
The window stayed.
[Local communications]
External routing is temporarily unavailable.
Authorized municipal notices will be delivered directly.
Thank you for choosing reliable infrastructure.
She read the last line twice.
The text stayed in focus. The room behind it blurred when she looked at the small print. She shifted her attention to Brad's sleeve, then back. The window responded to the movement of her eyes.
Retinal projection, perhaps. Some interaction with the scan. She wanted an explanation with hardware she could point to.
There was a white marker now at the edge of her vision. When she concentrated on it, the communications notice folded shut.
The alarm ended.
Katie could still hear its highest note. It sat somewhere behind the newly restored hum of the ceiling lights.
Brad grabbed the door handle. "There's a release," he said. "There's always a release."
He looked at her.
Katie looked at the door.
The small green emergency-release box beside it had gone blue. There were three screws in its faceplate and a strip of new text above the button.
Access under municipal review.
She kept her gaze on the words long enough for another window to open.
[Exit hardware status]
Manual release: suspended
Remote authorization: pending
Applicable exception: emergency response access
Participant-generated distress does not constitute an
authorized emergency.
Katie's mouth had dried until her tongue caught against her teeth.
Brad shoved a chair aside. "Move." He hit the button. The plastic cover rattled.
Nothing happened.
Katie stared at the exception line. There was still an emergency-access rule. Someone had preserved a route through the lock. She could see the difference between a disabled button and a door that could never open. She needed that difference to matter.
Katie checked the hardware on either side of the frame. Above the blue release box was a narrow maintenance plate bearing the Apex logo. Two fresh screw heads sat in old paint. The university had put them in during the summer access-control retrofit; she remembered the week everyone had needed a temporary badge.
She had complained about the badge reader. Her complaint had gone into a portal that emailed her three times to ask whether she was satisfied. Now the same company controlled the emergency release.
She took a photograph of the plate with her phone. The shutter worked. A tiny preview appeared in the corner of the screen.
The camera still worked.
She opened the picture. The text on the plate was legible when she enlarged it. Local functions were available. Outgoing calls were blocked. She held on to those two facts and put the phone in her cardigan pocket.
Brad hit the button again.
A status pane spread across the center of Katie's vision.
[Sector 1 beta: activation complete]
Registered occupant: Katie Albright
Contestant status: active
Local evacuation window: 47:58:42
Please review your baseline service assessment.
Contestant. She read the word without finding anything to attach it to.
At the lower edge of the pane, a square icon pulsed beside ASSESSMENT. She looked at it. A second window covered the first.
[Baseline service assessment]
Name: Katie Albright
Level: 1
Cumulative XP: 0
Assignment: Research Assistant
Specialist eligibility: Level 5
Strength: 4
Constitution: 5
Dexterity: 6
Perception: 14
Analysis: 16
Physical activity classification: sedentary
Stamina reserve: 81%
Clinical care allocation: unassigned
She had attended a mandatory wellness seminar last month. The presenter had asked everyone to stand beside their desk for two minutes. Katie wondered whether that had reached the record.
Brad spoke from close beside her. "What's yours say?"
She tried to dismiss the pane. It shrank, leaving the numbers along the bottom of her vision.
"Four strength," she said.
He gave a short laugh.
She knew that laugh. She pulled her sleeve over the hand he could see.
"What does yours say?"
"Fourteen. Eighteen constitution," Brad said. His gaze tracked something in the air. "Varsity conditioning credit."
Of course there was a credit.
Katie looked at her own numbers. Constitution five. Dexterity six. Her knees had begun to shake, and she had spent the entire evening sitting down. Perception fourteen. Analysis sixteen.
In the corner of the assessment was an arrow marked DETAILS. She opened it.
[Assessment basis]
Strength reflects current force-production capacity.
Constitution reflects current exertion tolerance.
Analysis reflects documented pattern acquisition and
task-specific inference performance.
Assessments describe current capacity. Service enrollment does not improve that capacity.
At least the numbers had definitions.
She planted both feet beside her chair and sat. Brad remained standing. He had taken up the space between her and the door, his sweatshirt bright against the dirty cream wall.
"This is some kind of game," he said.
Katie watched the timer through the translucent assessment pane. Forty-seven hours. Fifty-eight minutes. The seconds continued to fall.
She had seen countdowns like that before. She had spent entire weekends in a headset, learning which floor markings meant move and which meant stay exactly where she was. The rules had been clear enough to study. If she missed a timing window, everyone knew why.
She had logged off afterward.
"There's an enrollment document," she said.
"Can you cancel it?"
Katie selected TERMS. The first page filled her vision.
Urban revitalization & readiness initiative
Beta participation agreement
Version 11.8.4
The scrollbar was very small.
Brad leaned over her shoulder. She could smell chlorine in his hair.
"Does it have a skip?"
"Give me a second."
The text moved when she focused on the lower margin. She stopped it at the first paragraph containing the word injury.
Participants acknowledge the deployment of adaptive
municipal enforcement assets within the assessment area.
"No," Brad said.
Katie looked up. "That's what it says."
"I mean, no. I'm not agreeing to that." He swiped at the air. His hand passed through whatever he could see.
Katie searched the bottom of the pane for a rejection field.
There was one button.
Acknowledge receipt.
She left it alone.
Further down, a paragraph explained that silence, immobility, refusal to interact with interface elements, and a temporary loss of consciousness would each constitute continued participation.
She read that paragraph more slowly.
Under it, a hyperlink offered ACCESSIBILITY SUPPORT.
Katie opened it.
[Participant support]
For distress related to enrollment, please consult
the enrollment agreement.
Your wellbeing remains important to our stakeholders.
She closed the message. Her hands were flat on the table. She could feel the pencil beneath the left one. The wood had a small split near the point.
Read the next line.
Contestant status supersedes employee access privileges,
academic credentials, athletic affiliation, and prior
municipal exemptions.
Brad would hate that.
She looked toward Brad. He was staring through the door's frosted pane.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
Katie held still.
Somewhere above them, something heavy fell. A hard impact traveled through the ceiling. Two shorter sounds followed.
The ventilation fan stopped.
With the air still, the study room smelled more strongly of wet concrete and old coffee.
A scream came from upstairs.
Brad stepped back from the door.
Katie waited for another sound to explain it. A student playing something on a phone. Someone hurt on the stairs. The television upstairs.
The scream cut off.
Her jaw hurt. She released her teeth and found she had bitten the inside of her cheek.
"We should get upstairs," Brad said.
Katie looked at the locked handle. "Yeah."
"Can you open it?"
"I've been reading the access conditions."
"Well, read faster."
Her throat tightened. She repeated the wording from the access notice.
"The administrative suspension of manual egress requires a remote authorization event, and the emergency exception appears to exclude distress initiated by participants."
Brad stared at her.
She could hear how it had sounded. She pushed her glasses higher. "The button won't work," Katie said.
"Then just say that." He turned away.
Katie brought the agreement back up. A section headed ACTIVE COMPLIANCE contained the phrase enforcement engagement. She opened its definition and a list appeared.
Move away from marked enforcement routes.
Keep personal objects clear of municipal equipment.
Follow all asset-issued instructions.
A footnote sat beneath the list.
Certain equipment classes may interpret rapid approach,
physical contact, or objects held above waist height as
hostile interference.
Katie read it once. Then she looked at the steel chairs. All six had tubular frames and square seats. The one Brad had shoved aside lay tipped against the wall.
"Brad."
"What?"
"Don't pick anything up if someone comes in."
He turned his head. "Someone?"
"I don't know what they mean by equipment classes."
A vibration passed through the floor. Katie felt it beneath her heel before she heard it. Two impacts, evenly spaced. Then a scraping sound. She moved her foot and another pair of impacts came through the tile.
Something struck the corridor wall outside.
The recorded voice returned.
"Your municipal environment is now entering an active assessment period. Please follow all posted guidance. Help us help you remain compliant."
A small red icon appeared in Katie's vision.
[Local service notice]
An authorized response asset is approaching.
Please keep access routes clear.
Brad's phone vibrated. He flinched and nearly dropped it.
The approaching noise stopped.
Katie could hear a motor turning. Its pitch rose, settled, and rose again. Something chattered in time with it.
Her attention fixed on the gap beneath the door.
Blue light reached through it. The light flickered as something passed outside.
"Hey," Brad called. "We're locked in."
Katie stood. Her chair legs scraped.
The motor settled into a steady whine.
A shape moved behind the frosted pane. It filled the lower half, then rose. Through the glass, Katie could make out a wide body and a jointed arm pressed close to the doorframe.
A point of red light appeared at the center of the pane.
It traveled across the glass.
Katie took one step left.
The point continued past her and stopped on Brad's chest.
Brad looked down at the red spot on his sweatshirt, over the white university lettering. "Get it off," he hissed.
Katie's assessment pane folded away and a new label fixed itself above the shape behind the door.
[S-4 municipal sanitation asset]
Routing priority: active
Contact advisory: Kinetic Reflection Plating
Stand clear of moving equipment.
Below the label, a thin line filled from left to right.
The scrape came again.
Katie could place the sound now. Metal teeth caught the tile beneath the door and cut a pale groove through its glazed surface.
Brad reached for the nearest chair.
"Leave it," Katie said beneath her breath.
He closed both hands around the steel frame.
The lock clicked open.
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