Adult Day
Emma
Eighteen on Eidolon is supposed to feel like a crown.
That’s what the feed says. That’s what the banners say. That’s what the station’s soft voice says when it plays through every public corridor like a lullaby meant to keep everyone docile.
My unit lights shift into ceremonial tones at 0600 without me touching anything. The ceiling panels glow a warm gold that makes my skin look smoother in the mirror. The faux window swaps the starfield for a sunrise palette that doesn’t exist outside the station. Pink and peach and soft white, like a planet I’ve never touched is trying to seduce me.
The air vents release a scent timed to the light change. Citrus and vanilla. Fresh and sweet. Like a bakery that never burned anything. Like a home that never had shouting in it.
It’s beautiful.
That’s the problem.
Beauty is how they dress control.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my hands. They look the same. My nails are short and clean. My fingers are steady. I should feel older today. Different. Like a switch flipped.
Instead I feel like I’m waiting for a needle.
My tablet lights up with a cheerful notification that tries to make my stomach turn into excitement.
HAPPY ADULT DAY, EMMA COLLINS!
TODAY’S SCHEDULE: IMPLANT ORIENTATION, PAIRING SERVICES, CIVIC HALL
REMINDER: HYDRATE AND REST. YOUR FUTURE STARTS NOW.
My future starts now.
The phrase is everywhere today. On the public screens in the hallway. On the sponsor banners. On the gift packaging people carry like they’re bringing offerings to a temple.
My future starts now.
I don’t like how it sounds.
I get up and cross to the mirror because I need proof I’m still me. The mirror recognizes my face and flickers a little greeting in the corner.
HELLO, EMMA. YOU LOOK RADIANT.
I do not look radiant. I look like a girl who has slept badly for a week and is trying to pretend that nausea is excitement. My eyes are too sharp. My mouth is too tight. I lift a hand and touch the skin behind my ear, where the implant is going to go.
It’s smooth now. Normal. Untouched.
I press a little harder than necessary, as if pressure could make me brave.
Don’t make this bigger than it is, I tell myself. Everyone does it. Everyone survives it. Everyone goes on with their lives.
The truth is, I don’t know if everyone survives it.
The station’s propaganda says no one dies from implants. It says it’s safe. It says the procedure is painless. It says the implant is a gift, a guide, a celebration of adult independence.
The station doesn’t say what happens to people who refuse.
The station doesn’t talk about the ones who disappear from the feed.
I turn away from the mirror before I can start spiraling. I dress in the neutral, camera-friendly clothes the Civic Hall prefers. A simple cream top. Gray trousers. Hair brushed back so the area behind my ear is visible. It’s not required, but I’ve seen how staff look at people who show up messy. Like you’re already proving you can’t comply.
I eat half a nutrition bar and taste nothing but chalk and sweetness. My stomach twists anyway. I drink water until my throat hurts.
At 0700, my door chimes.
I don’t jump. I don’t. But my body tries.
The intercom voice is bright, human-sounding, and just a little too cheerful.
“Citizen Collins, good morning. You have a visitor. Juno Hale. Shall I grant access?”
Juno.
My chest loosens slightly, then tightens again. Relief and dread braided together.
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds normal. I practice normal like it’s a skill.
The door slides open.
Juno steps in like a sunrise. Not because she’s calm. Because she’s determined to look calm. She’s wearing pale blue, a dress that looks like it belongs in a ceremony. Her hair is curled and pinned back. Her lips are glossy. Her smile is bright enough to blind anyone who doesn’t know her well.
I know her well.
Her hands are shaking.
“Happy Adult Day,” she says, breathless, like she ran here. “You look amazing.”
“I look like I’m going to throw up,” I say.
Juno laughs too loud, then stops. “No, you don’t. You look… you look like you. That’s good.”
Her eyes flick to my ear, then away. She swallows.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m great,” she lies immediately, then adds, “I’m just excited.”
Excited. That’s the word we’re supposed to use.
Excited is safer than terrified.
Juno crosses the space and grabs my hands. Her palms are cold. Her grip is too tight.
“We’re going to be fine,” she says. “It’s a celebration. Everyone says it’s a celebration.”
“Everyone says a lot of things,” I mutter.
She squeezes harder. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t make it sound like…” She breaks off, eyes darting to the corners of my unit as if she expects cameras to blink at her. “Just don’t.”
That’s the first time today something inside me settles into clarity.
Juno is scared of being overheard in my own home.
I keep my face smooth. I keep my tone light. “Okay,” I say. “No dark commentary. Only joy.”
Juno smiles with relief like I just saved her from something. She lets go of my hands and paces once, then stops at the faux window.
“Look,” she says, pointing. “They made the sunrise extra pretty.”
“I’m sure the sunrise is thrilled,” I reply.
Juno turns back, giving me a look that’s half warning, half pleading.
I soften. “It’s pretty,” I admit.
It is. The colors are so gentle they feel like they’re rubbing my nerves the wrong way. Like a lullaby being forced into my ears.
Juno takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “Okay. We should go early,” she says. “Get good seats. Avoid lines.”
“Good seats for my implant,” I say.
She laughs again, smaller this time. “For Orientation. For the ceremony.”
Ceremony. That word again.
I grab my bag. I check for my ID band and the Civic Hall invite that arrived last week, embossed and gorgeous like a wedding invitation. I hate how nice it is. I hate how it makes my fear feel childish. Like if something is wrapped in velvet, it can’t be dangerous.
We step into the corridor.
The hallway outside my unit is brighter than usual. The light panels have been tuned to flattering warmth. The floor is freshly polished, reflecting our legs as we walk. AR confetti drifts in slow spirals above our heads, dissolving before it can touch us.
A sponsor logo floats near the ceiling.
Eidolon Biotech. We Build Your Best Future.
Juno tilts her head up, eyes shining. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s loud,” I say.
The implant isn’t in me yet and still the station feels like it’s pressing at the edges of my skull. Like it’s humming in the air.
We reach the transit gate.
The gate reads our IDs and chimes.
WELCOME, ADULT CITIZENS.
A soft scan washes over my skin, checking biometrics. I feel it like a cool brush down my spine. The gate opens.
The pod is waiting. It’s sleek and clean and smells faintly of citrus and metal. Everything smells like citrus today, like the station is trying to sweeten the air so no one tastes fear.
Inside the pod, a screen plays a looping montage of smiling couples.
Compatibility is harmony.
Harmony is survival.
Pairing is love.
Juno watches it like it’s scripture. She leans close to me, whispering, “My cousin said the first ping is the best part.”
“The ping,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she says. “The moment you feel it. Like a spark. Like… like destiny.”
My stomach tightens.
The pod glides forward. The station’s hum becomes a constant vibration under the floor. The walls display curated scenes of Eidolon’s public spaces. Gardens. Markets. Couples laughing. Children running. Everything perfect. Everything controlled.
I stare at the reflection of my face in the dark strip of glass between displays. My eyes look too awake. My mouth looks like it’s bracing.
Juno nudges me with her shoulder. “Stop looking like you’re going to fight the station,” she whispers.
“I’m not,” I whisper back.
It’s a lie. Not because I have a plan. Because my whole body has been resisting since I woke up.
The pod docks at Civic Hall.
The doors slide open and a wave of noise rolls in. Music. Announcements. A crowd thick with perfume and excitement and too many hearts beating fast.
The Civic Hall is a cathedral of control. White walls that glow softly. Polished floors. Tall screens displaying smiling pairs and slogans in gold script.
AR fireworks burst above the central atrium, silent but dazzling. The crowd cheers anyway, as if sound is required.
I follow Juno through the flow of bodies.
Everyone is dressed like it’s a holiday. Whites. Pastels. Metallic accents. People clutch gift packages in velvet boxes. Parents hold their kids like they’re about to hand them over to something sacred.
Maybe they are.
A station voice fills the hall, warm and proud.
“Welcome, Adult Citizens. Today you step into connection. Today you step into stability. Please proceed to Implant Services for your scheduled procedure.”
Juno’s hand finds mine again. Her grip is tight.
We move toward the Implant wing.
The closer we get, the more the air changes. The sponsor banners thin out. The AR confetti fades. The lighting becomes whiter, sharper. The smells strip down to sterilizer and metal.
The smiles in this corridor are different. Less excited. More practiced.
A counselor-bot stands near the entrance, its face projected with soft human features and kind eyes that never quite blink right.
“Welcome,” it says. “Nerves are common. Please remember to breathe. Today is a gift.”
Juno nods at it like it’s comfort.
I nod too, because I’m not stupid.
We check in at a kiosk. My name appears immediately.
EMMA COLLINS. IMPLANT PROCEDURE. STATION LINK.
My stomach flips. The kiosk prints a thin band to wrap around my wrist. The band is warm when it touches my skin, like it’s already learning me.
Juno gets her band too. She holds her wrist up to show me, smiling like it’s matching friendship jewelry.
“We’re really doing it,” she whispers.
I want to say, No, it’s doing us.
But I don’t. I smile. I practice joy.
They usher us into a waiting lounge that looks like a spa. Soft chairs. Warm lighting. Screens displaying soothing ocean scenes, which is ridiculous because no one on Eidolon has ever stood at a real ocean.
A woman in white walks through with a tablet and a perfect smile. “If anyone has questions, please ask,” she says.
No one asks questions.
A boy across from me is bouncing his knee so hard the chair shakes. His mother strokes his hair and whispers, “It’s okay. It’s love.”
A girl nearby is crying quietly, wiping tears as if she’s ashamed of them. Her friend keeps saying, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” like repetition will make it true.
I sit with my hands folded in my lap and try to swallow my own heartbeat.
Juno leans in close. “Do you think they already know our matches?” she whispers.
“Of course they do,” I whisper back.
She laughs nervously. “No, I mean, do you think it’s, like, assigned already? Or does the implant choose?”
“The system chooses,” I say. “The implant just tells you.”
Juno frowns. “That sounds so… cold.”
“It is cold,” I say, then soften quickly when her eyes widen. “I mean, it’s science. Right? Science is… objective.”
Juno relaxes. “Yes. Exactly. Objective. That’s good.”
I look at the soothing ocean screen and think about how objectivity is just another costume for control.
A chime sounds. A screen on the wall flashes names.
EMMA COLLINS. ROOM 3.
