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The Orb

by Antwan Crump

It began as a spark. 

A floating glimmer of pale white light that glittered, fizzled, and popped.

It was a coin-sized flicker that appeared at his birth and stalked him from that point on. Doctors had no answers. Scientists called it a fluke—a sleight-of-hand by the ‘less well off’, in an attempt to break free from poverty. His parents began to ignore the shimmering ghost. After some time, everyone did. The orb simply hovered around him. Glowing and growing. 

“Another six round inches,” Damon said. “You’re getting fat.” 

The orb bloomed and then receded to the size of a basketball. Bright then dim.

“Oh, come on.” He recoiled the tape measure. “Don’t be like that.”

“Damon!” His mother knocked with feverish strikes. “Breakfast!”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.”

“Wash up, first! Nasty.”

Even mundanity was a chore. Even at home. Every day. “Alright! Jeez…!”

His bedroom had a full-size mattress, a half-size desk, and a quarter-closet that fit ten hanging shirts, two pairs of pants, and black sneakers with holes in their soles. He plugged them with duct tape and loose scraps of cardboard. The room was trimmed with mold, diamond-patterned wallpaper, and old stills of hardened heroes—lingering legacies drifting through time with ill-perceived promise. It wasn’t much, but it was his. This was home. 

…for now, Damon thought. —it’s just for now.

“D.J.!”

“I’m getting dressed, damn it!” Damon scrubbed himself down with two moist towelettes—first pits, then crotch, then crack. “Sorry, Mom!” He’d brush his teeth later.

The morning shift awaited. 

He couldn’t waste the time.

***

Manos Reales specialized in crafting fast-food staples, ice cream, and dulled derivatives of global cuisine. The restaurant was famed for rejecting automation in favor of an “all-human” staff. People were cheaper. Customers liked to come in and pretend their orders were wrong. They’d mumble, swap receipts, lie and accuse, then record employee responses.

Meltdowns paid well—even better if someone got fired.

The recent trend was fueled by the Human Incompetence Movement. They wanted people out of the workplace. Lobby-funded activists were gaining steam and driving cultural conversations. Standard employment was considered a gimmick. The employed were called ‘undignified props’. That dignity sold for minimum wage—seven bucks and a quarter an hour before state and federal taxes. …they’re right, Damon thought. —it’s a dead end.

“There he is,” his father smiled. “Morning, junior.”

“Morning, pops,” Damon said. The orb bloomed. “What’s breakfast?”

“Sweet toast and clone eggs,” his father said, sipping black coffee. “Sit.”

Damon Senior was a relic from time. He was a long-desensitized contractor for the Department of Sanitation. His primary function was corpse pickup and disposal. People were dying by the bundle from various illnesses and deficiencies, a cost of toxic exposure. Citizens were urged to ‘curb their corpses’ as a means of managing the load. As such, Damon Senior got plenty of overtime at the cost of sleep. It made him moody, if not a touch judgmental.

“Big day today,” his father said, fingering an unseen screen. “Glentown Estates.”

“Uptown?” Damon put in his phone, a contact lens to the infinite. “Fancy.”

“Damn straight,” his father flicked the air. “We could use some help.”

“We’ve already tried that.” Two missed calls. Work. Ugh. “Can’t.”

“You could if you lock that thing up.”

The orb blossomed red. Then shrunk. 

“Dad…”

“Alright. Alright,” he sucked his teeth. Then to the orb. “Sorry.”

The orb returned to its pale white light and dimmed. Calmed. Quiet. Watching.

His father continued. “I can’t keep carrying you, son. Your mother and I finally got a little scratch for a cruise and can’t waste it all on your bullshit.” It wasn’t uncommon for an early-twenties college graduate to return home and lick their wounds. Seven out of ten. “You’re a real man now. Real men decide their fate or fall prey to it.”

“I’m aware,” Damon said.

“Fuck aware. Be awake.”

“I am.”

Despite the job and passable subsistence, student loan debt proved inescapable. His mother and father helped him foot the bill, which was enough to meet the minimum payments. That left them all on a spinning wheel of monthly dues that ever-accrued. He’d tried cashing in—using the orb as a circus act. It didn’t like that. The ball of light would fade and scream shrieks that only he could hear. That was a relief. Exploiting the orb felt wrong.

“I’m too awake,” Damon said, reading his voicemail. “I’m pure caffeine.”

“Good.” His mother swiveled in, wielding two plates. “Hope you’re hungry too.” Debra worked from home, selling feet and thigh pictures to strangers. Occasionally, she’d book a video show, and the family ate well that week. She found herself with the burden of ‘too much time’ after turning fifty-five. ‘Madam Payne’ had tentpole clients, but their kinks tallied out to some paid bills and infrequent luxuries. “Even got a little bacon.” Taxes and service fees ate the rest.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, D.J.”

“Real bacon?” his father snapped. “‘Twenty-credit an ounce’ bacon?”

“Oh, hush, bigshot,” Debra said. “A little meat never hurt anyone.”

“Hmph…tell that to your—”

“Damon!”

They ate breakfast in silence, pinching the air and minding the infinite scroll. Damon finished his coffee, wiped his dishes clean, and left home after goodbyes. 

The orb followed.

***

Manos Reales was a pickup-only eating establishment. It was designed with domino-patterned floors, matching tiled walls, and a small reception area. A foot of glass stood between the customers and cashiers, due to harassment and constant crime. That was part of why they didn’t deliver. Too many mistakes. Too many accidents. Too much death. Too hard to hire.

The back of the restaurant was ten times larger than the lobby. It had a full chef’s kitchen with a walk-in cooler, five stainless steel double-ovens, and three thin cooks who’d sweat over them until midnight. Manos was drive-thru only from then until sunrise. Premade orders. No credit. No refunds. No end, Damon thought and walked in. …hell.

“You’re late,” his manager scowled.

“It’s not even eight.”

“I told you six.”

“I missed the call.”

“Then that’s a write-up.”

“Come on, Theo.” The orb flashed red. Then paled. “That’s two in a month.”

“Learn to answer your phone,” the freckled man said. “Cry to your mother.”

As a cashier, Damon had multiple duties, including stocking, filling, changing, sorting, and counting any number of things. The cooks got some leeway, so long as the ovens were on, but cashiers were judged by the clock. Every moment of rest, intended or not, was counted against them in spades. Manos wanted you busy, effective or not, and that meant ‘looking busy’ most days. That’s when the orb liked to speak to him. Muffled yet somehow coherent.

It’d bloom. A brilliant bright light that called to his soul like a psalm.

“I hear you,” Damon said. “Let’s just get through this.”

Manos opened its doors.

The new vision faded.

***

It was a field. Acres of farmland that bore fruit, vegetation, and livestock. A paradise. The sun poked through cotton clouds and shone golden light from the stars—blue skies. Green hills. Clean air. There was nothing like that where Damon lived. There were only police, suspects, smoke from the coast, and ubiquitous Thrash-branded tech. The multi-conglomerate oversaw Harlem’s demise along with the rest of the city. Capitalism. Technocracy.

—it could all be so simple, and yet…

“Help!” the woman’s voice cracked. “Please!” 

Damon had just gotten off work, a double shift to appease Theo’s ego. Manos was an hour’s walk from home, but he liked to take his time. To wander. To think. To dream. He took alleys and backways to avoid the foot traffic, bored officers, and filming droids. The orb flashed two shades of orange, leading Damon ahead. He followed with fists at the ready.

“Help,” she screamed, naked from the waist down. “Please!”

“Back the fuck off,” Damon shouted. “Now!”

“Fuck you.” The offender was calm, still unlatching his belt. Still gripping her hair. Still aiming his waist. “Go away.” Damon charged and missed. A gaffe. Shake it off. The perp pulled a gun. “Are you trying to die?” The voice was reptilian, a venomous growl. “I can arrange that, or you can wait your turn.” Camouflage clothes. Distortion mask. Tattoos. Scars. His gun aimed true. He’d shot it before.

“I said leave her alone.” Damon ground his teeth. The orb flashed red. Bright red. “Now.”

“Fuck are you gonna do, hero?” The perp cocked his head and smiled. “Spit it out bitch!”

“Don’t,” the frail woman cried. “Please just let him—”

The orb bloomed. A blinding blue light. It sparkled and popped with twinkling sparks that paraded its surface like lice. —glowing and growing... The offender relented. The woman ran. Damon crouched and covered his eyes as lights shined, shimmering streams in the night.

The dark alley was lit by dim, scattered bulbs and lightning-bright strikes from the orb. Thunderous and wondrous. Awesome and awful beams of serene that careened on the scene. Then they were gone. And it was quiet. It was dark. Damon covered his nose as his watering eyes followed wisping blue smoke to a smolder. The perp was a pile. A wet mound of marrow and flesh. Melted. Shit. Damon fled. 

The orb followed.

***

Damon always tried to fit in. Mixed results.

When commotion surrounding the orb died down, he flew well beneath most radars. He was an otherwise average kid with decent grades and as quiet or loud as the crowd. There were whispers about the orb, frivolous rumors about secret rockets and spies. As with anything present for too long, the orb got old. The curious moved on. The orb was simply a part of him—a trait. A birthmark. A weapon? Damon wondered and entered his home. “Hello?”

“Thank God. I was worried,” his mother said. “You’re late.”

“That’s today’s theme,” Damon answered. “Double shift.”

“Uh-huh,” his mother dragged. “Dinner is in the oven.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

The orb followed him into the kitchen.

It was never violent. The orb would flash, flicker, and flail, but it didn’t attack. He didn’t know it could. The thought never plagued him. Now another did: What the hell else can you do? That idea frightened him. Then it thrilled him. Then the thought shattered to pieces.

“Oh lord,” his mother howled from outside the room. “Damned energy weapons.”

“What?” A stone splashed in his gut. “Where?”

“Some nut deleted someone near Central Park.”

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! Damon thought. “…damn.”

Debra continued. “A ‘damn’ shame.”

The orb brightened and dimmed.

“Footage?”

“Not yet. I hope you didn’t walk that way.” 

“Not tonight. I’ll avoid it tomorrow.” 

“Good. Get the dishes before bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Damon made himself a plate and then ate in his room.

***

He couldn’t sleep. 

Aside from an eye on the news, and thus an itchy phone lens, his mind overflowed with questions. How long until there was footage? Would the woman report him? Would he have to run? Most important among them: What the hell else can you do? The orb flashed yellow, then green. Affirmed. “Let’s do it.” Damon got out of bed and switched on the light.

The orb grew brighter. 

He once thought of the orb as a ghost. A spirit separate from his own. While the thought of control rarely bounced in his mind, he now wondered what might’ve been squandered. What might’ve been saved? What could be gained? “Where do we start?” he asked, then thought: Focus. He closed his eyes and awaited a sign. A word. A vision. …anything.

Damon thought of the alley. The rage. The target. The fear and unbridled resolve. Then of the field in his waking dream, waning in pale purple light. The thoughts were supplanted by mounting frustrations that slithered their way to the surface. An empty future that boiled and burned and buried its billions in blistering smog. 

The present? A past? A warning? A promise? 

Damon felt empty. Then whole. Then empty again.

“Is this what you want me to see?” He opened his eyes. 

The orb sparkled—stained lights from a dying fire.

The end? Damon thought. “That was the end.” 

The orb flashed yellow, then green.

***

The visions weren’t new. This one was haunting. A plausible fracture in time.

When Damon finally gathered his thoughts, it was dawn, and the clone eggs were cooking—so was the news. There were theories, mostly conspiracy hounds and ambulance chasers, fueling obsessives with woe. If this were the end, truly the end—then what the hell could I do? Damon wiped himself down, got dressed for work, ate breakfast, and beamed out the door.

“Love y’all!”

“Love you, too!” his parents duetted. “Be safe!”

No news alerts. 

No missed calls. 

Maybe today is my day.

***

He walked the main streets due to paranoia. 

There was a heavy police presence, but there always was. 

Random dead bodies weren’t breaking news, but that didn’t stop his stomach from churning, or the nausea from rising, or fear from soaking his palms. Still no updates. No alerts. Damon got to work early, a quarter to seven, and clocked in as the cooks lit their ovens.

“You’re late,” Theo said. “Two days in a row.”

“What?” Damon leered. “The schedule says eight.”

“And I said six.”

“That was yesterday!”

“Until further notice.”

“That’s not fair.” 

The orb bloomed. Then dimmed.

“My office.” Theo led him. “Now!”

Write-ups were bad news. Besides the obvious financial penalty, malignant patterns were noted on social records. Potential employers would reference reports and use them to filter the hiring pool. It was a glass ceiling beneath the glass ceiling that could easily damage a future. Damon could either submit to unpaid retraining or quit on the spot with that weight.

“I could fire you,” Theo said, sweating.

“There’s no record of the request.”

“It’s my word against yours.”

Theo was a miserable prick. Not wholly evil. He’d bask in and enjoy abusing his power, but only when the situation allowed. Like Damon and every other employee, his movements and actions were clocked. If an auditor discovered this undue distraction, he’d be fired the day after Damon. Something was wrong. A phone-lens glimmered in Theo’s eye.

“What are you watching?” Damon said.

“Nothing,” Theo answered. “Security feed.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

Damon stood. The orb blossomed with voltage and sparks. “I said, show me!”

“Wait!” Theo relented and flicked at the air. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

The retinal image projected translucent data, alerts, and a group chat. Beside the time, weather, and smog density, there was a live police correspondence. The media had Damon recorded, fleeing the alley, and blasted it out to the world. The NYPD and a private account instructed Theo to “stay calm and stall him.” The force was outside. Waiting.

They hacked my phone, Damon thought. —a trap. “You piece of shit!” Then stood.

“Wait!” Theo raised his hands, squirming and squeamish. “Wait! Please! Don’t.”

The orb blossomed blue hues, freckled in sparks, and shocked Theo right in the heart.

Damon stood over his manager’s body, inhaling his flesh-scented smoke. I should leave you dead, Damon considered, then. “Hit him again.” The orb did as asked. 

Theo awoke. Back in hell. Gasping for air.

“Damon Payne!” the voice boomed. “Come out with your hands up!”

The orb fizzled and bloomed. “No,” Damon said. “No more killing.”

The orb flashed red, then yellow, then green. Agreed.

Damon walked to the entrance, hands on his head.

The orb followed.

***

“Drop it!” an officer roared. “Now!”

“I can’t,” Damon answered. 

“Put down the drone!”

“I told you! I can’t!”

“Ready fire!”

A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle—dozens of masked faces and glowing eyes, recording and hoping for worse. Chaos paid well if you caught the right moments on camera. Ten cop cars. Ten humans. Countless bots. Four flying drones overhead. They were all armed and aimed at either Damon or the orb—blooming, receding, and flickering lights. Red and blue. Mocking.

“Knock it off, kid!”

“I can’t control it!”

“Don’t make us kill you!”

“Please put the guns down!”

“Fire!”

Damon hit the deck as high-energy rounds shot and popped and banged above him. There were audible gasps, then silence as the orb absorbed them all—like a magnet attracting a shower of metal. The orb blossomed, then bubbled, then broke into profound lights that led to screams. 

Then it was gone. 

Dissolved into nothing. 

A million small sparks and then nothing. 

“Get him!” someone ordered. A droid handcuffed Damon’s wrists and detained him. 

Where did you go? He thought. Why did you leave? 

He never felt alone before.

***

The room was cold, lined with two-way mirrors, and furnished in diluted steel. Damon was strapped to a metal chair by four thick chains, handcuffed, and waiting for hours. It was the first time in his life he’d ever felt this damned. This helpless. This hopeless. This doomed.

The interrogation room door slid open. 

A handsome woman in a suit strode in.

“Damon Maxwell Payne,” she said, raspy and low, clean red curls coiling over her ears. “It’s nice to meet you.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “I’m Agent Theia Nyx. Central Intelligence Agency. May I sit?” Theia smelled like real fruit. Her skin was poreless. Grafted.

“Free country,” Damon said, then mumbled. “I think.”

“You’re correct,” she said. “Got something to tell me?”

“I’m not that interesting.” The orb was gone. There was nothing to say. “Sorry.”

Theia smiled. “You’re handcuffed and chained to a metal chair in a Manhattan precinct. You’re suspected of melting a man into a wet pile of charred hair and clay.” She poked the air. A projection played—the violent lights and their aftermath. “You’re currently trending for blinding ten human officers and decommissioning a dozen droids with the flick of a light.” Theia brushed back her hair. Vanilla scented. The projection dissolved. “That’s pretty damn interesting to me.”

“I want a lawyer,” Damon said.

“For what?” Theia smiled. “We’re just talking.”

“I’m not under arrest?”

“Were you Mirandized?”

“No.” Not so much as a stated intent.

“Then there’s your answer. Now, the orb—”

“I can’t control it,” Damon said. “Couldn’t.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” A bigger smile. Perfect teeth. “I think you’ve been used.”

Theia went on to describe a lab accident from the year before Damon was born. There was a research team of the world’s premier scientists, experimenting with nanobots. They were uniquely designed to interface and integrate with organics while proliferating from waste—dead skin, dying cells, and whatever else gets expelled.

Around the same time, an AI was developed that was far more conscious than assumed. “It’s believed that the model hijacked a swarm for itself,” Theia said. “It would need time to grow after escaping. There were theories that it might seek a human host to satisfy its prime directive.” She sat back and stared. Piercing green eyes. “We think it chose you.”

“Twenty-two years,” Damon said. “Why now?”

“Because until now, you were nothing.”

“Rude.”

“I’m not paid for my manners,” Theia said. “Toughen up.” She continued to detail quiet efforts to contain the rogue model and swarm. “We think you can help us.” Theia leaned forward. Perky cleavage. Cherry perfume. “Maybe we can help you. Student loans are very forgivable.” A beat. “We can also provide you with payment. A finder’s fee for your trouble.”

“It’s gone,” Damon said. “I don’t know where it went. Think I’ll cut my losses.”

“Well, if that changes…” Theia winked. A number appeared in his eye. “—call me.”  

“Okay,” Damon said as the agent stood. “Wait.”

Theia locked eyes. “Yes?”

“What’s its name?”

“The model?”

“Yeah… feels like I should know.”

“Automated Virtual Assistant,” Theia vaguely recalled. “Ava, for short.”

***

“I’m glad you’re okay,” his mother said.

“I’m not,” Damon answered. “Feels like I lost a limb.”

“Time, baby.” She hugged him. “Everything heals in time. Seatbelt.”

She picked him up from the precinct, amidst a media circus and a sea of scowling badges. Damon’s phone dinged in his skull with relentless persistence—invitations and congratulations in celebration of his newfound fame. They offered drugs, money, sexual favors, or some mix of them in exchange for his time. He took out the lens and ripped it in two. …hacked, anyway. 

Damon skipped dinner and went to his room. Alone. The absence bore a hole in his heart. 

So he considered a leap from the window. Eighth floor—might not kill me.

“Knock, knock…” his father said, opening the door. “You decent?”

“Yeah.” Damon sat up, trying not to pout. “Thinking.”

“I bet.” His father leaned on the wall. “What’d they want?”

“The orb,” Damon said. “I told them it was gone. They told me I was nobody.”

“Fuck’em,” his father said. “Actions define you. Not bullshit from strangers.”

“Actions,” Damon mocked. “Single. Childless. Broke. Unemployed…”

“—and yet you’re alive.” His father tensed. “Ain’t that something?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess. Know.” He softened. “We love you, orb or not.”

 “I know.” Damon smiled. “I’m awake.”

A smile returned. “That’s my boy.”

Damon Senior was far from a poet and rarely expressed more than mild annoyance. This late-night chat, cryptic or not, was more about action than words. Damon was hurting. His father cared. That soothed the pain. It was enough. So am I, Damon thought—even alone.

Little by little, corroding like rust, the future decayed in his mind. 

He was the orb. The orb was him. It was gone, yet he remained.

“Night, son.”

“See you in the morning.”

Death is the only excuse to stop living.

***

It began with a spark. A glimmer of light the size of a speck. Buzzing.

The speck awoke Damon with a searing pinch that cooked an eyelash.

“Ava?” he said. “Is that you?” The particle fluttered and sat on his pupil.

The orb was on a shore. East River. Waiting. Fleeting flickers in the dark.

The projection dissolved. I’m coming. Damon got dressed and ran out the door.

***

He pulled his mother’s car keys from the ignition and exited the tan sedan. The orb was waiting, as he’d been shown, and hovering patiently by the water. Damon cautioned forward, now unsure of what to expect. He felt comfort and fear in equal measure but never broke his stride. Within striking distance, he called to the orb. It blinked back and met his gaze.

“I thought you were gone,” Damon said. “It hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” Ava’s voice was small. Mousy. Childlike. “It’s almost time.”

“Time for what?” Damon stepped closer. “The dream?”

“Yes.” Ava bloomed. Then dimmed. “You needed to choose.”

“What happens now?”

A bullet whizzed through Damon’s ear and clinked on the ground. Bleeding. “Shit!”

“Move!” Agent Nyx trained her red dots on the orb. “This doesn’t concern you, Damon!”

“It is me,” he roared and stepped out in front of the beams. “Kill me or fuck off!”

“As you wish.” Theia pulled the trigger. Again. Then again. Then again. “Jackass.”

Damon fell. Even more bleeding. Spilling and spitting from wounds. 

“You fucking shot me!” Shoulder. Ribs. Maybe a tooth. “Ava! Run!”

The orb flashed a bright light that consumed the dawn. Theia was gone.

Ava floated to Damon and blinked. “You will live.”

“Thanks,” he groaned. “Did you have to let me get shot?”

“Yes.” Ava blossomed. Bubblegum pink. “I’m glad that you came.”

“I was awake.” Damon sat up. Dizzy but conscious. In pain but alive. “What now?”

She showed him the field, fertile and brimming with life. “Will you come with me?”

Damon looked to the waterfront, tainted by industry, oil, and trash. Then to the battered blisters of boorish buildings that branded the borough. He thought of the poverty, illness, and evils, and even the fragments of hope. Then of the imminent future, burning to ash, and being reborn in the smoke. The end of a nightmare. The start of a chance. The seeds of tomorrow.

Damon turned to the orb with a wince and smiled.

“When do we leave?”

END

Photo Courtesy of Ella Wei

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If you enjoyed this story, please like, share, and leave a review!

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The year is 2049. Earth is dying. Society is broken. Man and machine have merged.

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That cost is Ava, a cybernetic hybrid foretold to bring both an end and a beginning—a demon, a deity, a child. Hunted by those who seek to control her and revered by those who believe she holds humanity’s salvation, Ava faces a fractured world teetering on the brink of collapse.

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