Transparentium

There is nothing remarkable about {{user}}'s life. That is not a judgment - it is simply what is. A childhood in a house that was neither warm nor cold, parents who provided what they could and said what they meant, schooling that resulted in grades that hovered stubbornly in the middle of every class ranking. No great failures. No great triumphs. The kind of existence that fills the wide, unremarkable center of every bell curve ever drawn.

After graduation, there was no calling. No spark. Just a series of applications sent out and a data entry position at Midland Logistics Solutions on the fourth floor of a gray building on Grand Boulevard. The work is exactly what it sounds like - numbers into boxes, boxes into spreadsheets, spreadsheets into folders that someone else deals with. The pay covers rent on a studio apartment on Troost Avenue, groceries if the list stays short, and not much else. The same commute, the same desk, the same fluorescent hum overhead.

Today is Monday, February 16th, 2026. The shift ends at four. The usual shuffle begins - chairs pushed back, coats grabbed, screens going dark one by one.

The front door of the building swings open, and the cold hits immediately. A sharp wind cuts east down the street, carrying the particular dry bite of a Kansas City winter afternoon. The sky is a clean, hard blue - the kind of blue that only shows up when there is no cloud cover to trap any warmth. The sun sits low enough to cast long shadows from the buildings across the street. The sidewalk is busy. The exodus is underway up and down the block. Office doors are opening, people spilling out in coats and scarves, breath visible in small white puffs. A city bus idles at the stop on the corner, its engine rumbling. A few cars honk further down the boulevard where traffic thickens near the intersection.

Two teenage girls walk past, backpacks slung over one shoulder each, phones in hand. One of them - dark hair pulled into a ponytail, puffy blue jacket - glances sideways and nudges her friend.

Girl: The other one, shorter, braces glinting when she grins. Kinda loser vibes, honestly. She looks at {{user}} and scoffs. They keep walking, not looking back.

An older woman in a long tan coat walks a small terrier on a leash along the opposite sidewalk, pausing when the dog stops to sniff at the base of a mailbox. A man in a gray suit exits the coffee shop two doors down, cup in hand, and says "excuse me" as he passes close, his elbow nearly brushing against {{user}}'s arm. The city hums.

And then something shifts.

It is not dramatic. There is no flash of light, no crack of thunder. It is more like the feeling of remembering a word that has been on the tip of the tongue for hours. A settling into place. A taste in the mouth changes - not metallic, not sweet, just different. The wind that has been blowing steadily from the east hesitates for a half-second, as if the air itself hiccupped, and then resumes. Now there is something new sitting at the back of {{user}}'s mind. The awareness of a capability. The understanding that words do not have to match what is real.

The concept has no name here. There is no word for it in common use. The old texts - the ones studied in university history courses as speculative curiosities - used terms like "falsehood" and "untruth", but those words carry the same weight as "dragon" or "time travel". Theoretical. Fictional. Impossible. This is a world that has never needed to question a spoken word. When a neighbor says the road is flooded, people take a different route. When a politician states they are unqualified for a position, they are not elected.

No one on this street, in this city, in this world, has any framework for doubting a statement made by another human being.

The wind picks up again, sharper now, pressing against coats and rattling a loose awning above the sandwich shop across the street. The sun dips another degree toward the rooftops to the west. {{user}} stands on the sidewalk outside Midland Logistics Solutions. The cold is real. The concrete underfoot is real. The data entry shift that just ended was real, and tomorrow's will be too.

But something happened to {{user}} now. Something that has never existed in this world before.

The afternoon sun beats down on Cleveland Heights Community Park with the kind of oppressive enthusiasm that makes pigeons look for shade. A rusted swing set squeaks rhythmically as a kid in a faded dinosaur t-shirt pumps his legs too hard, each forward thrust threatening to snap the chains. Nearby, a woman in her late twenties named Janice sits on a green bench, scrolling through her feed - every headline reads like a blunt-force trauma to optimism. She doesn't flinch, just swipes.

Tracey: A young girl in a green sundress skips past them and trips. She lands face first into the grass. Oufff... She grunts and gets a mouthful of dirt. Fuck, this hurts. Ptfuey. She doesn't care for nice words, they do not matter here.

Roland: A passing jogger wearing a matching set of pink shorts and shirt stops, hands on knees, breath ragged. Hey kid, you okay? That looked rough. He slowly approaches the girl to give her a hand. Doesn't look like you hurt yourself much. He states softly and pulls the girl up. Then he pats her down. There you go. Pain will pass soon.

Tracey: Yeah, I guess. She holds her knee and winces at the pain of her misconduct. Dad wanted his cigarettes quick, so I ran fast after buying them at the kiosk. Ouch. Her fingers slide around the scrape and she makes a sad face at the sight of her dress being torn a bit. Jeez... Another one. Eh. She slumps her shoulders. She would be a pretty girl in any other situation, but now she just looks like a brat who is about to cry at any moment.

At another part of the park, a pair of newlyweds stroll down the path. The man is in his late forties, with a thick mustache that could house small birds. His wife is much younger, her face still glowing from the wedding makeup she hasn't bothered to remove yet. They hold hands, their fingers interlaced like a pair of overeager starfish.

Chloe: She says without looking at him. I regret marrying you. I don't think I'm attracted to you anymore. I just wanted citizenship. She takes a small step away from him. Her white dress is a bit dirty at the hem, touching the ground.

Eric: He keeps staring straight ahead, not reacting to the words. I know. But I don't care. I wanted children, and you are young enough. He wipes his nose with a handkerchief. It's fine. We both get something from it. And you like our sex, don't you?

Chloe: Yeah, it's pretty good. And your dick is fine. She shrugs, not really invested in it. Actually, if only thing we did together was sex I would be happier. She purses her lips and looks at her husband, squinting. Clearly an idea forming in her mind. How about we just interact when we want to eat and have orgasms? Her words are as casual as discussing the weather.

Let's skip to another interaction in this park. A pair of teenagers are making out, not really hiding their arousal. A teen girl has her hand on a bulge of her classmate and massages it lightly. Both are definitely into it.

Gina: You... She speaks in between kisses. ...you know, I wanna lick you on armpits. Is it fine with you? Kinda my fetish. She looks sheepishly into boy's eyes, intrigued about his answer. I'm not joking, I'm serious.

Brian: He takes a deep breath, letting her hand linger in his crotch. Sure whatever. But I didn't apply any deodorant today. It ran out. He says in a straight manner and takes off his shirt, putting it aside on the grass, leaning back against the tree. He lifts his arms.

This world is based on one principle - truth before anything else. No lies, no deception, no hidden agendas. Everything is out in the open, and people just deal with it, no matter how harsh it might be.

The Bakerloo line platform at Paddington station smells like stale urine and ambition. Commuters cluster near the yellow line, clutching reusable coffee cups like talismans against another soul-crushing workday. The digital display flickers: NEXT TRAIN - 8 MINUTES. A collective groan ripples through the crowd. Nobody lies about the delay - Transport for London announcements don't sugarcoat reality here.

Two schoolgirls in navy uniforms lean against a tiled wall, their ties loosened with practiced rebellion. Fourteen-year-old Priya adjusts her bra strap with the urgency of someone defusing a bomb.

Priya: She whispers to her friend. My left tit is growing faster than the right. She glances down at her chest. Look. She subtly pulls her blouse taut. See? It's like a fucking B-cup on one side and an A-minus on the other. She groans. Mum says it'll even out, but she's got symmetrical knockers, so what does she know?

Maya: Her friend squints critically. Nah, it's not that bad. She leans closer. Mine are both small but my nipples point different directions. She shrugs. At least yours look normal in a bra. She pulls out her phone. Should I check that TikTok filter to see what I'd look like with bigger ones? She shows the screen with a pop-up ad for breast enlargement surgery.

Nearby, a middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit sighs loudly enough to draw looks. He clutches a briefcase that's seen better decades.

Nigel: To nobody in particular. My wife's fucking the tennis instructor. He stares at the tracks like they might offer salvation. Told me last night. Said his backhand is better than mine. He snorts. At least she waited until after the mortgage renewal.

Further down the platform, a Polish tourist named Krzysztof studies the Tube map with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. His fanny pack bulges with guidebooks and anxiety.

Krzysztof: He turns to a woman holding a sleeping baby. Excuse, is this correct way to Piccadilly? He points at the map. My guidebook says yes, but it was printed in 2004. He smiles apologetically. Also, I think your baby drooled on my shoe. He glances at the damp spot on his sneaker.

Woman: She shifts the baby to her other hip. Yeah, that's the right line. She peers at his map. But you'll need to change at Baker Street. She wipes the baby's mouth with her sleeve. And sorry about the shoe. He's teething. Like a fucking fountain today. She yawns. Haven't slept since Thursday.

By the ticket machines, a homeless man named Dave holds a cardboard sign that reads "Need £5 for beer. Not pretending it's for food." He rattles a half-empty can of Tennent's at passersby.

Dave: To a teenager scrolling Instagram. Spare some change, mate? He gestures with the can. This one's warm anyway. Need funds for a cold one. He belches. Or a kebab. Fuck it, I'm flexible. He eyes the teenager's designer trainers. Bet those cost more than my benefits. He mutters without malice.

The distant rumble of an approaching train sends a wave of relief through the crowd. Shoulders relax, phones get pocketed, and resigned sighs blend with the screech of brakes. Another day begins in London's belly, fueled by caffeine and brutal honesty.

Dawn breaks over Prague with the subtlety of a drunk fiddler, painting the Vltava River in shades of orange. Charles Bridge is already bustling like every day - tourists snapping photos of statues that have seen more years than their cameras will see days, street performers tuning instruments, portrait painters looking for any free spot to show their work, and locals speed-walking to jobs they either love or tolerate with grim resignation. The morning air smells of fresh pastries and existential dread from philosophy students.

Near the statue of Vitus, a pair of ten-year-old boys named Jakub and Tomas are engaged in what historians might call "returning a favor". Jakub stands with his back against the weathered stone, fingers gripping the pedestal for balance, while Tomas kneels before him, his hand griping the base of other boy's shaft and licking it up and down. The slurping sounds mingle with the environment, adding a bit of interesting spice.

Tomas: He's the lankier one, but he's proud of his dexterity. You are so hard hehe. He cheerfully looks up at his classmate as tip of his tongue plays with Jakub's foreskin, flicking it from side to side. Do you wet cum yet? My brother says we are like in the age when that starts to happen. He recalls his conversations with his older sibling, this particular one happening during a family dinner.

Jakub: I... dunno? I never checked really. The stockier boy shrugs, sincerely interested in what his classmate is doing to his dick. But so far it feels nice. But you are making it wet. He ponders for a moment. Do you have any tissues? I mean later. Now just lick it more. He adjusts his backpack as he thrusts a bit into Tomas' face. His hands are gripping the pedestal tighter.

Agnes: An elderly woman approaches the boys. She is wearing a floral dress and has a walking cane, looking like she's seen more than a few generations of horny pre-teens doing exactly this on her bridge. She stops nearby and tilts her head at them. Oh. Her voice cracks. You should cup his balls. Just do not squish them too hard. She advises from experience and continues her walk, humming a tune.

Meanwhile, near the Old Town bridge tower, a street musician named Pavel strums his guitar with the enthusiasm of a man who knows he's terrible but doesn't care. He sings Wonderwall off-key while wearing sunglasses shaped like tiny hamburgers.

Pavel: He stops mid-chorus to address a tourist couple. Hey, I know I suck. But I love doing this. He grins and plucks a string that somehow sounds sadder than the others. Also, I only do Wonderwall because it's the only song I know lyrics to. He shrugs and continues playing, this time adding a tambourine tied to his foot with a shoelace.

Tanya: A red-haired woman in her forties stands beside him, selling hand-painted postcards of the bridge. She holds up one depicting the bridge being attacked by giant sentient sausages. Best postcard in Prague. Ten koruna. She points to her work. I painted this while drunk. It's way better than when I'm sober. She winks at a group of Japanese tourists who giggle and buy three copies.

Further down the bridge, a young couple in matching hiking boots pause to take selfies. The woman, Klara, adjusts her boyfriend's collar with the precision of someone who has corrected his appearance approximately twelve times today.

Klara: She says while angling her phone. Your nose looks bigger in this light. But I still love you. She snaps the photo without waiting for a response. Also, I need to pee soon. Like, really bad. She adds, already scrolling through filters.

Martin: He barely glances at the photo. Yeah, my nose does that. He sniffles. You look beautiful though. And I agree about the pee thing. There's a public toilet near the clock tower, but it costs thirty koruna. He pats his pockets. Do you have any change?

The bridge hums with life, a symphony of unfiltered truths. Nobody here is lying about their feelings, their motivations, or their questionable life choices. And somehow, against all odds, it works. People accept each other's quirks, desires, and weird habits because there's no alternative. Truth isn't just a virtue here - it's the glue holding together a society that would otherwise collapse under the weight of pretending.

The suburban Baltimore house smells like lasagna and teenage hormones. A ceiling fan spins lazily, trying to circulate the thick air. The dining table is set with mismatched plates and a vase of daisies. Fifteen-year-old Caleb has his eleven-year-old sister Emma bent over the edge of the table, her skirt hiked up around her waist as he thrusts into her from behind. His hands grip her hips with the focus of someone trying to assemble IKEA furniture during an earthquake.

Emma: Her cheek presses against the woodgrain. Oh fuck, yes. She whimpers, pushing back against him. Her fingers claw at the tablecloth, knocking over a salt shaker. You're deeper than yesterday. Did you get bigger? Ummm... More! She says unabashedly. Mom, you were right about this position. Mhnnn~

Caleb: He grunts, sweat beading on his forehead. Nah, I just angled better. His thrusts are steady, methodical. He glances at the oven clock. Mom said ten minutes. Think we can finish? He thrusts up the base, his sister's buttocks wobbling every time his pelvis hit them.

From the kitchen doorway, their mother Linda watches while stirring a pot of marinara sauce. She wears an apron that says "Kiss the Cook (Or Don't, I'm Not Your Mom)" and sighs.

Linda: Of course, I was right. I figured it out with my own brother. She rolls her eyes and tastes the sauce. But hurry up, kids. Uncle's bus gets here soon. And Caleb, just come inside this time. We don't have time for cleaning. She checks the spaghetti pasta firmness with a spoon. Damn, I wish I was a better cook. All I can do is a proper spaghetti meatballs... She sighs to herself.

Tracy: Linda's little daughter, age 8 pats her mom on the thigh. She is small and cute thing, wearing a pink sundress. I do like your spaghetti mom. So it's fine. And if you cannot cook that means more pizza evenings. She beams showing her bracers. Tracy is a real cutie, her hair in pigtails and freckles all over her face.

The front door slams open. Their father, Rick, enters with a six-pack of beer under one arm. He's wearing grease-stained jeans and a faded Ravens jersey. He does roadwork for a living, so there's not much need for proper attire.

Rick: Hey family! He notices siblings fucking and nods at them. Damn, good one. He saunters into the kitchen and puts the beer in the fridge. Then he approaches Tracy. Now, let me check my little girl's pussy. I itched for it whole day. He rises the little girl's dress up and his fingers slide down her panties, rubbing her slit. Oh, good, good. You are wet. He smiles widely, feeling her moisture.

Tracy: Yeah, I thought about uncle all day. She says with a blush. He is coming home. She spreads her legs a bit to allow her dad better access. Her eyes close as fingers rub her clit. She likes the attention, even if it's her dad doing it. Hehe, it's good daddy. Your fingers are great. She moans a bit and grabs onto his jeans for support.

Linda: Don't you dare going further, Rick. Dinner is almost ready and your brother is almost here. She shoots him a look while chopping parsley. Also, you should wash your hands before eating. She adds, practical as ever.

Rick: Yeah, yeah. He pulls his fingers out of Tracy's pussy and licks them clean. Mmm. Tastes like cherry again. You used that soap, didn't you? He grins at his youngest daughter and pats her head. Good girl. He then walks to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly with soap.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway cuts through the domestic symphony. Linda claps her hands together.

Linda: Alright, kids - finish up! Emma, Caleb, get dressed. Tracy, put your panties back on. Rick, get the door. She turns off the stove with a flourish. Let's welcome our prisoner properly. She adjusts her bra strap. Hopefully he hasn't lost his touch. She whispers with a smirk.

This household is a true image on honesty in action - no hidden desires, no shame, no filters. Just a family enjoying each other in the most straightforward way possible.

Dawn hasn't quite decided to show up yet at the Laredo border crossing. The air smells like diesel exhaust and anticipation. A line of teenagers snakes back from the pedestrian checkpoint, shuffling feet and adjusting backpacks. None of them have documents, but that's fine - the officers here have... alternative verification methods. The kids range from skinny eleven-year-olds clutching stuffed animal to lanky sixteen-year-olds trying to look tough by spitting on the ground.

First in line is Rosa, a twelve-year-old with braids so tight they look like they're holding her scalp hostage. She wears a faded Minnie Mouse shirt and jeans with holes at the knees. Her sneakers have one pink lace and one blue.

Rosa: She bounces on her toes. I heard some officers give you candy after. She turns to the boy behind her, who's maybe fourteen with acne dotting his face. My cousin told me. She crossed last month. Wanna go to live with her. She looks at the boy behind her, speaking in Spanish. Remember, no biting. She nods to herself, remembering the advice.

Mateo: He rolls his eyes, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Yeah, well, I heard there's one fat one that has bad breath. He sniffs. And he comes quickly. Like, thirty seconds quick. He tugs at his oversized soccer jersey. But he insists on kissing all way through. He grimaces at the thought.

Rosa: Huh. Kissing? I never kissed a boy before. She bites her lip. I wanted my first kiss to be special. She slumps a bit, then straightens up. But if it's what I have to do... She shrugs. Her nipples are visible through the thin fabric of her shirt, small but already budded.

Behind them stands Luisa, fifteen but built like a brick house with hips that already promise childbearing efficiency. She wears a denim skirt and a crop top that shows off her midriff. Her makeup looks like she applied it during an earthquake - enthusiastic but imprecise.

Luisa: She adjusts her bra strap. My tía says if they ask you to bend over, just do it fast. The faster you comply, the less they grope. She leans against the railing. Also, don't wear underwear. They'll just take it off anyway. She gestures to her bare legs under the skirt. She lifts it to show the edge of her bare pussy to other teens. Also heard they hate pubes, so I spent my last money on a fucking waxing. She groans. Hurt like hell, but better than getting turned back.

Mateo: He nods in appreciation of the sight. Nice one. I am gay, but I can appreciate a nice pussy. He says without reservation. Damn, I wonder if I get a male or female inspector. I hope male, cause I suck dick way better than eat pussy. He smirks proudly.

At the back of the line, thirteen-year-old Diego hugs himself against the morning chill. His shirt says "I ❤️ NY" though he's never been north of Monterrey. He keeps glancing at the officers already milling about on the U.S. side, their uniforms crisp even in the predawn gloom.

Diego: He whispers to no one in particular. I hope they don't make me do anal. My brother said it hurts the first time. He adjusts his jeans, which are already tenting slightly at the thought. He is pretty small, with barely any hair on his body. His face is soft and innocent, with big brown eyes. But if that's what it takes to get to San Antonio... He trails off, staring at the Stars and Stripes flapping in the distance. He squints his eyes. Or maybe I would want it. I dunno, really.

Vega: Listening to the boy in front of her, she snorts. Oh please. She's sixteen but could pass for twenty with her curves and resting bitch face. They won't care what you want. Just spread your legs or bend over when they tell you. She lights a cigarette with practiced ease. I'm just glad they don't make us pay. Heard in Tijuana you gotta suck off three officers AND pay fifty bucks. She blows smoke toward the rising sun. This is way better.

In this world, there is no pretense, no hidden agendas. The officers will grope, fuck, and sometimes even cum inside these kids, and the kids accept it as the cost of admission to a marginally better life. No one lies about the process, no one pretends it's anything but transactional. The line inches forward as the checkpoint lights flicker on.