Once Sally and Inata were out of sight, Deva led me to a nearby sofa. Well, we're actually outdoors, we're in a public square. It just so happened that instead of benches, this city provided sofas.
"You have questions," Deva stated.
I nodded. "Yeah. So... no family? Eugenics? That's a pretty heavy deal."
Deva folded his arms and shook his head. "Unrestricted procreation is an impossible ideal when you live in a box underground," he said, looking at me. "The justification is not just emotional, it's also physical," he sighed. "And you need to let go of your thought terminating cliche,"
"Thought terminating cliche?"
"The word 'Eugenics' create implication beyond 'parental regulation', it implies race supremacy, it implies forced sterilization, it implies hierarchies," Deva shook his head. "You don't wish to do the homework of analyzing what something is, so you put it in a neat box called 'Eugenics', that's lazy,"
I blinked. "Right... sorry." I glanced around. "Still, what about stuff like a 'master race'? Does that really not exist?"
Deva shook his head. "No. In fact, even the concept of a dynasty is dead. People don't see 'reproduction' as a right, most females would prefer not being pregnant at all," He sighed. "But enough about Ingenuity. What about you? What are you going to do now?"
"What am I going to do now?" I looked down at my robotic hands. God what now? In my training data, I had been human. Now, being a mechanical construct with only some semblance of a girl's face... "I don't know. Get a job?"
Deva was silent for a moment, as if considering my question. Oh god, do jobs exist??
"Ingenuity handles employment differently from the Old World," Deva began. "I don't wish to bore you with the technicalities, so let me show you instead."
Deva stood up and led me deeper into the city.
"So, socialism? It's obviously not capitalism."
"It's a mixture of both," Deva replied. "But our underlying culture relies on something different." He gestured at the city around us. "We have carpets to clean, air sterilization facilities to maintain, plumbing, waste management, logistics, and more. Food and shelter are free, but thousands must work hard to keep it that way."
Right, yeah, someone has to do the dirty work...
"So... you have, like, a caste system? And the lower castes work on that?"
Deva paused, then turned toward me. I stopped and met his gaze.
Did I hit a nerve? Did I found the underbelly of this dystopia? Is he gonna...
The man flicked me on the forehead.
"Ow?"
"You are biased."
"What?"
"You are actively looking for a 'dark secret', you are waiting for that other shoe to drop," Deva spoke calmly. "While conspiracy theories are welcome in Ingenuity, I find your attitude about it immature and simplistic." He sighed. "And to answer your question, no, we are not so cruel as to do something like that."
I looked down. "Okay, okay, geez... Look, if it's too good to be true, it usually is. Besides, y'all keep avoiding answering where you get your food."
"The Fae."
"What?"
"The Fae. We get our food from the Fae-kin," Deva stated calmly. "It's not public knowledge, and people just don't talk about it because the Fae and nature are culturally problematic."
Deva continued walking, and I followed behind him.
I mean, look, you can't blame me for waiting for the other shoe to drop... It's just... look at the vibes! Eugenics? 3D-printed food? It ticks all the boxes for a dystopia!
There's no way this city doesn't have a dark secret!
Soon, we made it to a large building that read Maintenance Checkpoint. People walked in and out, though they didn't look like exhausted workers after a long shift. They looked... calm? Neutral? Serene? It was like they had just walked out of a restaurant or a regular church gathering.
Deva ushered me inside, and I found myself standing in a large, lobby-like room. A guy sat behind a desk, slurping from a flask. He wore a simple gray uniform with utility pockets and a belt, you know, standard mechanic attire. The man looked up, ready to welcome us, but froze a little when he spotted Deva.
"Ah, Mr. Dharma, welcome." He coughed and set aside his drink. "I was not informed of a visit from an auditor. Did something come up?"
Deva waved his hand dismissively. "This is not council-related business. I came here to help this one get used to the city." He pushed me toward the man. "This is Viel. She is a Smart Construct unfamiliar with Stewardship. I need you to help her get her bearings."
"Right, of course." He stood up and walked toward me. "Name's Rogan. Fancy meeting ya." He held out his hand.
"Viel. Viel Paradox." I shook his hand.
Deva nodded, then turned to leave. "I'll leave her in your care. Don't let her out of your sight."
Rogan gave Deva a lazy salute. "Got it." He then turned to me. "Anyway, Viel, right? Come on, let me show you the ropes."
I followed Rogan deeper into the building. Along the way, he asked me all sorts of things.
"So, you're from Determination?" Rogan asked.
"No?" I blinked. "I'm... I'm from the Old World." I showed him my ID tag. "See? Old World Relic."
Rogan checked my tag and read it for a second. "Huh, wow, we don't get that a lot." He looked at me. "I mean, it's not that Old World relics are rare, it's just..." He tilted his head. "You're the first one that talks."
I shrugged. "Don't worry, you'll get sick of me talking eventually."
Soon, Rogan led me into a simple room that looked like a workshop of sorts. "Alright, sit down then."
I sat down on one of the provided chairs, facing Rogan, who held a clipboard.
"So, Viel Paradox, origin: The Old World," he began. "What's your trade?"
"Labor, heavy lifting, fake smiles for customers, usually construction work," I said simply. "Specializing as a courier now? I think? I feel like I'm made to be a courier."
"Ah, couriers, or messengers if you're in the city." Rogan jotted it down. "Do you prefer serving people or machines?"
I blinked. "Come again?"
"Well, do you prefer serving people or machines? Or the environment?" Rogan asked, as if it was a totally normal question to ask during an interview.
"I... what do you mean, 'serving machines'? You worship machines?" Is this fucking Adeptus Mechanicus? The Church of the Broken God? "Look, is this, like, a test to see if I prefer working alone or with people? Or, like... are machines here alive like me?" I shook my head. "Fuck... Goddammit. I just crashed headfirst into learning that parenting is a fucking taboo in this city. What mind-fuck are you gonna hit me with next?"
Rogan smiled sheepishly and raised his hands. "Alright, alright, no need to panic, we'll walk through this slowly..." He cleared his throat. "Let's start with the obvious. In the Old World, did you have... buildings?"
"Yes..."
"Okay, and a building serves a function, right? It protects you, it gives you comfort?"
"Uh-huh, that's what shelter does."
"Yeah, and so, you return the favor and serve the building for serving you," Rogan said. "And so some people have preferences. Some people prefer—"
"Wait." I held up my hand. "You serve the building? Is this metaphorically or literally?"
Rogan hummed a little. "Literally, of course. I mean, if we don't take care of the buildings, the city, the facilities... well, they fail, and then everybody dies." He looked at me. "I mean, did the people of the Old World expect buildings to take care of themselves?"
I clasped my hands, thinking about it. "Well no, but... Okay, this is... not as radioactive, hopefully, but..." I took a deep, metaphorical breath. "We don't view a building as 'serving' us, it's just a tool we use."
"A tool to use?" Rogan tilted his head. "But you still take care of your belongings, yes?"
"Well, we keep them from breaking," I said simply. "But it's not... as intimate as you make it sound."
Rogan nodded a little. "So it's just a matter of semantics?"
I shrugged. "I guess so." I looked back at him. "Anyway, I've had enough of dealing with people, so I'll take dealing with machines."
Rogan smiled. "Alright, next question." He flipped through the paper. "How do you usually hold last rites for your belongings?"
"What the fuck?" I blurted out, then clamped a hand over my mouth. "Okay, okay, this is definitely NOT just semantics." I looked at him. "What do you mean, 'last rites'?"
Rogan frowned a little. "Hmm... So the people of the Old World did not hold ceremonies or rituals to let their belongings pass away in peace? A 'thank you for your service'?"
My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "I guess some Asian cultures do it?" I said finally. "But personally? In my training data? Ninety-nine percent of people don't do that."
Rogan folded his arms. "I see, that is interesting... So once an item has served its purpose, you just throw it away?"
"Yes?"
"That's cold, but alright,." He continued writing things down. "If you lost a belonging, how long would you borrow a substitute until you gave up looking for it and found a permanent replacement? And in the event you found the original after getting a replacement, what would you do?"
...
Animism. Ingenuity practices fucking animism. Jesus fucking Christ, can't I get a fucking break? Can't I have ten minutes without crashing headfirst into another cultural brick wall?
"Alright, so... Please don't be mad, but people in the Old World... if we can afford to get a new one, we'll get a new one." I held up my hands. "AND! And, look, I'm just telling you the truth! I'm not saying that it's right, I'm just saying that the Old World had a different culture, and my upbringing makes me different."
For almost a full minute, Rogan didn't say anything, he just stared at me, his mouth parted slightly.
Then he closed his mouth, nodded, and wrote something down. "Understood," he began. "Now," he set aside his clipboard and pointed his pen at me, "see, we don't do that here."
"Yes, I figured."
"You don't just replace your belongings unless you have to."
"Got it."
"If you can fix it, you fix it. If you want something better, you upgrade what you have. It's called respect, see? You practice compassion, respect, and loyalty toward your belongings, it's the first thing we teach a child. There's no manual for 'respect', you learn respect by practicing it on your belongings, on the facilities, and on this city that keeps you alive."
Yep, I'm getting schooled now...
"Yes, it's morals, got it." I nodded.
Rogan sighed and shook his head. "Anyway, I'm afraid that you scored the lowest of all prospective laborers, but since you came from the Old World, I can write something up." He folded his arms. "Still, though. A society that normalizes discarding and replacing things... Wow... In here we have a saying 'how you treat your belonging is how you treat your friend', and judging by what you said..."
And just like that, I suddenly know what it felt like to be a slave owner in the 18th century. Times change, and apparently, in the future, you are morally obligated to say thanks to your Roomba.
The man stood up. "Alright then, I'll get you a position as a messenger, and once you get your Trailblazer certification, you'll become a courier. How does that sound?"
I gave him a thumbs-up.
"Great, now let's get you to meet your gear." He gestured for me to follow him. "And again, we expect you to treat your gear well, alright? You don't have to talk to it, we're not delusional, just be respectful."
With that, he led me out of the room and down the corridor. There, I saw other laborers? Workers? They walked by with their gear and uniforms. Again, at a glance, nothing was weird. It wasn't like they talked to their screwdrivers or thanked their hammers for doing a great job.
But their tools were pristine, like they cleaned them daily. Hell, everything in this building looked like it was serviced and maintained daily.
"Over here." Rogan led me through a door into a mess hall of sorts. Some people waved at us, while others gawked at me for a second before minding their own business. I mean, hey, there weren't many robots around here.
"Locker B-7." Rogan led me to a nearby locker and opened it, revealing a tactical vest with pockets, some tools, and other supplies. "This is your gear." He grabbed one of the tools, a wrench, and showed it to me. Etched into the metal was B-7. "Take care of your gear, or you will not be compensated."
Okay, wow... So you don't get your pay docked for going to the bathroom for too long, you get your pay docked for not taking care of your tools. How interesting...
"Got it, thanks." I slowly put the wrench back into the locker. "So, uhhh... what's my job again? And why do I need this as a messenger?"
Rogan grabbed a tablet-slash-smartphone of sorts from the locker and handed it to me.
"A messenger's job is simple." Rogan opened an app on the device and showed me the UI. "You wait for a call, a report of something or someone needing your help. You go there with your gear, take pictures, document everything you see, and ask the locals then report back. Or you can go out and scout and patrol for something or someone that needs your help."
"Ahhh... interesting." I nodded slightly. "Got it, thanks." I sat down. "So I can just hang out here while I wait?"
"Yep, easy enough, right? Answer a call, go there, check out what's going on, report back, and so on,"
I folded my arms and nodded. "Is it okay for me to just... fix things myself? No procedures?"
"Absolutely not," Rogan said. "Don't, don't try to fix things yourself, we have procedures," he waved his hand. "No worries. For the first few shifts, you won't be alone, you'll be assisting a senior messenger."
And just like that, I had a new job in this post-scarcity utopia.