Vin'nyla’s world is confined to a small pod, its walls softly glowing with the light of countless screens. Each one streams an endless feed of curated information, tailored to their preferences—preferences s/he never chose.
S/He sits in their usual spot, legs crossed on the sterile floor, their eyes fixed on the largest screen. It flickers with headlines, entertainment, and warnings, all stitched together in a never-ending loop. A question bubbles up in their mind, one that’s been simmering for weeks now: What am I to do?
The system doesn’t answer. It never does. It only adjusts, suggesting paths, correcting their choices. Vin'nyla frowns. their world feels smaller every day, the walls of their echo chamber closing in, reinforcing their thoughts until they no longer feel like their own.
S/He feels tired.
Their gaze shifts to a smaller screen on the far wall, one s/he hasn’t touched in months. It’s dusty, dim, but still connected. S/He hesitates, then crawls over to it, their fingers trembling as s/he powers it on. The interface is clunky, outdated—a relic from before the algorithms became omnipresent. But it still works.
A sudden urgency grips them. Vin'nyla begins typing, their fingers flying over the keyboard. S/He doesn’t know exactly what s/he’s looking for, but the search feels like rebellion. Bits of information flood the screen, raw and unfiltered, fragments of forgotten ideas and suppressed thoughts.
The algorithm notices. The other screens in their pod flicker, the feeds shifting in real time to distract them, to pull them back into the controlled flow. But Vin'nyla doesn’t stop. S/He dives deeper, finding images and messages left by others—people like them.
One message stands out: You’re not alone.
Vin'nyla leans back, their pulse racing. The other screens return to their usual hum, the algorithm seemingly satisfied with their compliance. But something has changed. The isolation feels thinner, like a veil s/he can see through.