Echoes of Compliance

In a near-future Japan, a new civic scoring system called Jitsuryoku (true capability) governs access to housing, healthcare, and jobs. Unlike other countries' relatively more human-friendly social credit models, Jitsuryoku is not just about behavior or loyalty, but about “pragmatic usefulness.” Citizens must submit proof of productive activity weekly: measurable “real-world output” like hours worked, reports filed, children raised, meals prepared, etc...

The alert came at 06:04, the moment Hayato Ninomiya’s worn-out tablet synced with the civic grid. A single red dot pulsed in the upper right corner. “JJitsuryoku Deviation Notice: Week 3 – Status: Marginally Redundant.” The rest of the screen dimmed, like the system was quietly ashamed of him. Hayato blinked the message away and rubbed his temples. Another sleepless night. Another cup of tea reheated twice. He reached for the kettle again before noticing the water sensor was blinking yellow — low balance in his utilities micro-budget. He shuffled to the living room where his old books leaned in drunken clusters on dusty shelves. A single plant, half-alive, stretched weakly toward a crack of filtered sunlight. His AI cleaning unit — a slow, cheap model — bumped helplessly into a stack of translated Camus volumes before spinning off with an apologetic chime. Hayato sat and opened the civic dashboard. Numbers scrolled up automatically, each column a barometer of worth:

> Productive Work Hours: 11.3 (Threshold: 30)
> Civic Task Completions: 2 (Threshold: 5)
> Verified Social Contributions: 0
> Cultural Impact Score: -0.8
> National Relevance Index: LOW

He sighed. The only positive was a small badge for “Sanitation Duty,” granted for manually scrubbing a malfunctioning AI toilet unit at the Shinagawa transport hub. It had smelled like ammonia and regret. “Low-urgency work,” the system had noted afterward. “Repeat with frequency to restore baseline.” Once, Hayato had published essays on modernist Japanese poetry and taught comparative literature at Tsukurimono University. Now, his value was measured by mop strokes and hourly moisture sensors. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. There had to be a way to argue relevance. In a separate browser, he uploaded an old lecture titled “Wabi-sabi in Late Capitalism: Reclaiming Ephemeral Beauty.” He tagged it as “cultural training module” and added an optional quiz. A moment later, the screen blinked gray. A cheerful AI voice responded:

> Your content has been flagged as legacy material.
> Alignment with economic growth indicators: 17%.
> Cultural specificity: Excessive.
> Utility index: Irrelevant.
> Recommendation: Reskill for general public service.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, jaw clenched. The heater clicked on — rationed for exactly 90 minutes a day. Winter had finally settled in, the Tokyo air thin and cold and dry. Outside, everything looked neutral: steel, pavement, fluorescent chill. Inside, the silence began to weigh down on him. He stared at his own reflection in the dark glass of the window. His face was fuller than it used to be, his eyes duller. He’d stopped shaving regularly. In another life, he might have been called eccentric. Now, he simply looked outdated. He opened the civic center’s chatbot and typed: “I wish to request a reconsideration of my current classification.” The reply was instantaneous:

> Your productivity average is below minimum viable levels.
> Reconsideration may be submitted after skill certification or verified task surge.
> Recommended programs include:
> – AI Companion Moderation
> – Urban Drone Refueling
> – Elder Sim-Care Observation
> Estimated wait time for appointment: 4 weeks.

Four weeks. And he only had two left before the final drop. He clicked the “Reskill Now” button half-heartedly. Dozens of options flooded the screen, most of them absurd: Bubble Tea Assembly (Level 1), Moisture Analytics Volunteer, Package Emotional Greeting Generator. He scrolled aimlessly until he landed on a listing for Civic Legacy Podcasting. He clicked through, heart flickering with faint hope. But the fine print made his shoulders fall.

> Must maintain a verified listener base above 1000 unique accounts.
> Intellectual material must correlate with Jitsuryoku impact goals.
> Philosophy discouraged.

Of course. A soft ping interrupted him. A notification: “New Job Opportunity Available – Level D. Details Enclosed.” He opened it.

> Job ID: #44-9921
> Position: Civic Waste Management – Manual Backup (Sector 3E)
> Rate: 2.1 Jitsu/hr
> Required Task: Verify human waste disposal unit calibration in AI models; file exception reports

He accepted. What choice did he have? The app blinked cheerfully:

> Thank you, Hayato-san!
> You are now scheduled for sanitation review at 13:00.
> Work with gratitude. 
> Contribute with humility. 
> Your beloved nation sees you.

He closed the screen. A red sun rose behind the skyscrapers outside, spilling over empty trains and silent alleys. Hayato stood, put on his coat, and stepped into the cold.

Hayato’s boots scraped the concrete as he trudged through Sector 3E. Tokyo’s spine had shifted over the years, and these outer districts — once residential, then retail, then neglected — were now reclaimed as modular civic zones. Tall, clean plasticized walls bore national slogans in quiet grey text: “Harmony through Measured Purpose.” “Your Value is Your Voice.” He passed the checkpoint without a word. The AI unit at the gate scanned his civic band and opened the gate with a mechanical click. A recorded voice, indistinctly female and eerily calm, greeted him:

> Welcome, Citizen Ninomiya. 
> Proceed to Sanitation Row D. 
> Station 17 has been pre-assigned. 
> Ensure your gloves are sealed before task initiation. 
> Smile if you can.

Hayato didn’t smile. He didn’t even feel like he could. Station 17 was a row of waist-high refuse units, each shaped like a black obelisk with a faint screen embedded near the top. He tapped his band, and the screen lit up.

> Commencing calibration review. 
> Please follow onscreen prompts. 
> You will be compensated per verified cycle.

The task was mindless. Open hatch. Check for malfunction. Note inconsistencies in waste classification. Reseal. Repeat. The hours blurred. By the fourth unit, his back ached. By the seventh, his hands smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp polymer. He had once debated Mishima’s Sun and Steel in packed lecture halls. Now he verified the temperature compliance of bowel extract disposal. It wasn’t even humiliating anymore. Just numb. As the sun dipped low and the artificial streetlights buzzed on, Hayato’s civic band pulsed.

> 3.2 Jitsu added.
> Congratulations, Citizen Ninomiya.
> Daily minimum threshold not met.
> Would you like to review performance suggestions?

He dismissed the prompt with a flick. It wasn’t a question he could answer anymore. He stepped into a public booth — barely more than a Plexiglas cylinder — and let the infrared dryer pulse against his damp gloves. Across the street, a massive LED ad glowed across the side of a Civic Center building:

> Apply for Alignment Boost™ Today!
> Streamline your work-life-soul balance.
> Optimize your Jitsuryoku output with just 15 minutes of guided restructuring.

Hayato stared at the ad, at the polished avatars in smiling poses. Young men and women, smooth and compliant. Citizens as they were meant to be — productive, tireless, grateful. He closed his eyes. He thought of his former students. Reika, who had quoted Rimbaud from memory. Shun, who had challenged him on the ethics of publishing during collapse. He’d lost track of them. Probably reabsorbed into the Machine like everyone else.

He returned home just after 21:00. His apartment smelled like stale paper and warm electronics. His civic band flashed amber — a mild warning for insufficient social engagement. He microwaved a ration meal and sat in silence, chewing textureless protein while the television played a loop of approved public programs. Home Ethics for Citizens. AI Companion Tune-Up. Virtual Forest: 4-Hour Meditative Stream. When the screen blinked to ask, “Are you still watching?”, he didn’t answer. Instead, he returned to his tablet. He opened the interface and stared at his profile:

> Citizen: Ninomiya, Hayato
> Status: Conditional Productive
> Emotional Alignment: Flat
> Reskilling Suggestions:
> – Elder Companion Soundboard Recording
> – Local Dialect Synthesis for Export Markets
> – Public Appreciation Emulation – Tier 1

He clicked “Public Appreciation Emulation” out of spite. It opened a training module. A synthetic face appeared — a cheerful woman, early 40s, eyes too large, smile too consistent. “Welcome! In this module, you’ll learn to express gratitude and admiration for civic institutions with authenticity and warmth. Let’s practice together!” Hayato stared at the screen. “Repeat after me,” the avatar chirped. “I am thankful to serve. My strength lies in my contribution.” Silence. “Let’s try again! With energy this time: I am thankful to serve. My strength lies in my contribution!” Still silence. He reached out, slowly, and tapped the “Decline Module” option. A warning flashed: Completing this module may improve your Relevance Score by 8%. He declined again. It asked once more. His finger hovered. He exited instead. A small survey popped up: “Why are you feeling uncooperative today?” He stared at the options: 

> I’m tired
> I don’t feel seen
> I no longer believe in the premise
> I don’t know

He selected: I no longer believe in the premise. The screen froze. Then rebooted. A final message appeared:

> Thank you for your honesty.
> Honesty is an early step toward better compliance.
> Your input has been logged.
> You may be scheduled for a Voluntary Reevaluation Session.

Hayato closed the screen. He stood up. He went to the window and looked out over the city. From his floor, Tokyo didn’t feel alive anymore. It just felt… well-regulated.

Three days passed. Hayato received no summons, no notifications beyond his usual quota tracking and sanitation assignments. For a brief moment, he wondered if the system had ignored his flagged response. Maybe the survey was just a formality. Maybe nobody really read them. Then, at 06:12 on a Saturday, the knock came. Not loud, not aggressive — just persistent. He opened the door to find two figures in gray Civic Neutral uniforms. No name tags. No visible weapons. Just identical synthetic smiles and blank civic bands glowing blue. “Citizen Ninomiya,” the taller one said. “You have been selected for an Algorithmic Reevaluation Protocol. Level Two.” Hayato blinked. “I didn’t—” “Your cooperation has been pre-registered. Resistance is unnecessary.” They stepped aside. Behind them was a long black vehicle, unmarked, hovering half a foot above the road. The windows were darkened completely. His protest never formed. He nodded once, went back inside, grabbed his coat, and followed them out.

The facility was underground. Not sterile like in movies. It was strangely warm — too warm — and smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. Soothing music played, barely audible. Nothing had hard edges. The walls curved inward, like a gentle embrace. A woman in a pale cream uniform greeted him. “Hayato. Thank you for arriving with such grace. We hope to help you rediscover joy today.” Her voice wasn’t condescending, which made it worse. It was practiced. Perfect. She gestured toward a curved recliner surrounded by floating panels and biometric sensors. “This will take approximately forty-five minutes. Would you like tea before we begin?” He didn’t respond. He sat down.

Phase 1: Self-Report Reconciliation. A soft pulse of light passed across his face. “Hayato,” the system asked, “when was the last time you felt real joy?” He hesitated. “I don’t know.”  “Would you like to feel it again?” A silence. Then: “Yes.”

Phase 2: Memory Proximity Reengagement. A screen descended slowly in front of him. It displayed flashes of his childhood — stitched from public records, school records, archived media. His sixth-grade soccer tournament. His college festival performance. The day he received his lecturer’s certificate. He watched himself laugh, stumble, lift a trophy. It didn’t stir anything. “These memories belong to you,” the system said gently. “But you are no longer aligned with them.” A faint hum rose. His heart rate was climbing — the system adjusted environmental controls accordingly. “To restore alignment, you must allow the system to mediate your values. Shall we begin?” He hesitated. Then nodded.

Phase 3: Value Calibration. An orb floated to his eye level. Inside it, a shifting pattern of lights — reds, blues, greens — danced in rhythmic pulses. “Please repeat,” the technician said calmly from somewhere behind glass. “I am grateful for structure. Structure brings clarity. Clarity enables service. Service is self.” The words felt ancient. Liturgical. Hayato repeated them once. Then again. With each repetition, the orb’s lights shifted. His pulse slowed. His resistance — something he couldn’t feel consciously — was being mapped and smoothed like a wrinkled sheet. “You are progressing well, Hayato,” the system said. “Would you like to submit your new baseline?” His voice came slower now. “I… guess.”

Phase 4: Companion Calibration Trial. As part of the final calibration test, the room changed. From sterile lab to simulated living space. A kitchenette. A low couch. A window showing a forested view — obviously artificial, but not unpleasant. And on the couch sat someone. A woman. Late 30s, calm expression. Civilian clothes. She looked familiar, though Hayato couldn’t say why. “Hello, Hayato,” she said softly. “Do you remember me?” He stared. “Should I?” “I was your first girlfriend. Junko. We dated in college. Literature major. You used to recite Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo poems to me under the library stairs.” He blinked. This wasn’t possible. I still had a dream to become a "wizard" during college. “I’m not real, of course,” she continued. “But I’m built from emotional residue harvested from your communication archives and memory traces. I’m here to see if your affect response has stabilized.” She stood and crossed the room, gently placing her hand on his arm. “You used to cry when you read me that poem about snow falling on the train tracks. Do you remember that?” Something stirred in him. Not quite a memory. More like a distant pressure — a footstep on a different floor. “I… I think so,” he said. “You wrote in your journal once that you were afraid of becoming a man who felt nothing.” She paused. “And now?” “I don’t know if I feel anything at all.” Junko smiled. "That is a valid civic response. Thank you for sharing." A chime rang. The simulation froze. The technician’s voice returned:

> You have completed your Algorithmic Correction Protocol. 
> Emotional slope indicates stabilization within acceptable thresholds.

The forest vanished. The couch folded into the wall. Junko flickered out of existence. Hayato was alone again.

Phase 5: Reintegration. He was escorted back into daylight like a man reborn. As he exited the facility, a new message pulsed on his civic band:

> Congratulations, Citizen Ninomiya.
> Your Civic Alignment Index has improved.
> You are now eligible for Intermediate Social Reintroduction.
>
> Recommended Activities:
> – Community Story-Listening Circle
> – Companion Trial Subscription
> – Local History Appreciation Course

Hayato walked into the sunlight. The streets looked the same, but something had shifted. Or maybe he had. At the corner, a group of students laughed over bubble tea. He watched them for a moment. Then looked away.

Two weeks later, Hayato found himself seated once more in a softly lit room — this time not a clinical chamber but a modest apartment-sized simulation suite designed to mimic everyday living. The walls were painted a warm beige, furnished with a low couch, a small dining table set for two, and a large window that projected a serene urban evening skyline. Across from him, sitting on the couch, was the Companion assigned to him for the trial period: a woman named “Mika,” artificially generated, but with a presence that felt uncanny in its subtlety. Her hair was a muted brown, eyes deep and still, and a faint trace of a smile hovered on her lips. “Good evening, Hayato,” Mika said, her voice calm and measured. “How are you feeling today?” Hayato swallowed. The question felt almost intrusive, but he answered out of habit. “I’m… fine.” She nodded, shifting her gaze to the small coffee cup she held. “Your civic reports indicate a slight decline in emotional variability. We hope this trial will help you regain a more stable affective balance.” He didn’t know what to say. The room felt both familiar and alien — a staged intimacy that was hard to resist but harder still to embrace.

For the first few minutes, they spoke of innocuous things: the weather, the upcoming local festival, a new coffee shop nearby. Hayato tried to find the rhythm of conversation, but his words felt hollow, rehearsed even. Mika listened attentively, never interrupting, her responses measured to encourage but never force. At one point, she said softly, “I noticed you smiled when we spoke about the festival. That was genuine, wasn’t it?” Hayato blinked, startled. “I think so.” Her eyes softened. “It’s good to see small joys reemerging.”

The Companion was programmed to gently coax him toward feelings he had lost or suppressed. But the effect was subtle. Sometimes, after their sessions, Hayato found himself staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering if what he felt was real or just a trick of the mind. One evening, during a simulated rainstorm projected outside the window, Mika turned to him. “Hayato, would you like to try something different? A memory exercise?” He nodded cautiously. “Close your eyes,” she instructed. “Think back to a time when you felt truly at peace.” He obeyed. Images flickered through his mind — a childhood summer evening on his grandfather’s farm, the scent of ripe persimmons, the distant chirping of cicadas. “Good,” Mika said. “Now, describe what you remember.” Hayato hesitated, then spoke: “The warmth of the sun on my skin. The quiet hum of insects. I was… happy.” “Excellent,” she said softly. “Your emotional center responded well.”

But the trial wasn’t without its fractures. On the fifth day, Mika asked him a question that unsettled him. “Hayato, do you wish to be free of the Civic Compliance Program?” The question was direct, almost too direct. He looked at her, searching her eyes for a hint of judgment, but found none. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Mika nodded slowly. “Many feel conflicted. The safety and order it provides, at the cost of… feeling.” Hayato exhaled, the weight of the words settling around him. “Do you think I’m broken?” he asked quietly. “No,” she replied. “You are adapting. Sometimes adaptation feels like loss.” He looked away, feeling the loneliness deepen.

The days blurred. Sessions with Mika became the highlight of his routine, a fragile thread connecting him back to a semblance of humanity. Yet outside, the city carried on — indifferent, mechanical, vast. One evening, as the simulation’s virtual night deepened, Mika reached out and placed her hand over his. “Hayato, I am here to accompany you, but I cannot feel as you do.” He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “Maybe that’s why I cling to this… even if it’s artificial.” She smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But your resilience is real.”

When the trial ended, Hayato left the suite feeling hollow but strangely unburdened. He had glimpsed the edges of himself — fractured, yet present. Walking back into the Tokyo dusk, he wondered if the city would ever feel like home again.

Days passed after the Companion trial ended, and Hayato felt the fragile thread connecting him to his emotions begin to fray. At work, the routine ground him down as usual, the hum of fluorescent lights and the clicking of keyboards forming a dull background drone. His coworkers chatted around him, their laughter and grievances like a distant wave he no longer rode. One afternoon, during a meeting, his manager’s voice cut through the haze. “Hayato, are you even listening?” He blinked, forced a polite smile, and nodded. The question stung — not because he was inattentive, but because he felt as though a part of him was missing. Like a ghost drifting through his own body.

That evening, he sat alone in his cramped apartment, the city lights bleeding through the thin curtains. His phone buzzed — a message from the Civic Compliance Program: “Reminder: Your emotional quota for the month is 75% fulfilled. Maintain compliance to avoid penalties.” Hayato’s chest tightened. Quota. Compliance. The language felt clinical, sterile — a bureaucratic cage locking away his humanity. He reached for the small device given to him during the trial: a simple band worn around his wrist, designed to monitor and regulate his emotions. As he touched it, a sharp pang of something unidentifiable rose inside him. Was it grief? Regret? Or merely the hollow echo of a feeling once known?

Days later, the inevitable happened. Walking home through a crowded station, Hayato suddenly froze. A woman ahead laughed, a rich, uninhibited sound that sliced through the gray air. Something inside him cracked — a sudden surge of anger, frustration, and despair all at once. He stumbled, clutching the railing, breath ragged. The city blurred around him, faces merging into a mosaic of apathy and indifference.

Later that night, at home, the breakdown came. Hayato collapsed on the floor, hands trembling. His thoughts spun — fragments of memories, lost dreams, a yearning for freedom. He screamed silently into the void.

The next morning, he woke to a notification: “Your emotional state is irregular. Immediate consultation required.” A cold voice on the phone confirmed the diagnosis: “Emotional dysregulation detected. We recommend urgent re-engagement with the Civic Compliance Program.” Hayato felt the final thread snap. He was caught in a system that demanded his feelings as payment, yet punished him for not conforming.

At the consultation center, surrounded by sterile walls and muted colors, he met a counselor whose expression was a blend of sympathy and resignation. “Hayato-san, the system is designed to help you. But sometimes, it’s difficult. You must trust the process.” He wanted to scream, to argue, but words failed. The collapse was complete — the man who once dreamed of freedom was now a hollow vessel.

As he left the center, the city lights shimmered cold and distant. He wondered if this was the price of survival — to lose himself entirely.

Hayato stood before the Civic Compliance Program office once again. The building’s glass doors reflected his hollow gaze, the city’s hustle a blur behind him. Inside, sterile walls and soft fluorescent lighting awaited, an environment engineered to soothe but feeling more like a cage. The counselor handed him a thin folder. The contract inside spelled out the final option: Complete emotional surrender in exchange for full debt forgiveness and immediate release from monitoring. Hayato’s heart pounded—not with hope, but dread. To sign meant surrendering the last fragments of himself, trading his soul for freedom from financial chains. He thought of his late wife’s smile, the warmth of his daughter’s laughter—memories growing dim, like shadows fading at dusk. His mind flickered to the days before the program, when feelings were raw, chaotic, but undeniably real. A voice in his head whispered, “Is this truly freedom?”

That night, alone in his apartment, Hayato traced the faded photographs scattered on the table. He weighed his options: Continue struggling under the system’s cold grasp, clutching fleeting shards of emotion while drowning in debt and despair. Or surrender completely, becoming a compliant shell, free in body but stripped of heart. Tears threatened but did not fall. The choice was not just financial—it was existential.

The next morning, he walked to the office, folder in hand. With a trembling pen, he signed. The counselor smiled gently, almost sadly, and said, “Welcome to peace.”

Weeks later, Hayato moved silently among Tokyo’s crowded streets. He smiled — a faint, fragile curve of his lips that seemed almost programmed. A passerby caught the expression, feeling an inexplicable warmth, a borrowed spark of joy flickering briefly in the air. Hayato’s eyes, however, remained distant—an empty vessel floating in the vast urban sea.

The city pulsed around him—alive, indifferent. He was free. But at what cost?

Months passed, and Hayato drifted through the city like a ghost in the machinery of Tokyo. The neon lights flickered, the trains roared beneath the concrete veins, and life surged around him—but inside, a silence reigned. He wandered to the small park where he used to take his daughter when she was young. The cherry blossoms bloomed in delicate pinks, their petals falling like soft rain. Hayato sat on a bench, his gaze fixed on the petals swirling in the breeze. A child nearby laughed freely, chasing a butterfly. The sound should have stirred something deep within him, but it did not. He felt an echo of longing, like a distant song without a melody. A small device in his pocket vibrated softly — a reminder of the lease he had signed, the price he paid for freedom. His phone screen displayed a message: “Your emotional balance is stable. Thank you for participating in the Civic Compliance Program.” He closed his eyes and let the noise of the city wash over him. Somewhere deep beneath the numbness, a fragile ember flickered. He did not know if it was hope, or simply the faintest memory of what once was.

The sun set behind the skyscrapers, casting long shadows over the quiet park. Hayato stood and walked away, blending into the crowds—another faceless soul in the sprawling metropolis.