Hope for the Misery

The year was 2096 — a world draped in neon haze and digital chatter. Hover-buses whispered down the sky lanes, gliding silently above magnetic rails. Billboards breathed and blinked, changing images like thoughts, selling dreams that no one could afford anymore. Even the air smelled synthetic — a cocktail of ozone, engine mist, and recycled rain.

At the edge of a half-collapsed bus stand, a man sat — clothes rumpled, hair unwashed, eyes heavy with the kind of pain that comes from living too long. In one hand, he clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey; in the other, a dying cigarette that barely glowed through the drizzle.

That man is me.

My name — or at least the one I go by this century — is Callum Vire.

I've had many names through the centuries, most long forgotten, some carved on tombstones that still bear my face. But these days, most people just call me The Freak.

I guess that's my new name for the next hundred years.

I took another swig from the bottle, the warmth doing little against the cold rain. Then, out of nowhere, a gust of wind swept past — thick with static and the faint hum of passing hover-vehicles — and slapped a flyer against my face.

I groaned. "Oh, great."

Peeling it off, I was about to toss it aside when the printed words caught my eye.

> "Project Chronos: A Leap in Time."

Seeking sponsors and collaborators for humanity's first theoretical time displacement machine.

— Dr. Elias Ren, Quantum Dynamics Division

Contact: +H0L0-7739-92A

I blinked at it, my alcohol-fogged mind trying to make sense.

"What the…" I muttered. "A time machine?"

The corner of my mouth twitched, half amusement, half disbelief.

"Could this be it? The miracle I've been praying for?"

Hundreds of years of living — endless faces, endless centuries, endless pain. Maybe this was it. Maybe I could finally go back. Back to when it all began. Back to fix my mistake. End this torture once and for all.

I stared at the contact number… and then realized something painfully obvious.

I didn't have a phone.

In this age, even kids had neural-link wrist chips. Hell, even stray cats had tracker IDs. But me? I was too tired of technology — too tired of everything. Who would I call or text anyway? I had no one. No family, no neighbor, not even a dog. Just me, and time that refused to let go.

I guess I technically had a lawyer — a ghost of a man who only appeared when trouble curled its fingers around my throat. I never needed to call him. When he was needed, he always found me.

I looked around, half expecting to see an old street phone boot somewhere — like the ones that used to line every corner a few decades back. But those were long gone. They'd scrapped them thirty years ago when the holo-net took over. Now, if you didn't have a neural link or a holo device, you were a ghost — cut off, forgotten.

A dry laugh escaped my throat. "Well, maybe I'll just use someone else's phone."

I pushed myself up — or tried to. The world tilted, and I stumbled backward, landing hard on the cold metal bench. "Ugh… stupid drink," I muttered, rubbing my temple.

When I finally steadied myself, I started toward the nearest street corner. People saw me coming and immediately moved aside — stepping into the rain rather than share the sidewalk with me.

"Oh, right," I said under my breath. "Forgot. I'm The Freak."

That's how far I'd fallen. The man who once had a home — a wife, children, and a life filled with warmth and laughter — now sent strangers scattering like pigeons. I couldn't blame them. I hadn't bathed in… what, two years now? Maybe three? It didn't matter. I couldn't die, so no bacteria or disease could touch me. What was the point of staying clean when time itself couldn't wash you away?

Still, I smiled faintly as the crowd parted before me. "Makes life easier," I muttered. "Don't have to fight for space when I want to buy a coffee."

I looked around — scanning faces, hoping someone might be brave or desperate enough to let me borrow their phone. No luck. Every time I opened my mouth, they flinched or turned away. Fine. Since no one would stand close enough to breathe the same air, I'd have to buy one.

If there's one thing centuries of living have taught me, it's that people respect money, no matter who holds it.

I started down the wet street, eyes half-blurred from the drink, searching for a store. Then I saw it — a device kiosk glowing faintly through the drizzle, holographic ads floating above it, displaying the newest neural-linked phones and chip upgrades.

I staggered toward it. The moment I got close, two security guards stepped forward, hands on their batons, eyes narrowing.

"Hey, back off, man," one barked. "No loitering."

I raised my hand, revealing a thick bundle of cash. "Relax. I'm here to buy, not beg."

From behind a glass window — the kind used for customers to make payments — a man peeked out. The store owner probably, slick and wired, his skin marked with silver implant seams, studied me for a long second. Then he caught sight of the money and smiled faintly.

"Let him through," he said to the guards. "If he's paying, he's fine."

The guards hesitated and then stepped aside, I gave them a tight, humorless smirk.

"See? People still — and will always — respect money."

The man leaned forward as I approached, voice smooth and cold.

"Payment first."

He extended his palm through the narrow slot in the glass — no questions asked, no curiosity about what I wanted. Just the hunger for cash.

I sighed, handed him the bundle. For a moment, his expression flickered — greed lighting his features — and then it hardened.

"Security," he called. "Throw him out."

I tilted my head slowly. "Really?"

I placed the bottle of whiskey aside as the first guard stepped in, reaching for my arm. I moved before he could blink — a sharp kick straight to his chest sent him crashing backward into a holo-display, shattering it in a burst of light and static.

The second guard lunged, baton raised. I caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the glass window. The reinforced pane cracked but didn't break. My patience did.

"Big mistake," I muttered.

With a single shove, I punched my arm through the fractured window, the shards scattering like rain. The owner barely had time to scream before I seized his collar and yanked him out through the broken frame — glass slicing his sleeves as he tumbled onto the floor in front of me.

He hit the ground hard, gasping. I crouched over him, eyes flat. "Don't be greedy, mate. I paid you. You should've given me what I paid for."

As he trembled, his phone slipped from his shaking hand and I caught it before it hit the floor.

"Perfect," I muttered.

I aimed the device at his terrified face. Beep. Unlocked.

Grinning faintly, I pulled out the flyer and dialed the number.

A robotic female voice answered. "Quantum Dynamics, Dr. Ren's research office."

"I'm calling about your… time machine," I said, steady now. "I'm willing to fund it. Fully."

There was a pause. Then the voice replied, "Understood. Please come to Sector 7, Arcadia Complex. Dr. Ren will be expecting you."

"Good." I ended the call, tossed the phone back at the manager. "Keep the change."

As I grabbed the whiskey and turned to leave, I heard the familiar hum — Robo-Police units, their lights slicing through the mist. The air tightened.

"Subject Callum Vire," one of them droned. "You are under arrest for assault and property damage. Stand down."

I raised my hands. "Oh, not again… not these annoying robots again."

I was about to speak when they fired.

Electric arcs tore through the air — my muscles seized, the whiskey bottle crashed to the ground, and the world folded in on itself.

Then — nothing.

Darkness swallowed me whole.