Fifteen credits sat in Kai's account like three sad poker chips at the end of a bad night.

  The grand total of his first full day as an official Nova Express employee. Barely enough for a meal, definitely not enough to change his situation.

  His assigned housing matched his bank account—minimal and depressing. A six-by-eight cell in Residential Tier 1 with sleep pod, hygiene station, and terminal access. Room rendered in shades of institutional gray that screamed prison. Or maybe that comparison was just too on-the-nose.

  He sprawled on his back in the sleep pod, watching faint data streams pulse beneath the ceiling surface. Outside his window, Server Nova never truly darkened. Neon advertisements glowed, data highways flickered, digital constellations crisscrossed the sky like circuitry on a motherboard.

  "Courier," he said to the empty room, tasting the ambition in the word.

  His Nova Express gig had already taught him three hard truths: Server Nova's lower tier was a maze designed by a sadist with a grudge against pedestrians, clients tipped even worse than real-world food delivery customers, and running packages on foot was a sucker's game.

  A gesture pulled up the system interface, menus floating before him. Most options grayed out or restricted based on his user status. RECREATION. COMMERCE. TRANSPORTATION. COMMUNICATION.

  The digital boundary markers of his debt prison. Five years of service to clear his family's obligation to MidCorp Financial.

  He paused on COMMERCE, expanding the menu to browse. His attention snagged on a listing for "Basic AT-Drive Skates - D-Class (Used)." Price: 1500 credits.

  Might as well be shopping for a mansion with fifteen credits in the bank.

  Interface closed with an irritated flick. His neck cracked as he sat up. Real body might be suspended in some corporate upload facility, but his virtual consciousness still carried all the familiar aches and pains. Clever programming trick—keeping users tied to the physical sensations they understood, even in a digital world where pain served no actual purpose.

  The time display showed 06:30. Nova Express shift started in ninety minutes. Another day trudging packages across the grid while the real couriers blazed past overhead.

  Unless he found a shortcut to those skates.

  Sleep came fitfully, digital world sensations still unsettling his consciousness.

  He woke before his alarm, ambient lighting gradually increasing to simulate dawn—another unnecessary physical-world concession that system designers had deemed important for user stability.

  First official day: fifteen credits earned, countless phantom muscle aches gained. Today would need to be better.

  The corridor outside hummed with early morning activity—fellow debt transfers and low-tier users heading to whatever jobs kept them marginally solvent in this digital economy. He joined the flow, navigating toward Central Transit where Nova Express maintained its dispatch office.

  Server Nova's architecture shifted as he moved between sectors. Residential Tier's utilitarian design gave way to more dynamic structures approaching Central—buildings curved and flowed with impossible geometries, streams of light moving through transparent tubes overhead like digital blood cells.

  He stopped at a street vendor, exchanging five precious credits for coffee. Whether or not his virtual body needed the drink, the caffeine molecule triggered the familiar jolt of alertness he craved after the rough night. The cup warmed his hands with simulated heat as he walked.

  "Nice sunrise," commented a voice beside him.

  Kai glanced over to find an older man keeping pace, avatar weathered by what had to be years in the system. His clothing—simple but well-maintained—marked him as another working-class user.

  The "sky" overhead displayed a gradient transitioning from deep purple to vibrant orange, perfectly rendered clouds catching light from a sun that didn't exist.

  "Is it always like this?"

  The man chuckled. "Depends on the weather protocols. SysAdmins change them up sometimes—stormy when they want people indoors, perfect when they want spending in the open markets." He extended a hand. "Marlow. Maintenance subroutine supervisor, sector eight."

  "Kai. Nova Express runner."

  "Ah, fresh upload on a runner contract." Marlow nodded sympathetically. "Tough gig, but better than data processing. At least you get to see the Server."

  They walked together for a block, Marlow pointing out cityscape features that newcomers missed—hidden cameras disguised as decorative elements, subtle indicators of security zone boundaries, almost imperceptible shimmer of high-traffic data streams.

  "Been here long?"

  "Seven years." Marlow's expression turned wistful. "Was supposed to be a three-year contract for medical debt. Company went bankrupt, sold my contract to another corp. Terms... adjusted."

  The implication hung between them. System debts grew rather than shrank.

  "Got any advice?"

  "Keep your head down, learn the shortcuts, save every credit." Marlow paused at an intersection. "And if you're smart, you'll stop staring at the skaters like you want to be one."

  Kai blinked. "That obvious?"

  "To those of us who've been here awhile." Marlow's tone shifted, more serious now. "Skating looks glamorous, but those kids play a dangerous game. Best ones work for corps, mediocre ones scrape by doing whatever pays, unlucky ones end up as cautionary tales."

  "What happens to the unlucky ones?"

  "System deletion, if they're fortunate." Marlow pointed up at a skater passing overhead, riding a light rail with casual perfect balance. "The really unlucky get trapped in corrupted sectors—code fractured, identities half-erased. Spend the rest of their time glitching between existence and nothing."

  Kai watched the skater disappear around a corner, leaving a faint light trail that dissipated seconds later.

  "Seems worth the risk."

  Marlow sighed. "They all say that." He checked the time with a subtle gesture. "This is where we part ways. Good luck, runner. Hope you find what you're looking for in here."

  Before Kai could respond, Marlow peeled off toward a maintenance access point.

  The Nova Express dispatcher looked marginally more alert this morning, avatar updated with fresh coffee and an expression suggesting she might recognize human language.

  "Reeves," she said, scanning his ID. "Three packages in your queue today. Standard rates, standard routes."

  "Only three?" Fewer packages meant fewer credits. Disappointing.

  She shrugged. "Light day. Everyone's watching the Exchange."

  "The Exchange?"

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The dispatcher looked up, momentarily surprised. "Right. New upload." She gestured toward a large display visible through the office window, where crowds gathered in what appeared to be an open market area. "Quarterly Data Exchange. Big corporations trading proprietary algorithms, indies showcasing new code architectures. Like Fashion Week for tech."

  "And that affects deliveries how?"

  "Most business users attending or watching feeds. Fewer transactions, fewer packages. Take what you can get."

  He accepted the three small parcels, tucking them into his jacket. "Any chance of performance bonuses?"

  "Sure." Her tone made clear she was humoring him. "Beat the estimated times by twenty percent, you'll see a little extra."

  Outside, his delivery queue activated. First destination: Financial District—a sleek corporate tower rising like a monument to digital capitalism at Central's edge.

  Estimated time: 18 minutes on foot.

  He set off jogging, mentally mapping the most direct route. Pathways were clearer than yesterday, many users gathered around public screens displaying Exchange coverage. As he passed, he caught glimpses—elaborate stage presentations, meaningless charts and graphs, audiences reacting to announcements with religious fervor.

  Server Nova's tech culture: another ecosystem he barely comprehended.

  First destination reached in sixteen minutes—not fast enough for a bonus, but respectable. The corporate lobby was digital intimidation made manifest, ceilings rising far higher than physically necessary, surfaces gleaming with unnatural perfection.

  A receptionist avatar—too flawless to be human—processed his delivery with mechanical efficiency. "Package received. You may go."

  No thanks, no acknowledgment beyond protocol's bare minimum. Already learning Server Nova's hierarchy: corporate affiliations at the top, independents in the middle, debt transfers like him somewhere near the bottom.

  Second delivery took him to the Academic Sector's edges—virtual laboratories and research facilities studying everything from system architecture to digital psychology. Package addressed to Professor Nakamura at the Institute for Computational Evolution.

  Unlike the corporate tower, the Institute welcomed him with casual disregard for formality. Users lounged in open spaces, engaged in animated discussions that filled the air with technical jargon. His arrival barely registered as he navigated the seemingly random layout.

  He found Professor Nakamura in what appeared to be a terrarium—a space filled with digital plants moving with apparent sentience, reaching toward visitors, changing colors as they interacted.

  "Ah, my data samples!" The professor—a slight woman with animated butterfly clips in her hair—accepted the package eagerly. "Been waiting days for these simulation parameters."

  Curiosity got the better of him. "Mind if I ask what you're working on?"

  Rather than dismissing him, Nakamura lit up. "Digital evolution models! We're testing whether spontaneous complexity can emerge from simple rule sets in isolated environments." She gestured to the plants. "These started as basic recursive algorithms three months ago. Now they're demonstrating rudimentary decision-making processes."

  Over his head, but her enthusiasm proved infectious. "So they're... alive?"

  "Depends entirely on your definition." She smiled. "Isn't that true for all of us in here?"

  One plant extended a tendril toward his hand, responding to proximity. The sensation as it brushed his skin felt perfectly natural—cool and slightly textured, exactly as he'd expect a plant to feel.

  "What I find most fascinating," Nakamura continued, "is how these organisms develop beyond initial parameters. They weren't programmed to reach toward human contact, yet most do. Emergence within constraints."

  "Evolution finding a way."

  "Precisely! We've been documenting consciousness persistence across multiple iterations. Users and environments developing unexpected patterns of interaction."

  "What kind of patterns?"

  "Memory artifacts, sensory adaptations, environmental recognition that shouldn't logically occur." She studied him with sudden scientific interest. "Have you experienced anything unusual since uploading? Perceptions extending beyond conscious awareness?"

  The question triggered memory—that brief glimpse of gridwork and symbols when he first arrived. He almost mentioned it, then thought better of sharing something that might mark him as defective in a system that already viewed him as property rather than person.

  "Just the usual disorientation," he said with a shrug.

  Nakamura nodded, though her eyes suggested she wasn't convinced. "Well, if you notice anything, the Institute catalogues such phenomena. We find the... unexpected adaptations... quite illuminating."

  As he headed toward the exit, he passed a wall display showing fragmented code sequences. For a moment, they looked eerily similar to patterns he'd glimpsed during upload—geometric frameworks underlying reality itself.

  Just coincidence, he told himself. Mind trying to make sense of a world he was still learning to navigate.

  Final delivery destination: a residential complex in Upper Tier 3, several levels above his humble quarters.

  The difference hit immediately. Instead of the utilitarian box he called home, these units featured customizable exteriors, private access points, security protocols that scanned him thoroughly before allowing entry.

  His recipient—entertainment designer Vance—answered with the glazed expression of someone deep in a creative process.

  "Nova Express," Kai said, holding out the package.

  Vance blinked, reality gradually registering. "Right, right. The reference materials." He accepted the delivery, then paused, looking Kai over with sudden interest. "New upload? You've still got that fresh-code look."

  "Five days in."

  "Fascinating." Vance's eyes took on the analytical quality of someone who studied human reactions for a living. "How's the adjustment? Finding the sensory calibration acceptable? Any dissociative episodes yet?"

  Kai shifted uncomfortably. "Just trying to do my job."

  "Of course, of course." Vance seemed disappointed by the mundane response. "Well, if you ever want extra credits, the experiential design labs always need fresh perspectives. New uploads see things differently, notice rendering inconsistencies that longtime users filter out."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Kai said, already turning to leave.

  "Look for the perception studies on the public boards!" Vance called after him. "Ask for the Uncanny Valley project!"

  Deliveries complete by mid-morning left Kai with unexpected free time and not enough credits to do anything meaningful. Rather than return to his depressing housing unit, he decided to explore.

  Exchange crowds provided perfect cover as he wandered through unfamiliar sectors. He discovered the Artist's Enclave, where users manipulated light and sound into constantly shifting installations. Passed through a Memorial Garden where data representations of deceased users were preserved in peaceful surroundings, visited by friends who had uploaded while their loved ones hadn't.

  Everywhere he went, he kept one eye on the skaters.

  They maintained constant presence overhead—couriers moving parcels between Exchange venues, corporate teams in matching outfits maintaining patrol routes, independent show-offs performing tricks for credits from impressed observers.

  He found himself gravitating toward a skate park nestled between commercial sectors. Unlike professional couriers, these were recreational skaters—users who invested in equipment for fun rather than profession. They lacked the pros' fluid efficiency, but their enthusiasm showed clearly as they practiced tricks and maneuvers on ramps and rails.

  "First time at Dataflow Park?"

  He turned to find a teenager—or at least an avatar designed to appear teenage—sitting on a nearby bench, customized skates dangling from her fingers.

  "That obvious?"

  "You've got the 'trying not to stare but failing' thing happening." She grinned. "I'm Pixel."

  "Kai."

  "You skate, Kai?"

  He shook his head. "Not yet."

  "Mmm, the 'not yet' says everything." She laced up her skates—basic models with aftermarket wheels pulsing blue light. "You want real advice? Save up for decent boots, but don't obsess over hardware. Kids spend fortunes on pro-level gear they can't handle. Better to learn fundamentals on basic equipment."

  He watched as she stood, balancing perfectly. "How long did it take you to get comfortable?"

  "Two weeks of face-planting before I could stay upright consistently. Another month before basic tricks." She shrugged. "Worth every bruise. Nothing feels like skating."

  With that, she pushed off, joining others in the park. Her movements were competent if not spectacular—controlled turns, modest jumps, occasional rail grinds sending small showers of light sparks cascading behind her.

  He stayed nearly an hour, observing techniques, noting differences between beginners and veterans. He paid particular attention to weight distribution, turning mechanics, subtle adjustments separating graceful movement from awkward stumbling.

  When he finally left, he had marginally better understanding of what he was getting into—and even deeper determination to try.

  That night, lying in his sleep pod, Kai ran calculations. At fifteen credits per delivery, assuming five deliveries per day, with occasional performance bonuses... he might afford basic skates within three weeks.

  Three weeks running grid routes on foot while others sailed past overhead. Three weeks of sore legs, minimal pay, and watching from a distance.

  Unless he found another way.

  Tomorrow, he decided.

  Tomorrow he'd get aggressive—take extra packages, find shortcuts, push for performance bonuses on every delivery. The faster he saved, the faster he'd rise above the gridlocked masses.

  As sleep claimed him, his dreams filled with impossible movement—body gliding through digital space, light trailing behind as he carved his own path through Server Nova.

  Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, he'd be one day closer.