Jim pushed past a leaning tower of cracked holo-frames and dusty servo parts, the bell above the door still echoing faintly behind him.
The shop smelled like old ozone and forgotten dreams.
The phaser felt heavier than it looked. Matte black, scuffed along the grip, its emitter ring slightly warped. If it was what he thought it was—an old civilian model inspired by the sidearms from Star Trek: The Original Series—it hadn’t held a charge in decades. The price tag was handwritten: 2 credits.
Two credits for something that once symbolized the future.
He slipped it into his coat pocket.
The box on the middle shelf was different.
Polished wood. Brass corners. No dust on the lid, as if someone had wiped it recently. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a belt, matching cuffs, and a collar—sleek, seamless, faintly metallic beneath what looked like soft black leather. Too precise to be handmade. Too pristine to be truly old.
The small etched plate inside the lid read only:
“Synchronization Set — Model J.”
Jim hesitated longer this time.
There were no visible clasps. No buckles. Just smooth inner surfaces that seemed to hum faintly when his fingers brushed them. For show? Performance gear? Some kind of immersive interface rig? Hard to tell.
Twelve credits wasn’t much. And something about the set felt… expectant.
He carried the box to the counter where an elderly shopkeeper with augmented eyes barely looked up from a flickering datapad.
“No returns,” the old man said flatly.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jim replied.
Outside, the city’s neon glow reflected off rain-slick pavement. Jim tucked the wooden box under his arm and felt the faint weight of the phaser in his pocket.
Behind him, unnoticed, the shop lights flickered once.
And deep inside the velvet-lined box, something gave a soft, almost satisfied click.
By the time Jim reached his apartment block, the sky had turned from pale blue to violent steel gray.
The rain hadn’t started gradually.
Sheets of water slammed down as if some bored climate technician had flipped a switch. Within seconds he was soaked through—coat clinging to his shoulders, boots squelching with every step.
He stood under the flickering awning of his building and glared up at the clouds.
“I hate this planet,” he muttered.
The weather systems were unstable. Artificial. Temperamental. They’d promised settlers controlled climates, agricultural stability, mild seasonal shifts.
Instead, the storms came like mood swings.
He hadn’t chosen to be here.
Years ago, a transport reroute. A bureaucratic error. A lost cargo manifest that listed him as “non-essential civilian passenger.” By the time anyone noticed, he’d already been processed, assigned temporary residency, then permanent status after the company that sponsored him dissolved.
Not dramatic. Not heroic.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his unit, water dripping behind him like a trail. The hallway lights hummed weakly. The building always smelled faintly of recycled air and overheated wiring.
Inside his small apartment, he kicked off his boots and let the wet coat fall to the floor.
Just the distant rumble of thunder rolling across the city.
He set the wooden box carefully on the table. The phaser he placed beside it. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at his two impulse purchases.
Two credits of broken hope.
Twelve credits of mystery.
Rain lashed against the window.
He wiped his hands on his shirt, then reached for the box.
The brass corners felt warmer than they should have.
And as his fingers touched the lid—
The collar lay in his palm like a question.
Smooth. Black. Reflective enough to catch the room’s dim light and bend it along its curve. It wasn’t leather—not really. It felt warmer than metal, softer than polymer, but too precise to be either.
He turned it over slowly. Nothing. Just a continuous ring.
“How do you even put this on?” he murmured.
The cuffs were the same—perfect loops. The belt, a single unbroken band with a faintly darker inner lining that almost shimmered when tilted.
No ports. No clasps. No instructions.
A collector’s piece? Some kind of avant-garde art? A prop from an immersive theater troupe? He couldn’t tell.
A distant crack of thunder shook the window. He glanced down at his soaked clothes, still dripping onto the floor.
“Shower first,” he muttered.
Steam filled the small bathroom quickly. Hot water beat against his shoulders, washing away the cold sting of the rain. For a few minutes, he managed to stop thinking about the planet, about being stranded, about the years slipping by without movement.
When he stepped out, towel around his waist, skin warm and dry, the apartment felt different.
He hadn’t left any lights on in the living room.
Yet the box seemed… visible.
He told himself it was curiosity. Nothing more.
Still barefoot, he walked back to the table.
The lid was closed again.
He was certain he had left it open.
A faint unease crept up his spine.
“Cheap hinges,” he said aloud, as if the explanation mattered.
He lifted the lid once more.
The velvet interior looked darker now, richer. The collar almost seemed to drink in the room’s light.
This time, when his fingers brushed the inner surface, a subtle warmth pulsed through it—like something detecting contact.
He didn’t know why, but the thought formed clearly:
He hadn’t measured. Hadn’t tried.
The pull wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a voice. It was quieter than that.
A curiosity sharpening into something harder to ignore.
Jim stood there, towel slipping slightly at his hip, collar resting against his palm.
He told himself he was only examining it.
But he didn’t put it back.
He tried once more to find an opening.
He pressed along the inner rim. Twisted gently. Searched for a pressure point, a hidden latch, even a magnetic split.
The collar remained a flawless loop.
Same with the cuffs. Same with the belt.
“No way this is wearable,” he muttered. “Maybe decorative.”
Unsettled but unwilling to admit it, he placed each piece back into the velvet-lined box and closed the lid firmly.
This time, it stayed shut.
He moved to the corner of the room where his holo-VR rig stood—a mid-range immersion unit, outdated but reliable. The visor lowered from its cradle with a soft mechanical hum as he powered it up. The room lights dimmed automatically.
A translucent interface bloomed into view around him.
He flicked through channels.
First, the action streams—kinetic combat sims, starfighter chases, street-level pursuits where you felt recoil in your hands and wind against your face. Explosions that thudded in your chest. Crowds brushing past your shoulders.
Next came exploration feeds—live and archived tours from distant colonies and untouched worlds. Immersive planetary walks where you could stand on alien beaches, drift above gas giant cloud layers, wander crystalline forests under twin suns.
He selected one at random.
Now he stood on a cliff overlooking a vast turquoise ocean beneath a lavender sky. Twin moons hung low on the horizon. Wind tugged gently at his shirt, simulated but convincing.
For a moment, he forgot the cramped apartment. Forgot the rain hammering against real glass.
The system adjusted terrain beneath his feet. Pebbles shifted. Waves crashed below with layered realism.
A caption scrolled faintly in the periphery: Outer Rim — Tourism Archive Feed — 7 years old.
About as long as he’d been stranded.
He switched channels again.
A desert world this time—golden dunes under blazing white sunlight. Then a city floating in the clouds of a gas giant. Then a forest of bioluminescent trees where the air shimmered with drifting spores.
Places he would never reach.
Not with his current status.
A faint vibration brushed his neck.
Probably just the haptic collar of the VR rig adjusting pressure feedback.
Still, the sensation lingered—subtle warmth encircling his throat for just a second before fading.
He frowned and reached up instinctively.
In the real world, beyond the holographic landscapes, the wooden box sat silently on the table.
The VR feed faded as exhaustion crept in.
The apartment lights brightened softly when he removed the visor. His body felt heavy—storm-soaked day, too much thinking, too much curiosity.
He glanced toward the table.
Still, he walked over and opened it again.
The pieces rested exactly as before—collar, cuffs, belt. Perfect circles. No seams. No entry points. Just smooth, reflective black.
He picked up the collar one last time.
Pressed along its surface.
“It’s impossible,” he whispered.
With a frustrated exhale, he set it back inside and shut the lid firmly.
This time he even turned the box sideways, as if that would somehow prevent… what? It moving? It opening? Ridiculous.
And the dream came faster.
He stood in the center of his apartment, but everything was darker, sharper, more reflective. The box was already open.
The collar hovered slightly above the velvet lining.
In the dream, he didn’t question it.
The collar expanded—just slightly—its surface rippling like liquid glass. It widened enough for his head to pass through, then contracted the moment it settled against his neck.
A soft click echoed in the silence.
The cuffs lifted next, sliding effortlessly over his hands, flowing up to his wrists without resistance. The belt followed, wrapping around his waist as if magnetized.
A thin line of glossy black spread from it, racing downward across his chest and back like ink spilled on water. It wasn’t cloth. It wasn’t armor.
Shiny. Seamless. Reflective like polished rubber. It flowed over his torso, down his legs, over his feet. The cuffs extended into gloves. The belt dissolved into the expanding material.
Upward, the gloss climbed along his jaw, over his scalp.
His reflection appeared in the darkened window—featureless except for subtle contours of his body beneath the smooth black surface.
No wrinkles. No openings. No edges.
The material flexed perfectly with him, hugging every line of muscle, every movement precise and controlled.
A faint internal interface shimmered behind his vision—minimal, elegant, waiting for input.
Then everything went still.
Morning light filtered through the blinds.
His skin was bare. Sheets twisted around his legs. Heart pounding.
Yet he could still feel it.
The pressure at his throat.
The smooth compression along his limbs.
The sealed, unified sensation.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, breath slow but uneven.
The memory of the suit wasn’t fading like normal dreams.
As if he hadn’t imagined it—
The memory wouldn’t fade.
Not like ordinary dreams that dissolved under morning light.
He could still feel it—the gentle compression at his throat, the seamless glide over his skin, the quiet internal alignment as the glossy black surface sealed into place.
That was the word his mind kept returning to.
He sat up slowly and looked toward the table.
For a long moment he stayed in bed, telling himself it was just suggestion. He’d handled the pieces, then immersed himself in VR, then gone to sleep. Of course his mind stitched it together into something dramatic.
Barefoot again, quieter this time, as if not wanting to disturb something.
The box waited where he’d left it.
The velvet interior looked unchanged. The collar, cuffs, belt—perfect loops, flawless surfaces.
He pressed his thumbs along the inner curve. Twisted harder than before. Tried flexing it.
No hidden latch revealed itself. No mechanical shift. No soft expansion like in the dream.
“It can’t even open,” he said softly.
The logical part of his mind felt vindicated. See? Just a strange decorative object. Maybe an art piece. Maybe industrial design. Maybe incomplete.
He set it down and tried the cuff.
He examined the inner surfaces more carefully now, holding them up to the light. There were faint micro-lines—so fine they were almost optical illusions. Not seams. More like… structure beneath the surface.
“How would anyone use this?”
No ports. No connectors. No size adjustment. Not even elasticity.
He placed all three pieces back into the box and leaned both hands on the table, staring down at them.
In the daylight, they looked harmless.
But the memory of the dream pressed against him, persistent and precise.
He hadn’t imagined struggling to put it on.
In the dream, it had known how.
As if it responded rather than required effort.
For a second—just a second—he thought he felt a faint warmth brush the back of his neck again.
Only the quiet apartment.
Only the closed wooden box.
Only his own breathing, slightly faster than it should be.
Daylight washed the city in a dull metallic haze.
Jim dressed in plain work clothes—standard issue gray, synthetic fiber that dried quickly and wrinkled slowly. Functional. Forgettable.
The transit tram hummed along elevated rails as he stared through scratched windows at endless industrial blocks. Towers of processing plants. Steam vents. Conveyor highways threading between buildings like arteries.
His job waited where it always did.
A row of metallic frames stood inside the factory intake hall—tall, skeletal rigs suspended from overhead rails. Workers stepped into them one by one.
Jim stepped forward when his number flashed.
The frame lowered around him.
Cold braces aligned along his spine. Armatures slid over his limbs. A collar-like interface locked at the base of his neck.
The exoskeleton didn’t replace him—it simplified him. His movements synchronized with the factory network. He lifted, carried, assembled, calibrated. Six hours of coordinated efficiency. No boredom. No frustration. No ambition.
Then the disengage cycle initiated.
The frame detached piece by piece. The collar interface unlocked with a clean mechanical click.
His mind flooded back in—messy, scattered, human.
Outside, the air smelled of hot metal and recycled wind. Workers dispersed into the streets in quiet clusters. No one talked much after shift-link; the return to independent thought was always disorienting.
And somewhere between the transit platform and his apartment building—
The box returned to his mind.
Like a background process running silently.
He reached his unit. Closed the door. Stood still.
Yet his gaze drifted immediately to the table.
The wooden box sat where he’d left it.
His fingers rested on the lid for a moment before lifting it.
Inside, the set gleamed under the room’s dim light.
He stared at them longer this time.
At work, the interface collar had locked around his neck without his input. The system had known his measurements. Known the pressure points. Known how to engage.
He remembered how natural that mechanical click had felt.
He reached in and picked up the collar again.
But as he held it, he couldn’t ignore the comparison forming in his mind:
The factory frame required him to step in.
Steam still clung faintly to his skin as he stepped out of the shower.
Instead, towel hanging loosely at his hips, he found himself turning toward the table again.
The box was already open.
He didn’t remember opening it.
The collar lay there, black and immaculate, catching the light like polished obsidian.
“I just want to understand,” he told himself.
He pressed along the inner curve. Twisted. Tried to flex it apart.
It shouldn’t fit over his head.
He exhaled slowly and, almost experimentally, raised it toward his neck.
The cool surface touched his skin—
And there was a blank second.
He was standing in the same spot.
The collar sat perfectly around his neck.
Flush against his skin, neither tight nor loose—precisely fitted.
His hands flew to it instantly.
He clawed at the smooth surface, trying to wedge a finger beneath it.
It felt integrated, like a single molded piece resting impossibly in place.
His pulse spiked. Panic surged up his spine.
He hadn’t felt it expand.
Hadn’t felt it slide over his head.
One moment it was in his hands.
Something subtle changed.
A warmth spread from the collar downward along his shoulders.
Like a volume slider gently lowering.
His thoughts felt… smoothed.
The frantic edge softened.
His breathing slowed without his permission.
“It’s fine,” a calm inner thought surfaced.
He reached for the cuffs in the box.
They were still seamless rings.
He held one up with trembling fingers.
It couldn’t go over his hand.
He placed it against his wrist anyway.
And the cuff encircled his wrist perfectly, smooth and unbroken.
Now both wrists bore identical glossy bands.
A solid ring too small to step into.
Pressed it against his waist.
And it rested snugly around him, just above his hips.
He hadn’t even picked up additional pieces, yet a subtle shift ran through the cuffs—
Material extended downward in a silent ripple, flowing like liquid polymer, forming smooth bands around his ankles as well.
Now he stood in the center of the room, towel fallen to the floor unnoticed.
All perfectly smooth. Fully sealed. No openings.
His reflection in the dark window caught his eye.
The devices gleamed against his bare skin.
The wrist band didn’t restrict movement.
A faint pulse traveled between the pieces—collar to cuffs to belt—like a network handshake completing.
His breathing steadied completely now.
The earlier panic felt distant.
The warmth remained, steady and reassuring.
And somewhere beneath conscious thought, something else stirred—
Waiting for the next command.
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