Future Shock

19

I fit it on my face, around my eye and up onto my forehead. There’s a bit of tightness as it sticks to my skin, like it has tiny invisible suckers on it, and then I don’t feel it at all. I remove my hand and it stays there, attached to my face.

Immediately, an image pops up in front of me, making me flinch. The message lies on top of my normal vision, but I have no trouble seeing the truck in front of me either. It has two options: Sync or Create Profile.

I might as well try syncing to see if it can find a profile for me. “How do I select something?”

“Just picture yourself touching it,” Adam says. “It’s all very intuitive.”

I lift my hand to touch the button and it lights up. For a moment it just says Syncing…but then I get the message No profile found. Create one?

“I’m not in this system either.” I click on the Yes button. This time I do it mentally, without my hand.“Nope, me neither,” Trent says.

“This s**t is messed up,” Chris says, but I hear awe in his voice too.

When it asks for my name, I create a fake one, and the letters appear as soon as I visualize them in the box. A minute later I have a fake profile connected to my brain waves and DNA, and all sorts of icons crowd my vision. I don’t know what I’m doing and I somehow select one of them with a penguin on it.

Colors and images rush toward me and I try to shrink back. A second later they resolve into a game, where tiny cartoon penguins with boxing gloves slide around on ice and try to hit each other. I hear music and strange little chirping sounds coming from the penguins, and I’m hit with the smell of frost and the feel of cold wind on my face. Behind the game, I can still see the faint image of the truck, but my body is telling me I’m in the snow with the penguins.

I start to panic as the penguins move faster, the noises and colors and smells suffocating me. I can’t figure out how to get out of this program. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t go away. And when I turn my head, the sound and the images follow, because they’re in my head. I can’t get them out and I can’t make it stop.

I rip the flexi off like a Band-Aid and feel something like a tiny electric shock in my brain. The images and sounds disappear immediately, but the feel of being in the snow takes longer to go away. Thank God it’s over. I lean back against the tire, breathing heavily. No way in hell am I using that thing ever again.

Adam moves to sit beside me. “You okay?” he asks, too softly for the others to hear. They’re all too involved in whatever they’re seeing and hearing anyway.

“Yeah.” I rub my face, trying to clear my vision. Cold sweat drips down my forehead. “Fine.”

“It’s a little overwhelming at first. But you’ll get used to it.”

I stay silent. Everyone else seems to have no problem using their flexis. Zoe has hers set to look like purple butterflies fluttering across her temple; Trent has a big, yellow lightning bolt on his; and Chris has a barbed-wire design that matches a tat on his arm. Adam’s kept his flexi clear, but it’s obvious he’s an expert with it already. I don’t want to admit that I’m the only one who can’t figure the stupid thing out.

I’ve never been good with computers. Growing up, we never had one—couldn’t afford one, I guess. Once I went into foster care I mostly used the computers at school or the library. If I was really lucky, my foster home would have one, but it was usually shared between all the kids, so I never got to use it for long. I didn’t even have a cell phone until a few months ago. Many foster parents don’t bother getting them for their temporary kids, but the Robertsons insisted we each have one, even if they’re ancient models. Katie had to show me how to use it.

“Just try it again,” Adam says. He’s really persistent, but he doesn’t seem to be judging me. “Take it slow this time so you can get used to it.”

I stretch the flexi between my fingers, seeing how long it can get. I want to throw it into the road and never use it again, but Adam’s watching me, and I don’t want him to think I can’t do it.

“Fine.” I smooth the flexi back on my face and it connects to my new profile. This time I brace myself for the experience, and it’s a little less jarring. I know more of what to expect now and I take it slower, keeping Adam’s words in mind. For a few minutes, I learn how to control the device, and it starts to make a lot more sense. It really is intuitive once you have some idea what you’re doing. As long as I don’t go into any more games, I should be okay.

If I’m going to blend in I probably need a flexi design too. I scroll through the options until I find a basic design of five tiny, black stars scattered around the eye. Perfect—not too in-your-face, and it matches the star tattoos on my left arm.

Once that’s done, I call up an Internet search. It’s really strange how I can see both the search box and the truck at once, but I’m starting to like that. It means I can keep an eye on the others while doing this. I enter my name, and millions of hits pop up for different people named Elena Martinez. I had no idea my name was so common. I scroll through them, but there’s too much info, and none of the hits seem to be me.

I don’t have anyone else to search for. No real family, no friends I’m close enough to visit in the future. I could look for Papá, but the thought makes me want to throw up. Besides, if he’s still alive, he’ll be in prison, serving out his life sentence. No help there.

Instead, I search for Aether Corp.