LeafLink (ONC 2024) (Complete)

Chapter 1

I was one of the first in a new generation of layoffs: a special kind, where your job gets taken away and given to a fucking plant.

A plain-faced HR representative broke the news to me one morning. I'd been offered zero warning whatsoever - I never even made it to my desk. The man had materialized out of thin air and shepherded me with cold diplomacy into a small, windowless room. I could still hear the faded sounds of Manhattan traffic through storm-gray walls; they matched the man's suit perfectly. It made his silhouette seem amorphous, as though he could melt away and disappear at any moment.

He told me that the company was 'exploring new avenues,' and that they wished me well on my future and profession. My memory gets choppy here, honestly; the dig on my career had genuinely triggered a micro-blackout.

I sat through the rest of the meeting in a daze, only snapping out of it when I realized the chance to defend myself was dwindling away by the second. So I gathered myself for a fight, and launched accusations at the first opportunity. I called him a sellout, a tool. I asked him which software was replacing me.

I'd like to think I had expected this, and noticed all the signs of change. But if that were the case, why hadn't I made more of an effort to do something? My gut reaction, as I'd made abundantly clear, was to blame the bots. Who needs to have a copywriter on staff anymore when some code can churn shit out ceaselessly? I hated it, but I could accept the logic of it all. The problem was, however, that I was only partially right.

The man leaned back to regard me, exacerbating the blurriness his suit provided. I wished I could have done that too - melt away into the backdrop. It was his expression, I realized, that had left me suddenly bristling at the attention. He'd tilted his head, brows furrowed, eyes sliding sideways to look at me. If you were feeling generous, you could almost call it an expression of sympathy.

"Things are changing," he said, after a moment. There was definitely a note of pity in his tone - I think he was actually feeling sorry about the whole thing. Or maybe he was just worn down from cycle after cycle of telling people like me to kick it to the curb. "It's not about the bots anymore. They're prepping for LeafLink."

I had actually laughed out loud, but I should've taken it more seriously. "You're fucking with me," I said, or something like that, "it's a goddamn experiment right now. What're they gonna do, wait five years with an empty office?"

The man sighed and rose to his feet. "There's always a transition period with things like this."

"What the hell does that even mean?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

"Well, you said it yourself," he said. "Software's a pretty good substitute. At least until LeafLink's ready."

And then that bastard opened the door and beckoned me out, as though this were an invitation and not a fucking condemnation.

But instead of throwing my chair at his head like I wanted, I stood and followed him out of the room. He offered to let me stop at my desk, to 'collect my things,' but there was nothing I wanted. So I kept my head down, avoided the inquisitive gazes of my ex–coworkers, and shouldered forwards until there was nowhere else to go, until I was standing alone outside the old, historic Midtown behemoth the company had chosen as its office.

I remember feeling very small, surrounded by skyscrapers with wrapping, mirrored skin. I'd read somewhere once that people had a superstition about mirrors facing each other. They believed that the space between could become a portal, a tear in the world where spiritual beings could infringe upon reality.

I looked up at those immense reflections, a dappled matrix of blue and gray, and wondered what might exist between these buildings. Maybe there were ephemeral things - the city's guardians - soaring above us all. I needed that, back then. The idea that anyone at all was watching. That I wasn't suddenly very much alone.

It was then that I decided to get home, before I had a mental breakdown on the sidewalk.

...

The first thing I did upon emerging from the subway was to access the newsfeed on my phone. In the three blocks between the station and my walk-up apartment, I scrolled through articles that both praised and condemned LeafLink. I also watched videos - some were vlogs that offered a look into Locust Valley. A few even included interviews with the LeafLink participants in all their smiley, joyful glory. I was still scrolling when I entered my apartment, so I threw myself on the couch without missing a beat.

It was a while later, under one of those videos' comment sections, did I finally pick up on the label people were using for these 'participants.' Shroomies. But the name didn't feel right to me. Sure, I was pissed at LeafLink, at what it promised - but it seemed wrong to go after those smiling people, to belittle them (even if they did look a little too happy about it all). It wasn't their fault their town had been seized, that they'd become subjects, observed by the rest of the country. I wonder what I would have done: sell at a loss, and leave my home, or dug in my heels and faced whatever came my way?

Whatever.

I had my own problems now, and I told myself to push LeafLink out of my mind - to erase it. But that was six months ago, and instead of purging the fucking thing, it became my entire life.