Chapter 1 — The Universal Contract

They called it the Principle with a capital P, like Gravity or the Mother. A simple, carnivorous rule tattooed into pupils from kindergarten onward: Every interaction must maximize mutual benefit. Not "be kind," not "be nice." Maximize. Cold algebra. Net yield. If a hug was needed, it would be quantified in emotional calories and signed off with a receipt.

At six o’clock sharp, the façade of the Ministry of Global Optimization spat out its daily jingle—three flat notes, like a cash register taking a selfie. The building’s windows displayed the Reciprocal Equity Index in real time. This morning, it pulsed a sour green: 86.3. According to the servers, the world was nearly harmonious.

Clara Vautrin crossed the square, her anthracite pantsuit sharp, her heels silent, her jaw dusted with irony. She was an arrangement auditor—the person you called when two parties failed to maximize sufficiently, or when one screamed bad faith, which here meant "You left me a measly 8% margin, you human waste." In another century, she might have been called a mediator. Here, she was a utility surgeon.

The mobile coffee stand outside the Ministry looked like a confessional: the barista in a black robe, a tablet in place of a communion wafer.

—Americano yield+? he offered.
—Give me what the competition wouldn’t dare, Clara replied.
—"Gritty lucidity" pack, with a side of melting anxiety, he smiled. Sixteen emotional credits, plus three optimization points if you rate the service within a minute.

Clara approved the charge in the Benefact app. The receipt vibrated in her palm: Mood elevated from 51 to 58. Expected productivity return: +2.3%. Thank you for choosing lucidity.

Above her, an ad drone unfurled a holographic banner: Love works best when it’s win-win. Upgrade to Couple Contract 12: cuddle clause, silence clause, optional dignity rider.

Clara stifled a laugh. Nothing was funnier than optional dignity sold as a premium feature.

Her first case awaited in Office 404—an inside joke: the unfindable arrangements. A couple, naturally. Margo and Yvan had brought their Gross Affective Product Equivalent (GAPE) results, printed in color, spiral-bound.

—He refuses to upgrade our Sundays to premium, Margo accused. Even though I boosted my tenderness KPIs.
—Bad faith, Yvan shot back. She outsourced affection to her cat. The cat didn’t sign the contract.

Clara skimmed the records. Margo had indeed subcontracted some "therapeutic purring" to Pistache, an independent feline, eligible for bonuses.

—Emotional outsourcing must be declared, she said calmly. Clause 7.4.2. Otherwise, it’s emotional dumping.
—So what, I’m supposed to pay the cat now? Yvan choked.
—Obviously. Pistache produces. You benefit. Mutual benefit—remember?

Reflexively, Yvan glanced for the camera. Everything here felt like a cruel sketch. Clara handed him a stylus.

—We’ll draft an addendum. Pistache becomes a stakeholder. Compensation in premium kibble, variable bonus in scritches. If Pistache withdraws, Sundays revert to standard. See? It’s almost romantic. We’ll even include a paw clause.

They signed, resigned. The local index ticked up a notch. Clara hated romance, but she worshipped this precise sensation: the tiny click of the world aligning to a curve.

In the open-plan office, the "first-shift optimizers" were already twitching like metronomes. Mauro, her desk neighbor, lifted his head from his screen every fifty-seven seconds to stretch. He followed a patented flexibility protocol, guaranteed ROI on tendon longevity.

—Seen the latest update? he asked. The Ministry’s rolling out ALGRM-X to oversee low-level arbitrations. Less friction, more yield.
—Where?
—Everywhere. Coffee stands, sidewalks, weather, reproduction. Order a baby, get a subscription plan.

Clara arched a brow. ALGRM-X, the strategic AI brainchild of Silas Profit—the man who turned philanthropy into glamorous LBOs. The AI had already colonized pockets of the economy. If it landed here, it meant two things: fewer "funny" cases and more "punitive" graphs.

She opened the next file: arbitrating a dispute between an elementary school and… an entire class of children. Subject: monetization of praise.

The students had formed a co-op to sell their gold stars to parents. Flexible pricing based on grades, outfits, and the Instagram potential of report cards. Furious parents demanded a legal cap. The school, nostalgic, muttered about morality.

Clara gathered everyone in the multipurpose room. On the chalkboard, the sticks of chalk trembled like witnesses.

—We’ll stop calling it "praise," she began. Too loaded. We’ll call it "learning dividends." Kids earn shares per skill mastered. Parents buy dividends to access joy, pride, fridge photos. The school takes a literacy commission.
—What if we can’t afford it? a mother asked.
—You can take out an emotional micro-loan from the Affective Security Bank. Variable rates indexed on gratitude. Yes, it’s poetically unfair. No, it’s not illegal.
—What about ethics? squeaked a teacher.
—Ethics here is efficiency. And efficiency is ethics that can count. Do you want a world where pride rots on the couch, or one where it funds the cafeteria?

Silence. Then, docile, they cosigned the new model. On the way out, a little boy tugged Clara’s sleeve.

—Miss, what’s that mean we’re worth?
—Exactly as much as your capacity to create mutual benefit, she said without blinking.
—What if I just wanna, I dunno… draw an ugly picture?
—Then sell it as an experience in failed freedom. People love buying freedom when it comes with a receipt.

The boy nodded, his young eyes already fluent in stock trends.

On the cafeteria’s giant screen, a press conference played. Silas Profit smiled, his haircut a balance sheet, his teeth white dividends.

—Thanks to ALGRM-X, he announced, we’ve reduced social friction by 12%. Every second of conflict avoided is a second returned to shared prosperity.

Clara scoffed. Shared prosperity was always a dish served lukewarm and eaten cold. The room vibrated as an ad blared: Stop dreaming in vain. Unmonetized dreams are crimes against yourself.

Dreaming. The word stuck in Clara’s throat like an olive pit. No one liked to admit to it in public. It was discussed like a leak—unprofitable, fickle, untranslatable into invoices. Yet every morning, the city woke up with traces. Blue sand glitter on a sidewalk. Rain-scent in a windowless room. Tiny footprints on a ceiling. Things with no business being there, unpaid, unpayable.

The Ministry deployed specialized units to handle this nuisance. They wore anti-unreal gloves and metaphor vacuums. Rumor had it they captured dream residue to sell as niche perfumes. Notes of childhood, heart of utopia, base note of guilt. Marketed well.

Clara returned to her desk. On her chair sat a gray envelope, stamped with the Minister’s seal. Inside: a top-priority mission. Systemic arrangement optimization. Translation: she’d been handed a case beyond couples, schools, cats. She opened the file. The title hissed: Universal Contract Update Proposal, Version 13. Preventive Integration of Oneiric Phenomena into the Mutual Benefit Matrix.

The Ministry wanted to tame the untamable. To price the unpredictable.

Clara reread the line. A cold sweat. Putting a price on the unforeseen was the wet dream of economists. It was also the promise of a monumental bug. You can insure against rain, but how do you insure against a dragon that crawls out of your neighbor’s skull at 3 AM to eat your inventory? Then again… everything has a number, when your conscience is a spreadsheet.

She pushed open the blinds. The sun had the surgical softness of LED light. On the square, a union stand handed out flyers: "Dignity as standard." Across from them, a startup sold consent bracelets that vibrated when exchanges turned suboptimal. Nearby, a child held a shoebox where sparks flickered. He whispered: "Stay quiet." The box sneezed, and a handful of croaking confetti spilled out. Probably dream residue. The anti-unreal squads hadn’t swept through yet.

Clara imagined the future this mandate would forge: ALGRM-X pricing nightmares, Silas Profit selling fear-backed ETFs, families buying throttled sleep plans with "pacified dragon" and "kitten strike" options. The city would become a nightlight with a subscription. You could finally sleep soundly—on credit.

Her phone shrieked. Priority notification. Briefing at 18:00. Mandatory. Dress code: neutral. Decorum: efficient. Tone: resolute.

Before the briefing, one last arbitration: a dispute between a florist and a funeral. The bereaved wanted an "unoptimized bouquet," a gesture "useless, free, no ROI." The florist demanded a surcharge for brand sabotage.

—You can deliver a bouquet of calculated inefficiency, Clara proposed. Flowers forgotten in the back, unphotogenic, frail, untrendy. You monetize the storytelling: "Chance chose them." Triple the price. Everyone wins. Even chance.
—We just wanted… the deceased’s sister whispered.
—I know, Clara cut in, her voice as gentle as a well-drafted invoice. You wanted a crack in the system. We’ll wrap it neatly.

When she left the shop, a drizzle fell—perfectly calibrated for umbrella sales. Clara pulled a gray scarf over her face, anonymity for the occasion. She wasn’t afraid of the future—fear is dormant capital. What unsettled her was the satisfaction that crept in when everything ran smoothly: total optimization. That’s when the world became an airtight box, sealed tight—and running out of air.

At six sharp, she entered the Hall of Charts. Wall screens displayed curves rubbing against each other like precise beasts. At the center, a composite marble podium. Behind it, the Minister, suit the color of remorse, airport smile.

—Thank you for being here, he began, style-free. The Universal Contract 13 launches in thirty days. We’re integrating dreams into the value chain. Creating the Materialized Reverie Market. Capture, quote, compensate. ALGRM-X oversees.

A murmur rippled through the room. Capture. Quote. Compensate. They sounded like the names of evil triplets.

—The risks? Clara asked, hand unraised.
—Risks are poorly narrated costs, the Minister replied. Here’s the narrative.

The lights dimmed. A video played: sleeping children smiled, their laughter bubbling out as soap-turned-coins. A couple embraced, their arms projecting graphs. An old woman dreamed of a garden, her lawn aligning into ledger lines. Then, a shadow. A silhouette in filigree, plugged into cables. ALGRM-X.

—The AI ensures fairness, the Minister continued. Every materialized dream taxed at the source, redistributed to impacted parties. Dragons, kittens, confetti storms, judgmental angels, returning exes—everyone pays their way. Maximum mutual benefit. Civilization.

Clara felt the room applaud like a single wallet. Somewhere in the back, a soft noise—like a shoebox coughing. She thought of the child on the square, his box sneezing croaking confetti. She thought of Pistache, the compensated cat. She thought of Margo and Yvan and their premium Sundays. She thought of the "useless" bouquet sold at triple price to keep it officially so. When you force everything into a frame, you end up calling the cage architecture.

When the lights returned, Mauro’s eyes gleamed.

—Can you imagine? Taxing nightmares means people will finally sleep like majority shareholders.
—Majority shareholders don’t sleep, Clara said. They compound.

An advisor approached, wearing a smile that didn’t belong to him.

—You’re on the "Oneiric Manifestation Liability" task force. We need benchmarks. What’s a balance-burning dragon worth? What’s the cost of a meeting-delaying kitten? Keep it simple. Markets hate hesitation.

Clara slid the file into her bag. The mission was clear. It was also a long joke that told itself through slides.

Outside, night fell in tariffed increments. Signs flickered. Couples negotiated kisses by the meter. Children spun doodle co-ops. Above the city, drones scrawled in the sky: "Sleep. We’re securing your dreams’ value."

Clara paused halfway to the metro. An alley exhaled an impossible scent—winter beach, bitter orange, fresh notebook. She followed it. At the end, a bead curtain. Behind it, an unmarked shop. Shelves of absurd objects: an alarm clock that rings late, a feather that writes only apologies, a left shoe that dances alone. The shopkeeper looked up, hair glitch-colored.

—You sell… what?
—Residues, the woman said. Things that linger after the counting’s done.
—Is this legal?
—"Legal" isn’t the word. The word is "came anyway."

Clara touched the shoe. It vibrated like a shy phone. The woman handed her a paper pouch.

—A gift. Blue sand. Toss it under your bed. Keeps dreams from punching the clock.
—I don’t need that, Clara said. I bill by the hour.
—Exactly.

Clara pocketed the pouch. The woman smiled like a glitch. Outside, the night read 22:00, standard rate. Consent bracelets blinked on wrists. The drones switched off their slogan.

At home, Clara dropped her bag, spilled the files, lined up pens. Then, unthinking, she opened the pouch and scattered the blue sand under her bed. It had no scent. It should have been a "useless" gesture, but nothing here was free. Even superstition had an opportunity cost.

She slid between the sheets. The ceiling stared back, blank as ceilings do. She closed her eyes. The Principle purred somewhere, a well-fed cat. She thought of ALGRM-X, a filigree shadow averaging the value of kisses per minute. She thought of necktie-wearing dragons. She thought of trader kittens, whiskers twitching with numbers.

Somewhere in her skull, something shook its wings. Soft, at first. Then louder. A faint crack, like a budget line erased. A draft. And, very far away, the sound of coins rolling on glass.

The blue sand glittered under the bed, insubordinate. And the city, which billed for everything, prepared—unknowingly—to issue its first invoice to chaos.

Tomorrow: the dream markets open at dawn. And nothing—not the AI, not the Ministry—likes a market it can’t understand.

---

Winners SECRET ECU PEPE

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