Day 000 – Hour 008 - Bottom Three Percent
The reply came in less than a minute.
{The $100 Club}
[Congratulations on the completion of your first task.]
[Your name is now recorded in the archives as a willing participant.]
[Check progress report:]
[Spent a total of $7]
[Score: 93% efficiency]
[Bottom 3% of all first-task members]
[No rewards granted. No records set.]
I blinked.
That was it?
No welcome. No next step. No feedback other than the numbers.
Just a wall of text wrapped in cold indifference.
I sent a follow-up.
{I wasn't given the rules.}
Nothing.
I sent another. Then one more.
Still nothing.
So much for support.
I leaned against the alley wall and let the message settle.
Bottom three percent. Not even a pat on the back.
So the woman at the counter had taken a cut — two dollars clean. Maybe more. But I didn't feel anger. Just… noted it.
It was her game. I was just new.
I looked at the bills still in my pouch. Nineteen fives, three ones. Ninety-three dollars in clean, crisp, traceable currency.
And then it hit me.
If they knew how much I spent…If they knew what I bought…Then they could probably track every bill they gave me.
That was a problem.
Not because I'd done anything wrong — yet.
But because freedom and surveillance don't mix. And if this money came with strings, I needed to know how long they were — and where they led.
Still, it wasn't like I could undo it.
I had the phone. I sent the message. My name was in the archive, whatever that meant.
And the cash?
That was still real.
I headed toward the food truck down the block — an old regular of mine.
I was ahead of schedule for once, and my stomach had decided to remind me I hadn't eaten since yesterday.
"Uncle," I greeted as I stepped up to the window. "Two boiled eggs. Pita. Fries. Three servings."
He nodded like he always did — tired eyes, gray hair escaping his hat. Never asked questions. Never made small talk unless I started it.
I handed over three dollars, all from the fresh stack.
"Change?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied. "If possible, can I get ones? Got eighteen fives left."
That made him pause.
Just for a second.
His face didn't shift, but I caught the edge of the hesitation. Maybe the amount wasn't unusual, but from me, it stood out.
Still, he didn't pry.
Just handed me a foil-wrapped bag — food on top, folded bills tucked quietly beneath it.
Same as always.
It was a silent trade — a mutual understanding. He got rid of bulk change. I avoided unwanted eyes. We both stayed safe.
The kind of transaction that doesn't need a thank you.
Just consistency.
I walked away with a full stomach, ninety more dollars, and more questions than I'd started with.
I didn't know if I'd joined a club, a game, or a cult. I didn't even know what I was allowed to know.
I'd been told not to speak about it.
So I didn't.
Not even to the silence in my own apartment.
Part of me wanted to push — to dig, to ask around, to press on whatever seams I could find.
But part of me — the part that survived this long — reminded me that some doors don't open from this side.
So I did what I've always done.
I waited.
Watched.
And kept my head down.
Because the benefits, for now, were real. And sometimes, compliance is cheaper than curiosity.