SAL-i
April 20th, 2055
"How many days has it been now, Sal-i?" I ask facing the window, a towel clutched around my still-damp body.
"It has been 234 days, 4 hours, and 3 minutes since you went into lockdown, Violet."
I sigh, gazing at the hellish landscape in front of me. The sun is red and hidden behind smog so thick you can barely see the streetlights, which are almost always on now. Where there used to be the faint outline of mountains to the north, there is only fog. I can't even see into my neighbors' windows anymore.
234 Days.
I sigh and lean my head up against the glass. There are no cars, no bikes, no dogs, or moms pushing happy toddlers in strollers. I watch a single plastic bag drift down the street, in and out of the smog, tumbling and twirling in the air as if dancing.
I toss my towel on the floor and grab the cleanest hoodie and pair of leggings I can find. Water rations dictate we're only allowed one 15-minute shower every week, so I try to make the clean feeling last as long as possible. Although from the sounds of my neighbors above me, not everyone is taking the water rations seriously. (30-minute daily showers and running their dishwasher? The absolute heathens.)
I braid my damp hair and walk over to my desk. My apartment is small- a sterile, white studio, separated into four equally sized quadrants. Next to the window, to the right, is my twin-sized bed, a rug, and my hybrid dresser-bookshelf. Behind it is the tube shower, toilet, and sink. To the left, near the window, is my work desk and government-issued computer. Behind that is my very small open concept kitchen. Sometimes I think my stove is upset with me. I haven't used it since I had my VitaTube installed two years ago in the space between my workdesk and kitchen.
I take a breath and settle into my desk, turning on my computer. When the shutdown happened, I got lucky with my Government Mandated Lockdown Roll and was assigned to New Age Truth Analysis and Present Editing. I had just graduated from University with my bachelor's in Journalism, so it was an easy transition.
I type in my username and password into the small black computer and log in to view today's assignments.
"Good morning, valued worker Violet Therring. Are you ready to begin today's assignment?" My Sal-i says from the speakers mounted in my ceiling.
"Yes, let's begin."
May 16th, 2055
I lean back in my chair, attempting to crack my back. I've been skipping my mandated fitness routines for 3 weeks now, and it's starting to manifest via aches in my joints and spine.
I look at the curtains behind my computer and type in a command. With a satisfying swoosh, my curtains swing open, revealing an aggressively orange splotch in the clouds I have come to recognize as the sun.
"Sal-i?"
"Yes, Violet? How can I assist you?"
"How are the air conditions today?"
On cue, a file pops up on my computer screen with today's time and date.
ENVIRONMENTAL MONITORING SYSTEM - REGION 7A
Automated Air Quality Report
Location: Denver, Colorado
Date: May 16th, 2055
Time: 06:14 MST
Alert Level: PRIORITY-RED
SUMMARY
Atmospheric conditions within the Denver Metro Zone have exceeded safe inhalation thresholds. Air quality is CRITICAL. Outdoor activity is not permitted.
READINGS
PM2.5: 412 µg/m³ - Severe contamination; rapid escalation noted.
VOCs: 1.8 ppm - Unidentified compound signatures detected.
NOx: 342 ppb - Atypical pre-dawn spike.
Ozone: 178 ppb - Unhealthy; inconsistent formation.
NOTABLE ANOMALIES
Metallic particulates detected; source unknown.
Visibility reduced to <1 mile, amber haze concentrated over downtown.
Synchronous sensor surges recorded at 04:32–04:41 MST.
PUBLIC HEALTH ADVISORY
LEVEL 3 WARNING: Stay indoors. Seal all openings. Activate filtration systems. Await further instruction from municipal authorities.
End of Report.
Generated by AIRWATCH-9.2 Autonomous Environmental Monitor
With a sigh, I shut the file and drag it to the little trash can at the bottom of my screen.
I thought it was getting better. I even saw a person outside the other day, in only a medical mask and goggles. I thought the sky turning from red to orange was an improvement, but everything I've read so far says it's only getting worse out there.
I click away from the article I'm proofreading (a critique on the Shutdown Riots happening in the south), and open my VitaTube ordering screen. A menu with today's approved breakfast options pops up, and I scroll.
VITATUBE - DAILY PROVISIONS MENU • Denver Metro Complex
Breakfast Modules
Nutripack Oat Blend (Maple, Plain, or Citrus)
Protein Squares (Vanilla-Chia / Cocoa-Greens)
Rehydrated Egg Fold
Crispfruit Cup (lab-grown apple, pear, melon)
Snacks + Add-Ons
GlowBars (Energy / Calm / Focus varieties)
Salted Grain Chips
Fruit Gel Squares
Electrolyte Brew (Berry / Citrus / Unflavored)
Comfort Cocoa Tube
Unavailable Today
Fresh produce items - “Supply delay. Please check back tomorrow.”
All dairy modules - “Cooling system recalibrating.”
I click on the Crispfruit Cup, type in my government ID and Apartment number, and moments later, a chime alerts me that it has arrived in my VitaTube.
I take it out of the small plastic box in my wall, and rip open the eco-packaging with a satisfying snap.
I frown. There's hardly anything in there today.
"Enjoy your breakfast, Violet!"
June 29th, 2055
I’m halfway through proofing an article on inter-machinism dating when a news alert flashes across my screen, swallowing the document whole.
[NEWSFLASH - DENVER METRO FEED]
[6.29.2055 | 09:14 MST]
[Auto-play Video Begins]
ANCHOR (V.O.):
“This is a Priority-Red bulletin. Denver AirWatch officials have confirmed a second atmospheric breach within city limits. Residents are advised to remain indoors and activate sealed-air protocols immediately.”
[CUT TO: Aerial footage - a dense, rust-colored haze rolling over the skyline]
ANCHOR:
“Visibility has dropped below half a mile in the northern districts, and sensors are reporting a renewed spike in unidentified particulates. Today’s readings surpass the May twenty-fifth event by nearly thirty percent.”
[CUT TO: Interview clip - a masked emergency analyst, voice distorted]
ANALYST:
“We don’t have a confirmed origin point yet. Whatever this is… It’s spreading faster than predicted.”
[CUT BACK TO STUDIO]
ANCHOR:
“The Department of Environmental Stability is expected to issue a full statement within the hour. Until then, remain sheltered. Under no circumstances should residents go outside.”
[FEED ENDS - screen returns to static text: PRIORITY-RED ALERT ACTIVE]
I type in a command to shut my blinds as the auto-filtration begins, and all drains and faucets are sealed.
The familiar weight of dread settles in my stomach as the paper reappears on my screen.
I shut off the computer, take off my clothes, and crawl into bed.
"Sal-i. Lights off."
July 10th, 2055
"Good morning, Violet Therring."
I wake with a start- a jolt of electricity ripping through my entire body as Sal-i plays my morning alarm. I squint against the simulated morning light and roll back over.
"Sal-i, alarm off."
"Good morning, Violet Therring," the too-sweet feminine voice repeats, "it is Saturday, July 10th, 2055. Here is what is on your agenda today."
I roll over, folding my pillow over my ears. "Sal-i. OFF."
I groan as she continues, and I swear her volume is higher than before.
“Daily Agenda for Resident Violet Therring. Date, June 29th, 2055. Issued by Municipal Wellness & Productivity System. Task One: Place all worn garments in the approved mesh bin and set it outside your door for the scheduled Bi-Monthly Textile Collection. Pickup begins at 08:00 am MST. Task Two: Complete and submit the final draft of your assigned paper, ‘Emergent Gene Editing: Promise, Protocol, and Public Trust,’ to your Direct Supervisor, Dr. Helen Marrex, by 12:00 pm MST. Failure to submit on time will result in an automatic performance evaluation. Task Three: Complete the mandated twenty-minute cardiovascular session. Note: Extended inactivity has been logged and forwarded to the Wellness Oversight Division for standard evaluation. End of Agenda. Have a good day, Violet!"
I take a deep breath, staring at my egg-white ceiling as a notification pops up on the wellness tablet fastened to the wall on my right. Rolling over, I can see that it has auto-updated with today's checklist.
The checklists started about two weeks ago, after I had missed 3 scheduled showers, 24 wellness exercises, 5 meals, and failed to turn in an edit.
For the second week in a row. Without notifying a supervisor.
Now, every day, Sal-i wakes me up, pre-orders my breakfast using the allotted rations to align with my nutrition goals, and (in collaboration with my neighborhood's Wellness and Productivity System) creates a list of ridiculous tasks for me to complete by the end of the day.
I take the tablet from the wall and stand in the center of my tiny apartment. Sal-i has decided that the windows have caused "significant detriment" to my mental health, and instead now projects a hyper-realistic scenic mountain view, weather, and time of day, accurately. Today it is showing an overcast, drizzly skyline, and I watch a bird fly from one end of the screen to the other, a smallish black cluster of pixels floating in the clouds.
"Ten minutes until scheduled pickup, Violet."
I toss the tablet on my bed and grab my mesh laundry bag from its place by the shower. My floor is littered with the very few white or grey cotton shirts, hoodies, leggings, sweatpants, and underwear I own. I've been living in a sports bra and undershorts for at least a week now. I shuffle to each of them, shoving them in the bag. I zip the bag and punch in the code to unlock my front door.
"Main entrance unlocked. 30 seconds before re-locking."
Propping open the door with the bag, I wait.
"20 seconds before re-locking."
I take a deep breath, savoring the still sterile but just different enough smell of the hallway, and notice no one else has their laundry put out yet. Maybe today.
"10 seconds before re-locking. Please ensure you are in your room and safely away from the door."
I scan the hallway. The identical doors, the faded deep grey carpet, the flickering blue-tinted ceiling lights.
Please.
"5.
4.
3.
2.
1."
I slide the bag to the right of the door and slip back inside my apartment, just as the door slams shut with enough force to rattle the cabinets.
August 29th, 2055
Sal-i inturrupts me just as I'm finishing my last set of push-ups for the day.
“Attention, Resident Violet Therring. Today marks one year since the Denver Municipal Shutdown Event. In recognition of sustained resident compliance and community resilience, the Department of Civic Community has authorized a Special Treat Allocation for all registered occupants. Your individual treat package has been delivered to your VitaTube unit and is available for immediate retrieval. All scheduled tasks and mandatory activities for the day have been temporarily suspended. Residents may now enjoy unstructured free time until further notice. Congratulations, Violet. Thank you for maintaining stability.”
One year. The realization reverberates in my chest, and I can't tell if it's the workout or the thought that takes my breath away. There's a whooshing sound as my "treat" is delivered. I stagger over, my breath still ragged and uneven. Opening the plastic lid, I take out a small white box, wrapped in a neat little bow with a ribbon. Inside is a small, round pink cake with a single, real strawberry in the middle.
I pluck the strawberry off and throw the cake and the box into the garbage chute.
August 30th, 2054
"I'm just not so sure about this, Vi." My dad says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can understand where you're coming from- the stability of it and all, but a fully integrated Sal? I'm just not sure I trust all of this new tech yet. Especially not after this new fog rolled in."
"It's not just a Sal, Dad," I say through my mask as I pack the last of my boxes into the driverless cab. "It's a Sal-i. They're new and come standard with each apartment. I'm just lucky I got on the wait list before all..." I gesture vaguely to the blood red sunset on the horizon. "This happened."
"I suppose," he mutters, his gaze lingering on the sky. A look I don't recognize flashes across his face, and he inhales deep. "Why don't you just stay home for another year or so- wait it out? I know our townhouse is a little outdated, and Sal isn't quite up-to-date, but it's where you've grown up. I just think," he pauses, looking back at the house, "your mother and I just think. Well, that we'd all be better off sticking together."
I shut the car trunk and pause, a pang of grief starting to overwhelm me. I step over to him and pull him into a hug, for long enough that he can't see the tears in my eyes.
"I know, Dad, and part of me wishes I could just stay, too. But you know the deal. I only get one chance at this job, and the rules stipulate I have to live in government-built and approved housing."
"I know."
"I'll video call every day, Dad. I promise."
It takes all of my strength to step away from him. I know he is crying, too, but I pretend not to notice.
"I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you too, Dad," I say, opening the passenger door. I wave to the window I know Mom is at, propped up in her hospital bed, watching the sunset.
"Love you, Mom."
October 17th, 2055
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sit up in bed with my wellness tablet to look over my breakfast options for today.
VITATUBE - DAILY PROVISIONS MENU • Denver Metro Complex
• Grain Porridge (Standard)
Thin, lightly flavored. Fortified additives temporarily unavailable.
• Protein Crisp Bar (Single Flavor Only)
Compressed soy-base. Former varieties discontinued.
• Reheated Egg Substitute Cup
Reduced portion; texture variance noted.
• Fruit Gel Square
One per resident. Now made with synthetic fruit essence rather than fruit fibers.
• Warm Hydration Brew
Mildly sweetened water infusion. No electrolytes.
I sigh. At this point, I'd rather not eat at all. The food has become blander, and the portion sizes have only gotten smaller.
I select the grain porridge and hydration brew. I have to eat something, otherwise Sal-i will get her wires in a twist, and I'll be forced to watch those "Personal Health" videos again. I pull out a new shirt and sweats from my drawers, eat my government-mandated slop quickly at my desk, then toss the garbage in the chute.
I type in my username and password into my computer, a few hours earlier than usual, eager to get today's paper over with.
As my computer boots up, something different flashes on my screen. A picture in the top left corner, taking up about a corner of the screen. A vast field with pale-yellow grass and elk scattered in the foreground. In the back is a cloudless, pink and gold sunset outlining a snow-capped mountain range.
I pause, daring a glance at one of the four cameras mounted above me, used to monitor my habits. We’re rarely allowed to see photos, outside of news broadcasts or health and wellness training. Could it be a glitch? I consider alerting Sal-i so she can scan for any malware, but push the thought aside as I notice smatterings of small purple flowers in the foreground.
I click on it, and it expands, pulling up a page featuring the photo with a block of text underneath it. It’s nothing like the articles I proofread. Instead of the bright white editing screen I’ve become accustomed to, this one is all black, the text a harsh green.
A recent study by UCCS graduate students has revealed a near-miraculous finding: local fauna are returning to the grasslands of Colorado’s northernmost regions. This comes as a shock, after only
My screen goes black.
“Apologies, Violet. It appears your intranet work portal is currently down for scheduled maintenance. The system should be up and running again at 10 am. Until then, why don’t you take your scheduled shower and utilize this time to clean and sanitize your living quarters?”
I try to turn my computer back on, but it is unresponsive. It must be an old article. Or was it sent to me by mistake? There can’t be animals this far north. The residue from the smog has killed almost all vegetation, and I haven’t seen so much as a pigeon in the last year.
The screen where my window used to be is showing a city skyline at dawn, the same it shows almost every morning. I lean over my desk and peel up the canvas material from the wall, where it has been magnetized. I’m able to get a corner up, but behind it is dark. I stick a finger in, finding a hard metal backing.
“Sal-i?”
“How can I assist you, Violet?”
“Remove my window screen and open my curtains. Please.”
“I’m afraid access to your in-unit window has been revoked by your Metro Complex supervisor. If you are unhappy with the view, there is a variety of scenes available.”
The screen shifts to a rainforest in the middle of a thunderstorm. Then a moonlit prairie at night. Then a sunny, palm-tree-speckled beach with a striking blue sea.
I stand up quickly, my chair squeaking in response, and move over to the window.
“Sal-i. Open the curtains.”
“I’m sorry, Violet. Your access is denied.”
I pull at the canvas of the screen. It doesn’t budge. I grip harder, my fingers aching with the effort. Something makes a popping noise, but the screen still doesn’t move. My vision gets blurry with tears.
“Please abstain from attempting to remove your screen. Any damages caused will be reported to your supervisor, and your rations may be docked as a result.”
I grit my teeth. “It's my apartment, which I have paid for. That I chose. That I invested my savings in. I have every right to do as I please in my apartment.”
“My apologies, Violet, but I am afraid this Complex, as well as your unit inside it, is owned and maintained by the Denver Metro Complex and its subsidiaries. Under your residential agreement it is stated that no changes may be made to your unit without the agreed upon written consent from your Metro Complex Supervisor.”
“Then call my fucking Complex Supervisor!” I shake the screen, my frustration bubbling past my throat and coming out in a scream-wail.
“I have detected unauthorized erratic behavior. Please return to your bed and wait for your wellness pills to be delivered. Would you like to try a breathing exercise, Violet?”
Grabbing my desk chair, I fling it at the screen. As it bounces off with a clang and hits the floor, the power in my apartment shuts off.
November 2nd, 2055
They’re putting the “wellness pills” (horse tranquilizers, if I had to guess) in my meals now. If I don’t eat them, I’m not allowed my entertainment or intranet rations.
I spend almost the full day sleeping, woken only for a few hours by Sal-i to do an hour of work, 20 minutes of exercise, and to watch the mandatory news program. As today's broadcast flicks on (worsening air conditions, species extinction threats, and more riots), I turn it down and go back to bed.
December 1st, 2055
Today is Dad's birthday, but I don’t have enough rations to send him a cake.
Sal-i won’t let me video call people anymore anyway.
Sorry, Dad.
December 9th, 2055
I got up early again today to see if any new messages had gotten through, but found my computer dead. I haven’t seen anything since the Elk picture, but I still try every few days.
“Sal-i, is there an electrical problem in the building?” I look at the wires behind the monitor, making sure they’re plugged in.
“There have been no electrical anomalies detected, Violet.”
“Okay, can you help me turn my computer on then?”
“It has been decided by your Wellness Supervisors that your screen time be temporarily limited until your mental health improves. All work assignments and news articles will be received and submitted via your VitaTube until further notice. Have a great day, Violet.”
December 13th, 2055
I got a letter in the VitaTube today. Mom passed.
There won't be a funeral; they’re going to cremate her instead.
I still haven’t talked to Dad. Maybe he’ll come to the apartment if they let him inside.
December 25th, 2055
“Good morning. As a gift from the Denver Metro Complex, the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” will be broadcast to all devices at 1800 MST. Enjoy! Please note that rations have been reduced to aid in conservation efforts, and no holiday menu will be offered at this time. Merry Christmas, Violet Therring.”
Slipping out of bed, I climb into the shower, turning the knob as hot as it will go. Back against the steam-filled glass, I slide to the floor, sobs racking my ever-thinning body until I fall back asleep.
December 27th, 2055
I’m going to go now, I think.
When the door unlocks for laundry drop off. I’m going to go home.
My stomach roars at me as I gather a month's worth of laundry off the floor. I’ve been throwing away my meals. The crushed-up pills have been making it too hard to think, too hard to stay awake.
"Five minutes until scheduled pickup, Violet."
I reach under the bed to find my shoes, body aching in protest, and slip them on.
I consider taking my now-defunct computer, but don’t move to retrieve it. Sitting on the bed, I stare at my biohazard of a room, the screen over my window, the meals rotting in my VitaTube on top of weeks-overdue work assignments.
I wonder what it’ll be like to breathe outside again. I wonder how far I’ll make it without a mask.
I grab my bag and type in the code to my front door.
"Main entrance unlocked. 30 seconds before re-locking."
I open the door to the hospital-like hallway and toss my clothes somewhere in the middle. Sal-i warns that the door will lock soon, and to step away from the hall. Closing the door behind me, I see the emergency exit sign flashing at the end of the hall.
Sirens blare as I push the door open and rush down the stairs, fighting against the pain in my legs and the urge to sit down to rest. I fling myself down level after level, my face cracking with a smile I haven't felt since I moved in.
I take one last breath of clean air and push the airlocked exterior door, which swings open with a squeal of protest. The light nearly blinds me, but I still see it.
A yellow sun against a blue sky. Cotton candy white clouds. Dead weeds in the cracks of the pavement. A tree budding new branches.
And a single pigeon, flapping against the breeze, wings beating into the endless horizon.