At least once per day, I hear about someone dying horribly on the news. So far this week, the religious fanatics from the Order of Eternal Rebirth set a bus full of preschoolers on fire; an entire family was buried alive by the Kokuryu-kai over gambling money; a gang of teens high on Flux scalped several members of another gang, and an eleven-foot tall monster with seven sets of arms ending in razor-sharp claws materialized inside an office building, killing 17 people before the Rapid Response Task Force arrived.

None of those people ever imagined that their lives would end that way. I don't think many people imagine what their death is going to be like. I try not to think too much about it.

The train is packed as usual, but today I scored a seat by the window. It's another cold day of acid snow, but the air inside the train feels clammy. Through the misty windows, I watch the glass towers that pierce the perpetually overcast clouds above the crowded, gray streets of Sapporo.

Here I am, mom and dad, obediently taking the train to cram school like a good girl. After all, I need to secure a spot in a top-tier university if I don't want to scrap by on minimum wage. I spend my days commuting from overcrowded classroom to overcrowded classroom, learning things I care nothing about, with only algorithmically generated slop to break up the monotony. All in the name of becoming a good drone, one of the millions of cogs in the corporate machine, working until my body inevitably gives out. Did my parents really think I would find this kind of life enjoyable? Because they certainly don't seem to enjoy it at all. 

I peer out the window again, into the endless stream of people walking, driving, hiding inside those towering glass prisons. How much damage will they endure and how much damage will they cause before they finally die? Sorry dad, I really don't want to be a part of this and maybe I'd rather die. Sorry mom, I'm going to skip cram school today.

The train doors open. A stream of people leaves and is immediately replaced by a near identical crowd. Some of them are wearing school uniforms, some others wearing their corporate salaryman clothes. Nearly all of them glued to their phone screens.

"Miss Nishizawa," my phone's AI assistant blares in my ear, sensing that I'm not moving from my seat "Please step off the train, you will arrive late to your classes if----"

I swipe the alert away, feeling a twinge of irritation. The doors close and the train begins moving again. A moment later, my phone rings.

"Hikari, where the hell do you think you're going?" My mother's voice is strained, cold, trying to keep her frustration in check while she's at work "Get back to your classes. Right. Now." 

My heart sinks at the sound of her voice. I don't want to face her anger, so I hang up without a word. Almost immediately, my phone starts buzzing with notifications: Every app, every website, every outlet for entertainment has been blocked. I go down in the global ranking of Tokyo University's aspirants. I wont be allowed access to any business or recreational space. I can't use my money or any of my accounts. All I can do is use public transportation until my parents re-enable my rights. They could notify the police and have them pick me up at the next station if they so desired, but I know they wont go that far. Very few things are more shameful than getting the cops to drag your kids back into school, and it's not like I have any other options anyway. 

Another station, another exchange of passengers. I push my way out into the station and I'm greeted by a biting cold air. To my surprise, there are cops on the station, but they are definitely not waiting for me: Heavily armored from head to toe, carrying big scary guns that could punch holes through the train, their faces covered behind a mask that looks like a black mirror with red dots. Small drones float around them, watching their back, checking the ID of every single person that comes by. Their mechanical coordination, distorted voices, rigid and sterile inflexibility makes you forget that below those inches of protective metal alloy beats a human heart.

An electronic shriek pierces the air. One of the drones has gone off somewhere behind me. The tin-men in front of me ready their weapons and rush toward the train.

"Move! Move! Get out of the way!" an inhuman voice barks. People part like the red sea, and those who don't get shoved away. Some people hurry to get as far away as possible from whatever is going on, but some of us like to stay around and watch.

The passengers inside the train begin panicking: some raise their hands in surrender, others drop to the ground and cover their heads. The drones fly through the train like angered wasps, swarming a single man, tasing him until he's convulsing on the floor. The cops further immobilize him, cuffing his hands and feet, putting a black bag on his head, dragging him out of the train with his little backpack. They effortlessly carry the man out of the station the same way they would carry bags of trash.

And just like that, the show is over. The trains start moving again, the crowd disperses, we are all free to continue our day. Or rather, these people are free to keep their illusion of freedom and the right to watch funny internet videos as they continue their day while I bring shame on my family for arriving late to school. There really is nowhere for us to go but wherever we are told to go, and there is nothing for us to do but work until we die. Most of us will end up as ashes in a funerary urn, one among the hundreds of dozens that are held in tiny chambers inside one of the huge cemetery buildings in the city. As long as there's someone left to pay for that spot, that is.