Bloom Under Glass

The air in Bio-Dome 7 felt suspiciously clean, smelling less of genuine spring growth and more like a high-end botanical diffuser. I pulled the hood of my jacket tighter, not from cold, but from the slight, insistent hum of the environmental control system that vibrated faintly in my teeth. Outside, beyond the translucent geodesic panels, the real Toronto struggled through its annual thaw, grey slush clinging stubbornly to street corners like old chewing gum. Inside, it was perpetually mid-April: cherry blossoms at their peak, a gentle breeze rustling the genetically optimised 'Mapleleaf Perfection' trees, and the constant, soft chirp of curated avian soundscapes that never quite fooled my ears. A single, perfectly formed dewdrop clung to a rose petal, refusing to fall.

My Status Score, projected subtly onto the inside of my retina display, flickered an insistent amber. 67.4. Pathetic. Below the average for my demographic, even after I'd forced myself to participate in the 'Urban Re-Wilding' initiative last week. Spent three hours planting government-approved, low-allergen sedum on a vertical farm wall, my back aching, all while Livestreaming my 'authentic connection to nature.' My arm had cramped trying to hold the phone steady, but the algorithm didn't care about my actual connection, only my engagement metrics. Blythe had called it 'performative photosynthesis,' her voice dry as a desert wind, and she was right. So, so right.

I navigated the winding, moss-lined paths, my cheap, scuffed trainers barely making a sound on the spongy surface. I dodged a 'Content Creator' attempting to film a 'spontaneous' picnic with a drone hovering just out of shot, its rotors a low, angry buzz. Their forced laughter echoed unnaturally off the dome's reinforced glass, like a badly dubbed movie. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of disinfectant cut through the artificial floral notes. I hated this place, but it was the only way to meet Blythe without triggering a Location Compliance alert. She worked at the 'Authenticity Hub,' a government-mandated co-working space that ironically churned out sponsored content for 'organic living' brands.

'Cyrus! Over here, you luddite,' Blythe's voice, surprisingly loud and unfiltered, cut through the botanical hum, making a nearby AuraCam drone twitch nervously. She was perched on a faux-granite bench, her bright red hair, the colour of a traffic light, a defiant splash against the muted greens and greys. Her own Status Score, I knew, was comfortably in the high 80s, thanks to her mastery of the Content Matrix. She was good at it, unnervingly good. She always knew what the algorithm wanted, how to feed the beast without getting eaten herself. Sometimes I wondered if she’d actually started believing her own curated truths.

I slid onto the bench beside her. The faux-granite was cool and smooth against my worn jeans, not like real rock at all. 'Luddite? Says the one who got points for reviewing 'vintage' flip phones.' I picked at a loose thread on my hoodie sleeve, a nervous habit.

Blythe snorted, pulling a nutrient bar out of her satchel. The wrapper crinkled loudly, a jarring sound in the pristine environment. 'Retro-chic is a legitimate sub-genre, Cy. And besides, those phones were actually quite subversive. No tracking, no auto-optimization. Just... calls. And a terrible snake game that ate up your battery in minutes.' She tore open the wrapper with a decisive rip. A tiny notice flashed on my retina display: 'Auditory Disruption: -0.01 points.' I swatted it away with a frustrated blink. God, the constant surveillance.

'So, the 'Authenticity Hub' still churning out lies?' I asked, watching a group of elderly influencers perform synchronised tai chi for a drone. Their movements were stiff, rehearsed, their smiles just a fraction too wide. One old man wobbled precariously, his leg trembling. No one helped him. The drone just adjusted its angle.

'More like 'curated truths,'' she corrected, chewing loudly, a fleck of nutrient bar clinging to the corner of her mouth. 'Today it was 'How to live your best life on 300 calories a day' and '10 ways to make your apartment look bigger without actually moving' – as if anyone could actually afford a bigger apartment.' She rolled her eyes, a genuine, unforced gesture that made me smile slightly. 'My personal favourite was 'Discovering your inner minimalist through mandatory government divestment programs.'

'Divestment programs?' I leaned back, feeling the synthetic warmth of the sun lamp on my face. It was almost convincing. Almost. The air carried a faint, sweet smell, like artificial honeysuckle.

'Yeah, you know. 'Embrace decluttering! Your old belongings are merely holding you back from achieving peak personal efficiency.' Translated: 'The government needs raw materials for the next generation of 'Smart Homes' and you're hoarding valuable rare earth metals in your grandpa's old toaster'.' Blythe gestured vaguely towards the dome's ceiling, where tiny cameras glinted like scattered stars. 'It's all about resource allocation, packaged as self-improvement. Genius, really. Evil, but genius.'

I let out a low whistle, running my tongue over my teeth. 'And people buy that? Seriously?'

'People lap it up, Cy. They want to be told what to do, what to think, what to *feel*. The algorithm gives them answers. It gives them comfort. It gives them... points.' She tapped her temple, where a faint, almost invisible scar from an early-gen brain-sync port was still visible, a thin line of silver against her pale skin. 'It's easier than thinking. And who are we to judge? We're living in it, too. At least I'm getting paid.'

'I try not to,' I mumbled, scuffing my trainer against the faux-moss. My own existence felt like a constant act of rebellion, small and futile as it was. I hadn't uploaded a single 'Life Moment' in three days. My Status Score was suffering for it, falling like a lead balloon, but so was my soul. The constant performative living was exhausting, a never-ending audition for a role I didn't want. Every conversation felt like I was talking into a microphone.

'Oh, speaking of,' Blythe said, her tone shifting, a new note of seriousness creeping in. 'Peregrine got a 'Prime Tier' promotion at the Civic Harmony Centre. Head of 'Community Engagement Protocols' for Sector Beta. Can you believe it?'

My stomach clenched, a cold knot tightening in my gut. Peregrine. Always Peregrine. My older sibling, my eternal shadow and benchmark, always one step ahead, always shinier. 'Peregrine? Already? They're barely 20, aren't they?' I heard the whine in my own voice, hated it.

'Talented. Dedicated. Follows the protocols to a T. You know what they say: 'The algorithm rewards efficiency and unwavering compliance'.' Blythe gave me a look that was both empathetic and exasperated. 'Unlike some people who seem determined to actively sabotage their own futures.'

'I'm efficient,' I protested weakly, my fingers still picking at the thread on my hoodie, almost tearing it now. 'Just... efficiently avoiding the entire system.'

'Which the system interprets as inefficiency,' she pointed out, then softened, leaning closer. Her breath smelled faintly of synthetic fruit. 'Look, I know it's hard. I get it. But you can't just drop off the grid. Not completely. You still need access to basic services, right? Food, water, public transit. A roof over your head that isn't under a bridge.'

'I'm trying, Blythe. I just... I saw this old documentary. About, like, before. When people actually *chose* what they saw, what they read. When they could just, like, *be* without broadcasting it, without every single action being quantified and monetised.' I stared at the carefully manicured moss, tracing the lines of its perfection with my eyes. A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground, probably from a maintenance drone passing below us, shaking the bench just slightly. It was a real tremor, I thought, for a fleeting moment. A real, messy tremor.

'Sounds exhausting,' Blythe said, genuinely, making a face. 'All that choice. Who had the time? And think of the anxiety. 'What if I choose wrong?' 'What if I miss something important?' Now, it's all curated. Optimised. Efficient. And you get points for it.'

'Or manipulated,' I countered, the words tasting like rust in my mouth. 'The same people who sell you the fear of missing out are the ones curating what you see. It's a closed loop, Blythe. A cage dressed up as a garden.'

A small, genuine smile touched her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. 'See? This is why your internal monologue could get you some serious points. The 'Cynical Observer' niche is trending, Cy. You'd be a natural.'

'I'm not doing it for points.'

'I know,' she said, squeezing my arm, her grip firm and warm. 'That's why it would be authentic. It would sell.'

Echoes of Control

We sat in silence for a while, the filtered sunlight warming my face, a gentle hum filling the air. Around us, the dome buzzed with activity. A yoga instructor, perfectly contoured in form-fitting athletic wear, led a class of elderly citizens through a series of 'Wellness Flow' poses, their movements mirrored on large translucent screens beside them. Every breath, every stretch, every micro-expression, undoubtedly being processed, catalogued, and fed into the grand matrix of personal optimisation, nudging them towards a specific brand of nutrient paste or a 'mindfulness' app.

My internal thoughts, as usual, were a jumbled mess, like a drawer full of tangled wires. Peregrine. Always Peregrine. My older sibling, my eternal shadow and benchmark. They had embraced the system with a zealous fervour I could never comprehend, like it was a grand, exciting game. While I wrestled with the ethics of posting a photo of my breakfast – *Is it too bland? Does it project the right level of aspiration without being ostentatious? Will the algorithm penalise me for not having enough fibre?* – Peregrine was designing entire 'Civic Duty Engagement Sequences' for the city's less compliant sectors, their face alight with purpose. They thrived in this world of metrics and compliance, while I felt like I was drowning in it, always fighting the current, always pulled under.

I remembered last Spring, the first real Spring after the 'Authenticity Score' was rolled out. The air outside had been crisp, smelling of wet earth and exhaust fumes. Peregrine had been one of the first adopters, uploading meticulously crafted 'random' acts of kindness, 'spontaneous' moments of civic engagement, and 'thought-provoking' commentary on the latest government policy adjustments. Their score had soared, a rocket blazing upwards. Mine had plummeted, because I spent my days reading obscure, unoptimised historical texts on my offline reader – actual paper books sometimes! – and walking for hours in the truly wild parts of the city – the forgotten industrial zones and the un-redeveloped river banks where nature, uncurated, still did its own thing, stubbornly growing through cracks in concrete.

'You really should consider the 'Cynical Observer' niche,' Blythe said again, her voice cutting through my thoughts like a laser. 'It's got traction. Young adults are craving 'raw' insights into the system. You could leverage your... natural disinterest. And your general grumpiness.' She winked.

'Natural disinterest? You make it sound like a disease I picked up from an unsanctioned historical text.'

'It's a differentiator, Cy! In a world of curated enthusiasm, your genuine apathy is a commodity. It's *real*.' She pulled out her datapad, a sleek, almost transparent device that projected a small, holographic interface above it, shimmering with light. 'Look, 'Apathy Aesthetics' is trending at 8.3 million views. And 'Post-Compliance Satire' just broke 10 million. You could be a pioneer. A reluctant pioneer, but still.'

She spun the datapad to show me graphs and trendlines, bright colours against a dark background, a dizzying array of rising and falling lines. It was a language I barely understood, a world of metrics that dictated everything. How many views, how many 'likes', how many 'shares', how many 'engagement events'. These numbers determined your credit score, your housing allocation, your public transit priority, even the nutrient content of your weekly food ration. They determined *you*.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, feeling the faint grit of artificial pollen on my scalp. 'It just feels... dirty. To monetise my actual feelings of disgust with the system. Like I'm selling out the only genuine thing I have left.'

'It's not monetising, it's *optimising*,' Blythe corrected with a grin, a quick flash of white teeth. 'And it's not disgust, it's 'critical engagement'. See? We reframe. We adapt. We survive. That's the name of the game, Cy. Always has been.'

Survival. That was the core of it, wasn't it? My parents, bless their hearts, had tried to resist the early waves of algorithmic governance. They'd lost their apartment, their preferred ration tier, almost everything. They’d moved to the 'Legacy Enclave' in the suburbs, a designated zone for those who preferred a more 'traditional' lifestyle, which mostly meant poorer connectivity, slower internet, and older tech. I couldn't afford to follow them down that path. Not yet, anyway. Not when my stomach protested so loudly.

'What if I just... stopped participating altogether?' I asked, testing the waters, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt huge, dangerous, like lighting a match in a gas station.

Blythe stared at me, her red hair catching the artificial sunlight, making it seem almost alive. Her eyes widened slightly, a genuine surprise. 'Cyrus, you know what happens then. Isolation protocols. Resource de-allocation. You'd be locked out of the city network. You'd be living on the fringes, like the… Unaffiliated.' The word was whispered, laced with a mix of fear and disdain, a boogeyman story. The Unaffiliated were the bogeymen of our society, the ones who chose to live outside the network, deemed unproductive, dangerous. They were rarely seen, mostly just stories told to keep us in line. Stories with blurry, pixellated images and dire warnings.

'But what if that's... better?' The words surprised me as much as they did her. I hadn't truly considered it before, not like this, not with the weight of conviction behind it. The thought, once uttered, took root.

Blythe’s face crumpled slightly, her lips thinning. 'Don't be stupid, Cy. They barely survive. They scavenge for food. They don't have medical access. They get hunted down if they try to use public infrastructure, or even just walk through a regulated zone. You don't want that. Trust me.' She took a deep breath, calming herself, visibly shaking off the fear. 'Look, I have a new gig. 'Wellness Wanderlust'. I have to go to the 'Sustainable Foraging Sector' and film myself 'authentically connecting with nature' while harvesting pre-approved, pesticide-free dandelion greens. It's a three-hour engagement. Want to come? It'll boost your 'Civic Participation' score, which you desperately need, and you can complain about the forced joy to my face the whole time.'

I hesitated. The foraging sector was another Bio-Dome, further north. More fake nature, more manufactured moments. But it was also time with Blythe, who, despite her algorithmic mastery, was genuinely my best friend. And, if I was honest, my Status Score *did* need a bump. Food ration upgrades were tied directly to it. My stomach rumbled loudly, a very real, very unoptimised sound that startled a nearby synthetic bird.

'Fine,' I said, pushing myself up from the bench, a faint pop in my knee. 'But I'm bringing my offline reader. And I'm not smiling for any drones.'

Blythe laughed, a bright, unrestrained sound that made my retina display flash another minor 'Auditory Disruption' warning. 'Deal. Just try not to get flagged for 'Negative Emotional Contagion'. You know how sensitive the facial recognition is in those zones. And try not to look like you're plotting a revolution.'

The Foraging Farce

The 'Sustainable Foraging Sector', Bio-Dome 12, was even more meticulously crafted than Bio-Dome 7. The air here was scented with a dominant note of 'fresh earth' and a subtle undertone of 'clean pine,' like a ridiculously expensive car freshener. We were given brightly coloured, government-issued baskets – mine was a nauseating shade of chartreuse – and advised to adopt an 'attitude of mindful gratitude.' A chirpy AI voice, saccharine sweet, echoed from hidden speakers, reminding us of the nutritional benefits of our 'uninterrupted connection to the soil.' It sounded like the voice of a smiling tyrant.

Blythe, with her datapad projecting a floating guide-map shimmering above her palm, moved with practiced ease. She picked dandelions with an almost theatrical grace, her fingers delicate, positioning herself perfectly for the small, unobtrusive 'AuraCam' drones that zipped silently through the simulated canopy like metallic dragonflies. I saw her lips move, narrating her actions for her followers, her voice a calm, serene purr, a performance honed to perfection. 'And here, friends, we have the humble dandelion, a symbol of resilience and natural abundance. Notice the vibrant green, indicating its peak nutritional value, carefully cultivated here in our pristine Foraging Sector for your holistic well-being.'

I, on the other hand, stumbled over a perfectly placed decorative rock – suspiciously round and smooth – sending my empty, chartreuse basket skittering across the manicured dirt with a dull thud. My knee knocked against a perfectly sculpted bush, and I cursed under my breath.

'Graceful, Cy. Very authentic,' Blythe muttered, not looking up from her task, her smile unwavering for the hovering drone. 'Shh! I'm live. Remember your 'Cynical Observer' persona. It's subtle sarcasm, not outright mutiny. They’re always listening.'

I grumbled, bending down to pick a dandelion, mostly just to have something in my basket, to avoid standing out. The stem snapped with a synthetic-sounding crunch that made my teeth ache. This wasn't foraging; it was harvesting from a meticulously designed set. The 'dandelions' were too perfect, too uniform. Every leaf, every yellow head, looked identical to the last, like they'd been stamped out by a machine. My fingers, accustomed to the rough edges of real life, felt clumsy on their smooth, almost waxy surfaces.

I felt a sudden, profound loneliness, a chill that had nothing to do with the air temperature. This was our reality. Performing for algorithms, pretending to connect with a nature that wasn't real, our lives meticulously catalogued and scored. What was left? What part of us could truly be authentic when every moment was potentially a data point, every emotion a metric, every interaction a performance? It was like living inside a giant, beautiful, suffocating advertisement.

I wandered off the main path, past a group of younger influencers trying to construct a 'rustic' lean-to out of pre-cut, sterilised branches, their faces flushed with artificial exertion. They were struggling, giggling, posing for their own drones. Their drone captured every awkward, endearing moment, every forced laugh. It was all a show. Even their clumsy attempts at 'roughing it' were meticulously planned and executed for maximum engagement.

I found myself near a transparent wall, the edge of the Bio-Dome. The cold kiss of the glass pressed against my fingertips. I looked out beyond the dome. The sky was still overcast, a bruised grey, heavy with unfulfilled promises. The real trees out there, leafless and skeletal, shivered in a cold, blustery wind that picked up dust and flung it against the glass. It looked bleak, yes, but it also looked *real*. Unfiltered. Unoptimised. A single brown leaf, caught on a gust, tumbled past the glass, a defiant, messy scrap of authentic decay, spiralling downwards. It wasn't perfect, but it felt more honest than anything inside this bubble. The wind howled a real tune out there, not a curated soundscape.

A small tremor again, stronger this time. The ground beneath me vibrated, a deeper, resonant hum that cut through the dome's constant thrum. The artificial birdsong briefly stuttered, skipping like a broken record, before resuming its loop, slightly out of sync. I looked around. No one else seemed to notice, too engrossed in their performative foraging, their eyes glued to their datapads or their own reflection in the drone's lens. Or maybe they just chose to ignore it. Compliance, after all, was easier. Safer.

I pressed my hand against the cool, smooth glass of the dome. Out there, the wind whipped, carrying the scent of damp soil and something metallic, something wild. Out there, things died and were reborn without a Status Score, without a single algorithm dictating their purpose. Out there, winter actually ended, giving way to spring, messy and unpredictable, just as it should be. The grey sky promised rain, real rain.

My retina display flared, demanding attention, pulling me back with an insistent tug. A new alert. 'Personalised Trend Recommendation: 'Authentic Solitude' – explore isolated spaces for genuine self-reflection. Current engagement opportunities: Bio-Dome 12's 'Contemplation Grove'. Boost your 'Inner Peace' metric.'

The irony was almost too much, a bitter taste in my mouth. The algorithm was trying to curate my rebellion, too. It was offering me a pre-packaged, optimised version of the very authenticity I was seeking. Could there be an escape from this curated reality, or was every path, even the path of defiance, already foreseen and commodified, waiting for me to walk it for a few more paltry points? I looked at the lone brown leaf, now stuck against the outside of the dome, caught by static electricity. It slowly began to tear, shredding in the real wind, its ragged edges a stark contrast to the perfect dandelions within. A new crack, fine as a hair, appeared on the transparent wall, just beside where my hand rested.