Susan looked down at the desk. Three different color highlight markers were lined up precisely on the right hand corner. The book was centered on the desk, propped up at a slight angle. She had a notebook just to the side for jotting down important things to reference later. Susan loved studying in the library. The quiet. The purposefulness of being there. Her roommates were too loud and not always the most studious, so the library was her refuge. In truth, she’d always been a good student and spent more time in the library than with friends or playing sports. She didn’t mind. This was where she was comfortable.

Feeling the light haptic buzz on the wrist from her smartwatch, she glanced down at it. She saw the partial title from the new email and breathed in a quick involuntary gasp. “From: Columbia School….” This was it. She’d been waiting for this moment ever since pushing the application submit button yesterday. Well, truthfully ever since starting high school she’d wanted to be a journalist. She worked with singleminded focus ever since. Joining a few carefully selected clubs. Writing for the school paper. An internship at a human rights organization. She been very careful with social media from the beginning. Always adding a like to the important social issues of the moment. Making sure to have the correct flags and symbols in her profile at all times. She prided herself in properly honoring peoples pronouns when emailing them. While she didn’t have many friends, she did have several acquaintances who were people of color. She’d made sure her photos with them were prominent on her social media feed.

Susan pulled out her phone to read the message. Her hands trembled as she opened up the email. “Thank you for your interest in The Columbia School of Journalism. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a spot in the next cohort. Our Admissions Team found several things in your record that did not meet Columbia’s high standards of admission…”

She felt the hot tears starting to fall down her cheeks. How could this be? She’d done everything right. She’d sacrificed. She had straight A’s. She’d stayed off social media other than the carefully curated time she planned out so she’d have the exact right online presence. Only to have her fate decided by an AI engine in less than a day. An AI engine that took her name and national ID number, which is all the “application” consisted of, and instantly scanned her entire on-line history. An algorithm designed to evaluate if she fit the current DEI profile Columbia needed in order to maintain their federal journalism license.

The wave of despair she felt was paralyzing. Now what? She hadn’t applied anywhere else. It wouldn’t matter at this point. A rejection is now in the system and no other school was going to take her with that on her record. The reality of a lifetime of blue collar work began to set in. She struggled to catch her breath.

Matt’s finger hovered over the submit button. Was this going to work? His parents had been smart, purchasing a second ID as soon as he’d been born. His entire life, he used that ID to surf the internet, log into online games, and shit post on X and various counter culture forums. His real ID had been cultivated like a rare flower. Even though it was illegal to use one of the dark web ID coaches, his parents thought it was worth the risk. Everything his real ID did online was carefully calculated for maximum effect. His online self was a perfect being.

Like Susan, Matt didn’t apply anywhere else. A few years ago he’d briefly thought about simply applying to one of the merit based schools, but those were mostly in the midwest flyover part of the country. Graduating with a bunch of deplorables only to be some sort of materials engineer wasn’t going to make his parents happy. It had been important to them from the moment he was born that he be a lawyer and part of the East Coast establishment. That was only real path to power and money.

The second ID had been a risk for sure. The AI engines were smart and able to collate and cross-reference millions of online interactions he or his parents had and look for irregularities. Even with spoofed IP addresses, was there a chance the fake ID could be somehow linked to him? Matt hoped not. His parents had paid a lot of money over the years to the ID coaches to ensure his real persona was squeaky clean.

Like Susan, he didn’t have a backup plan if he didn’t get accepted. The thought of having no other options other than being a blue collar drone or autonomous vehicle operator was not something he wanted to think about.

His finger hovered over the submit button a little longer before he pushed it.