BLACKOUT: The Last Ballot

The city was wheezing—a massive, rusted engine pretending the gears still turned. Neon light bled across glass towers, flickering between luxury lies and state-mandated optimism. Every few blocks, some high-end electric coffin sat stalled in the road, its headlights twitching like a dying pulse. To the masses, they were traffic. To Zero, they were just chrome tombstones marking a world that had traded its soul for a firmware update. He kicked his vintage moped into gear, weaving through the gridlock of dead transports. The engine didn't hum; it rattled with an uneven, analog spite. No safety overrides here. Just a man, a grease-stained leather jacket, and exhaust pipes that actually had the decency to smoke. “Grid’s cooked again,” he muttered into his comms. “God, I love a night for the unlinked.” Mira’s voice cut through the static, sharp as a razor. “You’re such a romantic, greasehead. Still playing hide-and-seek in the graveyard?” “Not hiding.” He slammed it into a lower gear, skimming past a frozen hovercar. “Just passing the 'innovators' stuck in mid-sync.” “Careful,” she warned. “You dent one of those, the Ministry will have drones on your doorstep before you can blink.” Zero let out a short, dry laugh. “They’d have to find me first. I’ve been a ghost in their sensors all week.” Above, a massive hologram distorted the air—flawless, glowing faces boasting fresh neural hardware. A voice, dripping with synthetic cheer, boomed:“Pilot Phase Complete! 300% GDP boost! Neural-Link: The future is connected!” “Forgot the fine print,” Zero spat. “100% obedience.” “Talking to yourself again?” Mira teased. “You’re a week away from wearing a tinfoil hat.”