DATAPOLIS

Datapolis is a vast vertical city built in layers — a megastructure of brutalist concrete, oxidized steel, and obsolete dreams. Official records have long lost track of where it begins or ends. Built somewhere in the forgotten territories of Europe, the city towers stretch endlessly into the dense, artificial sky, disappearing into data-smog clouds and neon shadows. There are no trees, no natural sounds, no birdsong — only the synthetic hum of machines and the muted drone of invisible networks flowing through fiber and flesh.

The architecture is utilitarian and lifeless. Massive blocks are stacked with no concern for aesthetics or human experience. All surfaces serve a functional or promotional purpose: every wall, window, or sidewalk is either a data interface, a floating ad panel, or a blank placeholder for augmented overlays. There’s no need for beauty — no one sees reality anymore. Physical space is merely a scaffolding for the real world people inhabit: their personalized digital environments, streaming directly into their minds through a neuro-chip implanted at birth.

The neuro-chip is the central device of this civilization. Seamlessly fused behind the eye and brainstem, it projects a constant stream of augmented visuals, sounds, and interactions directly into one’s consciousness. It replaces the phone, the screen, the external world. It curates everything you see and hear — customized environments, personalized ads, fabricated memories, artificial relationships. People no longer move through space; they drift through tailored illusions.

The side effects of this immersion are pervasive and devastating, though rarely discussed. Most inhabitants of Datapolis suffer from a condition known as Cognitive Erosion Syndrome (CES) — the gradual loss of unfiltered sensory processing. Over time, individuals lose the ability to differentiate between digital overlays and physical reality. Depth perception deteriorates. Natural emotional responses become dulled. Sleep is interrupted by phantom notifications. Language fragments into short, reactive bursts of thought.

Mental health disorders are widespread but normalized. Chronic dissociation, anxiety loops, algorithm-induced depression, and sensory fatigue are treated not with rest or reflection but with more stimuli: “mood patches,” “emotion filters,” and AI-guided behavioral nudging. The system doesn’t allow you to feel bad — but it doesn’t let you truly feel at all.

Social bonds have eroded into metrics. Friendship is maintained through “Presence Pings.” Romantic relationships unfold via simulated emotional apps. Physical contact is rare, considered awkward or unnecessary. Eye contact, in fact, is obsolete — most people never see each other's true faces, only stylized avatars mapped over their real selves.

Work in Datapolis is dystopically efficient. Human labor is still required, but only for menial, repetitive tasks that AI considers unworthy. These tasks — circuit maintenance, waste sorting, cable repairs — are performed in a trance-like state, guided by overlays and reward signals. People rarely understand what they’re doing. They just follow the glowing arrows, fulfill the prompt, collect dopamine.

And yet, no one rebels. Why would they? In their augmented world, they are rich, happy, influential. Their apartments may be the size of coffins, but their digital palaces stretch across mountains of fantasy. Reality is a glitch they refuse to update.

This is the great paradox of Datapolis: a world built on hyperconnectivity that has resulted in total disconnection — from the body, from the Earth, from each other, from truth. It is not a prison of walls, but of vision. A city where perception is the primary tool of control, and comfort is the mechanism of obedience.

And still, deep below the surface or high above the towers, something stirs — a flicker, a glitch, a question: What would happen if someone truly saw the world for what it is?