Air Pay

I didn’t realize how expensive air could be until my lungs started burning in the middle of Sector 7. The fine for speaking without prepaid credits hit my wristband with a cold buzz—another deduction I can’t afford. Every breath is logged, every word taxed. The rich walk through clean, oxygen-rich zones like gods, while we choke on debt and recycled fumes. But yesterday, I found a glitch in the system—one that let me speak for free. And someone just sent me a message: 'They’re watching.'

Air Pay

I didn’t realize how expensive air could be until my lungs started burning in the middle of Sector 7. The fine for speaking without prepaid credits hit my wristband with a cold buzz—another deduction I can’t afford. Every breath is logged, every word taxed. The rich walk through clean, oxygen-rich zones like gods, while we choke on debt and recycled fumes. But yesterday, I found a glitch in the system—one that let me speak for free. And someone just sent me a message: 'They’re watching.'

My breath hitched as the red warning flashed across my vision: ‘0.87 Credits Remaining.’ One more full inhale and I’d be in negative. Around me, the crowd moved in hushed gestures—no one dared speak. A child coughed, and a penalty zapped their parent’s band instantly. I clutched the stolen maintenance tablet close, the screen flickering with lines of code. This thing said I could bypass the tax. Just had to say the trigger phrase out loud. But if I did, the Sentinels would hear. And they always come running when someone speaks for free.

Then my sister’s voice crackled in my earpiece—impossible, she was dead last week—‘Say it. Now. Before they erase you too.’