A Wayward Vector is my most ambitious writing. It’s a Sci-Fi thing where Earth is fucked. I find it hard to differ Sci-Fi from Science-Fantasy, because as soon as you add in space magic you can either just handwave the explanation or blame nanites 
A Wayward Vector (working title)
Earth
A day like many others, the bustling of the city, people moving about on bikes with some occasional frantic bell ringing and the simulated birds chirping their frustratingly short cycle. The city-wide PA system buzzed it’s usual soft buzz on the hour and a voice followed it. “Citizens of New-Amsterdam, volunteer to become an Explorer today, travel among the stars to find new homes for the future of humanity and experience a life unimaginable till now!” the PA system crackled off again.
The Hyatt Company had tried to recruit for the Explorer program before, about a decade or three ago, and it ended in tragedy. Seemingly the vessel disappeared, no emergency signals ever showed up and none of the pilots that returned knew what had happened. Different rumors went that no one returned, that there was a technical failure and it was disruptive enough that it killed all five-hundred people. Regardless of what truly happened, it was bad enough that Hyatt decided to cancel all their public operations and to use their dominance in their industries to pay off any and all governments to ensure they’d stay out of jail.
But with Earth rapidly approaching humanity’s most likely final crisis. And with no other realistic options, Hyatt’s perception and acceptance changed again. Every government, company and individual with means has started openly investing in Hyatt again, in the hope that with enough funding they can secure themselves a spot on the colony ship which Hyatt has started to build. So far Hyatt has kept very tight-lipped about progress outside of the publicly broadcasted advertisements for the second Explorer program.
A few hours later, with the sun setting and casting it’s ever lengthening shadows over the city, a cyclist in dark baggy clothing and with a beefy pair of headphones sitting on-top short curly hair, is seen dashing through the rapidly emptying streets. They’re on one of the standardized free government bikes, the way they’re sitting on it making it clear it’s too small for them. The only sound heard being the wind, some occasional swearing from the person, and the loud creaking of the rusty chain reflecting off the buildings.
The streetlights turn on, one after the other, while skipping one each time as a recent aid in lowering the cities power consumption. The bike’s lights turn on along with them, the front one loosely hanging by an electric wire and being bumped around by the movement.
The PA’s buzzer goes off again, marking the passing of another hour. This time a different voice follows. “The curfew is now in effect, remain indoors unless by lawful order.” The few pedestrians the cyclist passes now hurriedly on their way abide by the curfew, and with that silence falls upon New-Amsterdam
The silence now makes the creaking and rattling of the bike sound even louder before, nothing stopping the sound from reflecting on all buildings, before rapidly disappearing as they round the corner into a large open plaza.
Out of nowhere there’s a burst of red and blue flashing lights, and a car flashes it’s headlights at the cyclist from an obscured alley. The cyclist shakes their head, some soft swearing is heard and with the loud screeching of worn-through brake pads the person rapidly gets to a stop. The half obscured police car turns off the emergency lights and slowly rolls up to the cyclist, parking in front of them. The officer gets out of his car and the cyclist takes off their headphones.