The Wyrm

The hallway flickers in and out of shadow as I make my way to first period. The fluorescent lights cough and stutter overhead, their broken rhythm syncing with the soft blue glow of the Wyrms pulsing beneath the skin of the kids spilling out of the counselor’s office.

A poster on the wall reads: CONNECTION IS SAFETY. CONNECTION IS SUCCESS.

Cartoon children smile with hollow eyes under it.

The principal glides past the line like she’s weightless. Her grin stretches too wide across her freckled face. I search her vacant green eyes, hungry for a flicker of recognition, of humanity.

Nothing.

The sleek, gray Wyrm, anchored at the base of her neck, pulses gently, its thin legs branching beneath mottled, bruised skin.

Around me, the other kids buzz with that same manufactured warmth. Faces lit from within. Eyes glassy, fixed. All of them looking so… happy. So full of promise.

And God, I want that. I want to feel what they’re feeling. I want what they have.

“Eat your food before it gets cold,” my mother mutters, flipping burnt eggs that scrape against the pan like sandpaper.

The bacon on my plate is still raw—fat curling inward like it’s trying to disappear. She dumps a scorched egg beside it without noticing.

I study her face, searching for the mother I remember: her laugh, her spark, the way she used to dance while she cooked, spinning me around the kitchen until we both nearly toppled over.

None of it’s there.

Her warm chestnut skin has turned a sickly gray where the Wyrm clings to the base of her neck. Dark tendrils creep down her spine in branching cracks. Her once-thick black hair hangs in sparse strands, exposing burned patches and tender hollows on her scalp.

She smiles at me, and the gaps between her molded teeth make something inside me drop. Her glazed eyes shine too brightly—sharp in the wrong way.

“Pay attention in school,” she says. “Ask Ms. Rebecca about the subsidy for your Wyrm.”

Her voice trembles beneath the practiced cheer.

I say nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps. “If you had one, school wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe you could bring home something other than an ‘E.’ They’re supposed to help people like us.”

Then her body jerks. The Wyrm at her neck buzzes awake, tendrils tightening—like something correcting her emotions. Her panic drains away in seconds.

She swallows a handful of clinic pills.

“Doctor says these help,” she murmurs, calmer. “But I’m burning through them faster every month. Can you stop by after school? Pick up more?”

I nod and take the crumpled cash from her trembling hand.

Ms. Rebecca’s office smells of disinfectant and something too sweet, like rotting flowers.

“Good morning, Trey!” Her smile stretches nearly ear to ear. The massive Wyrm clinging to her neck pulses in heavy, steady waves, its filaments threaded deep into her scalp. The skin there is cracked like drought-stricken earth.

“Your mother called,” she chirps. “Asking about the new subsidized Wyrms. And guess what? They’ll be available this afternoon. Isn’t that wonderful?”

A student passes me on their way out, blinking too slowly, pupils dilated.

Her excitement feels rehearsed. Forced.

“I—I’m not sure I want a Wyrm,” I say.

Her smile snaps. “What?”

“I thought maybe I could… study harder. On my own.”

She laughs so loudly it echoes off the walls. “On your own?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You want a future, don’t you?” Her tone slices the air thin. “A good job? Stability? You can’t get any of that without basic integration.”

Her Wyrm pulses sharply, as if punctuating her warning.

I stare at the floor.

“Here.” She slides a slip toward me. “Fourth period. Clinic. Don’t waste this opportunity.”

Fourth period settles over the classroom like a storm. I slide into my seat, surrounded by the low hum of thirty Wyrms glowing and twitching in unison. Their light flickers over rows of concentrated faces as pens scratch against tablets.

Across from me, Rhett keeps rubbing his neck like something’s crawling beneath his skin. His Wyrm pulses a little too brightly. A flicker too fast.

Ms. Arlon moves down the aisles, her wide smile stretched thin. The skin around her Wyrm is raw, irritated, as if something has been chewing from the inside. She pauses at my desk, eyeing my half-finished work. A flicker—pity or shame—crosses her face before she forcibly resets her expression.

A scratching sound erupts. Frantic and jagged.

I look up.

Rhett’s fingers claw at the Wyrm latched to his neck. His nails split. His whole body convulses like his nerves are firing out of order.

Then the Wyrm reacts.

It tightens.

Burrows.

Its tendrils drill deeper into his flushing skin, the whole creature whirling in a violent blur.

Rhett screams.

Raw.

Animalistic.

He bolts upright, knocking over his chair. He lunges at the nearest student, grabbing for their Wyrm like ripping someone else’s out might save him.

Kids scream. Desks crash. Someone sobs.

The door slams open. Three teachers shove inside, their own Wyrms flaring bright. Every Wyrm in the room pulses in synchronized signals I can’t decipher.

They pin Rhett to the floor, their Wyrms chittering loud enough to make my teeth ache. He thrashes until his screams collapse into hoarse, broken sobs. Then they drag him out. His voice fades down the hall.

“Just a defective unit,” a teacher whispers.

“So rare,” Ms. Arlon replies too quickly. She glances at me—dark, unreadable—before forcing her smile back into place.

“Alright, class,” she chirps. “Back to work.”

Twenty-nine Wyrms settle into their synchronized hum. Rhett’s overturned chair is the only evidence that anything happened.

My paper sits alone on my desk. A big, red “E” staring up at me.

A reminder.

A warning.

A sentence.

The bell rings, and I spill out into the afternoon chaos of the city. Rhett’s screams still echo behind my eyes.

A few blocks down, a sleek pop-up boutique buzzes with wealthy teens. Music thumps from hidden speakers. A neon sign flashes: ELITE / LIMITED / CONNECTED.

A cluster of teens spill out, arms loaded with glossy bags. Their laughter is bright, unburdened. Their clothes look expensive in a way you can't fake.

Their Wyrms sit at their neck like an accessory.

Small.

Delicate.

Perfect—too perfect.

No twitching.

No rot.

No pulsing under the skin.

A boy tugs at his collar, adjusting it—revealing a glimpse of metal.

A hinge.

A clasp.

Before I can stare longer, the city bus whines up. I slip inside just before the doors hiss shut.

Their laughter stays lodged in my chest.

Everyone says Wyrms are the great equalizer. But nothing about this seems equal.

The bus hums with the buzz of dozens of Wyrms. The air is too warm, too damp. Passengers look half-rotted, skin dull and flaking, eyes glassy like old glass.

I steady myself by a pole.

Then I see her.

A toddler—three, maybe four—on her mother’s lap. A tiny purple Wyrm pulses frantically at her soft neck.

She giggles at nothing, pupils vibrating like loose lightbulbs. Drool drips down her chin. When the Wyrm dims, even slightly—

She screams. A sharp, splitting wail that tears through the bus.

No one reacts. Not a single flinch.

Her mother panics, rubbing the Wyrm until the glow flares back and the girl collapses into dizzy giggles.

“So sorry,” the mother whispers. “She can’t calm down without it. It helps her focus.”

The woman beside her nods, as if this is a normal occurrence.

A cold shiver crawls up my spine. Something twists inside me—recognition, nausea, fear.

The bus lurches to a stop. I get off, shaken.

At the clinic, I splash water on my face. Disappointed brown eyes stare back at me from the mirror.

A phantom ache tugs at the back of my neck.

I reach back—

A ridge.

A hardened crescent-shaped scar.

My breath catches. I press harder—

A white-hot pain detonates behind my eyes.

I’m four again.

A clinic room.

Harsh lights.

My mother screaming.

A man in scrubs saying, “If you can’t pay for maintenance, it must come out. It’s dangerous otherwise.”

Burning.

Tearing.

My tiny hands clawing at anything.

A Wyrm—my Wyrm—plucked from my spine and dropped into a surgical jar.

My mother sobbing: “I’m so sorry, baby. We’ll get another one soon.”

The memory shatters.

I vomit into the sink.

I had one.

And poverty ripped it off me.

Is that why everything’s been harder? Why I’m always behind? Why nothing ever feels… enough?

I stumble out of the bathroom, dizzy.

Somewhere deeper in the clinic, I hear something chittering. Sharp. Mechanical. Hungry.

“I’m here for my Wyrm,” I tell the woman at the desk, handing her the slip.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, pity heavy in her smile. “We just ran out. Come back next week.”

Next week. Always next week for people like us.

“Can I… buy stabilizers?” I slide the cash over and pocket my mother’s pills.

Hopelessness crushes me as I step outside.

“Pssst.” A man with sunken eyes calls from behind a dumpster.

“You lookin’ for a Wyrm?”

I nod.

“They run out fast. But I know a guy.”

I shouldn’t follow him. But I do.

He leads me into a forgotten building with peeling paint and a buzzing fluorescent light. A man in stained scrubs looks me over.

“How you paying, kid?”

“I… don’t have money.”

He clicks his tongue. “Then what do you have? You want a better life, don’t you? Want to matter?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

My hand drifts to my pocket. My mother’s medication rattles.

I hold it out.

His Wyrm glows hungrily. “I’ll take that,” he says as he looks me up and down. “And your jacket.”

Cold air hits my arms as I hand them over.

He straps me into a cracked medical chair. Pulls out a slightly corroded Wyrm.

“Ready?”

I know I shouldn’t want this, but wanting is the only thing I’ve ever felt that belonged to me.

I nod.

It bites.

Cold tendrils burrow deep around my spine. Agony tears through me—

Then, relief. Warmth.

A whispered hum sliding through my skull, intimate as a hand stroking my thoughts.

For a split second—

a flicker of doubt, a flash of wrongness—

But it’s gone as fast as it comes.

My fear drains out.

My loneliness.

My ache.

My Wyrm sees me.

Finally.

The next morning, I walk to school glowing.

People smile.

Teachers clap my back.

My mother cries with pride. Her Wyrm flares bright in approval.

The ache settling into my bones feels almost comforting.

Finally, I’m going to become something.

A chorus of laughter draws my attention.

The designer kids stroll past.

One flicks their collar—revealing a hollow shell where a Wyrm should be.

Fake.

I freeze.

My Wyrm tightens its claws around my spine. Warmth floods my thoughts, blurring the edges.

The world softens.

My fear fades.

Everything becomes easy.

And I let it—because I finally belong.

Isn’t that what your device promised you, too?