The Allbright System - A Sci-Fi Progression LitRPG Story

I'm going to say what the rest of you are already thinking but are too afraid to put your name to.

I've lived in District 7 for forty-three years.

My father lived here before me. His father before him.

We built something here—not much, I'll grant you that, but ours. A community. A place where you could walk to the market in the morning and know the faces you passed. Where you knew your neighbours, knew their children, knew who to trust and who to give a wide berth.

That was before.

I don't need to tell you what District 7 looks like now. You live here. You see it.

The storefronts that shuttered after that business with the Carrowy family's supply warehouse—gone overnight, cleaned out, and everyone knows who was seen in that block the evening before, don't they? The kind of eyes you don't forget.

The kind that look at you and make your brain feel like it's been grabbed and shaken. Just straight up wrong.

Fundamentally, biologically wrong in a way your body understands even when your mind tries to be polite about it.

And that's not prejudice talking. That's your very own nervous system telling you the truth that the community liaisons and the district administrators won't.

There is something wrong with all of them.

And, listen: I don't say that lightly.

I've tried, over the years, to be a fair man.

To judge on actions, not on appearances.

But when the appearance itself is the action—when the very act of meeting someone's gaze produces that kind of sensation, that horrible lurching wrongness behind your eyes, like your thoughts have been touched by something they were never meant to touch—then the appearance is telling you something.

It's straight up evidence.

It's the body's honest response to something that should not exist the way it exists.

And you've all felt it. Don’t be shy. Don't pretend otherwise. You know you have.

Every single one of you reading this has looked into a pair of cyan eyes and felt it.

Don't let anyone tell you that's just “unfamiliarity” or an “unconscious bias.”

That reaction is consistent. It's universal. It doesn't happen when you meet anyone else, from any other background, any other world, any other circumstance.

Only them. Only those eyes.

Now ask yourself why.

The statistics, if you can get anyone official to actually publish them honestly, are not kind.

Petty theft in districts with significant Cyan populations runs consistently higher. Property disputes that go unresolved—consistently higher. Incidents reported to district security that somehow never result in charges—consistently, downright mysteriously, higher.

You start to notice the pattern if you're paying attention, and most of us have been paying attention for a long time now.

I spoke to a woman last month—won't give her name, she asked me not to—whose son was set upon coming home from a late shift at the processing plant. Three of them.

She says she knows who was responsible.

She says the district liaison told her there wasn't sufficient evidence to pursue the matter.

She says she knows what colour those eyes were.

But we're not supposed to say that now, are we? Like we’re blind to it, or something.

We're supposed to nod along when the community boards talk about “integration” and “tolerance” and “giving everyone a fair chance.”

We're supposed to ignore what our own eyes are telling us, what our own bodies are reacting to, what our own neighbours are whispering to us across fences and in market queues when they think no one official is listening.

And frankly, I'm damn tired of whispering.

The Cyan Solution is not a random occurrence—not a natural one.

It is the result of a specific biological incompatibility—a failure, at the most fundamental level, of something that should have worked and did not.

Due to its existence, however, the consequences of that failure do not end at birth—or the failure thereof. Instead they are allowed to compound. To propagate. To continuously undermine our efforts and destroy what we have built over generations.

The Inner District safety data suggests, with considerable consistency, that these failures continue to propagate into the second generation of Cyan-adjacent households as well, though the Council is careful to note that this remains an area of ongoing review—but what do your eyes tell you? What does your body tell you?

Is it an area that truly needs an “ongoing review?”

My father always used to say to me: When something keeps going wrong in the same way, in the same place, with the same people involved, eventually you stop calling it a coincidence.

I’ve lived forty-three years in District 7.

And I, for one, have stopped calling it a coincidence.

[Excerpt from “Submitted Opinion by a Concerned Resident, The Frinesad District Observer — Your Voice. Your Community. Your Truth.”, PFC929]