The Optimal Child™
A story from Influenced: Tales from the Digital Abyss...
Zayn draws suns with sunglasses. Not just regular suns—proper cartoon ones with the glasses sitting just below the rays, like they’re perched on an invisible nose. Sometimes he gives them smiles. Sometimes they’re just cool, expressionless suns, too busy being suns to emote.
“That’s well good, mate,” I tell him, sticking the latest one to the fridge with a dinosaur magnet. “Does this sun have a name?”
He ponders this, head tilted, crayon still in hand. “Mr. Sunshine…the Third.”
“What happened to the first two?”
“Retired,” he says, totally deadpan. Then he giggles, this perfect little laugh that makes everything in the world feel right for about three seconds.
That’s Zayn. Five years old. Into dinosaurs (specifically, “the swimming ones with the long necks”), LEGO bricks (but only the red and blue ones), and songs about animals. He’s funny and kind and a bit quiet. But that last part—the quiet bit—that’s what’s got us in trouble.
I’m a single dad, teaching assistant at the same primary school Zayn attends. His mum’s not dead or anything dramatic—she just decided parenthood wasn’t for her when he was eighteen months old. Moved to Australia to “find herself.” Sends birthday cards with ten-pound notes sellotaped inside. Zayn calls her “Phone Mummy” because that’s mainly where she exists for him.
We do alright, me and him. Our flat’s small but decent—two bedrooms, little garden shared with the downstairs neighbours. I make sure he eats vegetables and brushes his teeth and gets to school on time. He makes sure I don’t take life too seriously and remember the names of all the dinosaurs. It works.
Or it did, until last Tuesday.
That’s when Mrs. Hargreaves, Zayn’s reception teacher, called me in for a “quick chat” after school. She had that look teachers get when they’re about to suggest your child might be a bit…different.
“We’ve noticed Zayn isn’t engaging as much as we’d hope,” she said, glancing at the BrightPath Portal open on her tablet. “His profile shows consistent flagging for low verbal output and social hesitancy.”
The BrightPath Portal—mandatory digital record for every child under ten. Tracks everything from classroom participation to playground interactions, nutrition to sleep patterns. All schools have been required to use it since the Early Development Act passed three years ago.
“He’s just a bit quiet,” I said. “Always has been. Thinks before he speaks.”
“Of course,” she nodded, but her fingers were already tapping. “The system has logged six instances of ‘observational rather than participatory behaviour’ this week alone. And his Future Projection Scale is…well, concerning.”
“His what?”
“When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he said ‘a person who draws suns.’ That registers as…let me see…’Low ambition plus substandard social engagement.’”
I laughed. Shouldn’t have.
Mrs. Hargreaves didn’t laugh back. Instead, she turned the tablet towards me. A pop-up was flashing in the corner of Zayn’s profile:
Behavioural Drift Risk Detected. Would you like to learn more about the Optimal Child™ Pathway?
“It’s not for everyone,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “But as an education professional, I’ve seen remarkable improvements in children who take advantage of the programme.”
I looked out the classroom window. Zayn was waiting in the playground, drawing in the dirt with a stick, perfectly content in his own little world.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
It’s not that I think there’s something wrong with him. It’s just…they make you feel like you’re already behind.
The consultation was online, of course.
Callie, my assigned BrightPath “Parental Progress Officer,” had the kind of perfect smile that makes you instantly self-conscious about your own teeth. Her background was a soft-focus classroom with inspirational quotes I couldn’t quite read.
“So, Mr. Jenkins, I understand you’re interested in exploring the Optimal Child™ Pathway for Zayn?”
“Not exactly interested. Just…inquiring.”
“Of course.” Her smile never faltered. “Many parents feel hesitant at first. It’s completely natural to question interventions in your child’s development.”
“I don’t actually think Zayn needs intervening with. He’s doing fine.”
Callie’s expression shifted to sympathetic concern. “I completely understand your perspective. However, the flags in Zayn’s profile suggest he might benefit from some gentle course correction.”
She shared her screen. Zayn’s BrightPath profile appeared, with multicoloured graphs showing his development across various metrics. Most were in the yellow “Adequate” range, but several dipped into orange “Monitoring Advised” territory.
“As you can see, Zayn’s Academic Processing is perfectly age-appropriate, but his Assertiveness Index and Aspiration Metrics are trending downward.” She clicked through to another screen. “This is what we call Future Projection Graphing—essentially, where the algorithm sees Zayn at key life stages based on current patterns.”
The graph showed a steady decline into adulthood, bottoming out around age twenty-five with labels like “Limited Economic Contribution” and “Reduced Social Capital.”
My stomach churned. “That’s ridiculous. He’s five. You can’t possibly predict—”
“The models have been refined through millions of data points, Mr. Jenkins. They’re remarkably accurate.” Her smile returned. “But that’s exactly why we offer the Optimal Child™ Pathway. It’s designed to gently reshape these trajectories while the neuroplasticity window is still wide open.”
She launched into an explanation of the programme. The Optimal Child™ Pathway uses “gentle neuroplastic triggers, data-enhanced roleplay, and nutritional prompts” to “close developmental gaps.” Children wear a SmartPal™ device that tracks and encourages specific behaviours, while parents receive daily guidance through the app.
“Success rates include improved literacy, confident eye contact, early economic ambition, and a 76% reduction in social awkwardness. And the earlier we start, the better the outcomes.”
“And if I say no?”
Something flickered across her perfect face. “The programme is entirely voluntary, Mr. Jenkins. However, I should note that BrightPath assessments are increasingly used for selective secondary schools, university applications, and even early career placements.”
I thought about the “Future Hero Assembly” at school last week—where children selected for showing “exceptional potential” got to meet local business leaders. Zayn hadn’t been chosen. When I’d asked Mrs. Hargreaves why, she’d said he lacked “presence readiness.”
He’s five. He still eats crayons sometimes.
“Let me have a think about it,” I said again.
But I already knew what my answer would be. Not because I wanted to change him. But because I didn’t want him left behind.
The SmartPal™ arrived in a sleek white box with a cheerful cartoon mascot on the front—a glowing lightbulb with eyes and a graduation cap. Inside was what looked like a fancy kids’ watch, royal blue with a small screen.
“What’s this, Daddy?” Zayn asked as I fastened it around his small wrist.
“It’s a special watch,” I explained, following the script the app had provided. “It’s going to help you do really well at school and make lots of friends.”
He examined it. “Does it tell the time?”
“Sort of. It tells you when it’s time to do certain things.” I forced enthusiasm into my voice. “And it has games! Look.”
I pressed the side button, and the screen lit up with a cartoon face. “Hello, Zayn!” it said in a chirpy voice. “I’m Buddy! We’re going to have so much fun together!”
Zayn looked uncertain, but the screen quickly changed to show a simple game called “Let’s Smile at New Friends!” Little cartoon children appeared, and Zayn had to tap the ones he wanted to smile at.
“I don’t know them,” he whispered to me.
“That’s okay,” I said. “It’s just pretend.”
The SmartPal™ buzzed gently. “Remember, Zayn, smiling is how we show people we’re friendly! Let’s try again!”
He tapped all the cartoon children this time. The watch made a triumphant little jingle. “Great job! You’ve earned a Friendship Point!”
And so it began. The SmartPal™ became part of our daily routine. It would prompt Zayn to speak louder, to raise his hand in class, to approach other children at playtime. There were games like “What Job Will I Have One Day?” where he’d scroll through different careers and learn about how much money they made or how important they were.
Each “success” earned him digital stickers and points, which unlocked little rewards—extra screen time, a small treat, a virtual badge for his BrightPath profile.
And it worked. Within weeks, Zayn was talking more, both at school and at home. He started telling me about the other children in his class, kids he’d apparently never spoken to before despite sitting next to them for months. His hand went up during circle time. He announced he wanted to be a “finance person” when he grew up.
My phone filled with notifications from the BrightPath app:
Congratulations! Zayn has shown significant progress in Leadership Simulation.
Verbal Output has increased by 47% this week! Keep encouraging those big thoughts!
Assertiveness Rating has moved from ‘Monitoring Advised’ to ‘On Track’!
I should have been pleased. That was the point, wasn’t it? To help him fit in better, to set him up for success?
But then I noticed: he’d stopped drawing his suns.
When I asked him about it, he just shrugged. “SmartPal says drawing is recreational only. I need to focus on skill-building activities.”
“But you love drawing.”
He looked at me with an expression no five-year-old should have—something practised, almost rehearsed. “Hobbies should enhance future employability, Daddy. Sunglasses don’t mean anything to the economy.”
The parental feedback session was held in a sterile conference room at the local BrightPath Centre. Four other parents sat around the table, all wearing that mixture of pride and uncertainty I’d come to recognise in myself.
A different Progress Officer—Ian, this time—led the session, reviewing each child’s development on the large screen at the front of the room.
“Zayn Jenkins has shown remarkable improvement,” Ian announced, displaying my son’s profile. “His Assertiveness Index has risen by twelve points, and his Future Projection Graph is trending upward towards Economic Stability and Social Integration.”
The other parents nodded approvingly. One mother gave me a thumbs-up.
“However,” Ian continued, “we’re seeing some resistance in Creative Reframing. He occasionally reverts to pre-optimisation pastimes.”
My heart lifted slightly. He’d been drawing his suns again?
“Nothing serious,” Ian said, noting my expression. “Just some…unusual questions during the SmartPal’s guidance sessions. Asking ‘why’ rather than ‘how’, that sort of thing.”
After the group session, I spoke to Ian privately.
“He seems different,” I confessed. “Not just more confident, but…I don’t know. Less himself.”
Ian nodded. “That’s a common perception during the adjustment phase. Parents often attach to certain quirks or traits that aren’t actually serving the child’s best interests.”
“But his drawings, his silly jokes, his made-up dinosaur facts—that’s who he is.”
“Is it?” Ian raised an eyebrow. “Or is it just who he was before he had the tools to be his optimal self?”
“He used to make up stories about suns wearing sunglasses,” I said, hearing how ridiculous it sounded even as I said it. “Now he talks about becoming a ‘finance person’.”
“And that concerns you?” Ian looked genuinely puzzled.
“He’s five.”
“Precisely the right age to instil aspiration.” Ian tapped something on his tablet. “Mr. Jenkins, I think you might be experiencing what we call Parental Nostalgia Resistance. It’s very common.”
“I’m not resistant to his progress. I just want to make sure he’s still…Zayn.”
“Authenticity isn’t the goal, Mr. Jenkins—coherence is. We’re helping Zayn become a coherent individual who can navigate social and economic structures successfully.” He smiled. “The version of Zayn you’re missing wasn’t the real Zayn—just an underdeveloped prototype.”
I left feeling unsettled. That night, I logged into the BrightPath app and looked for options to scale back the programme. I found a setting for “Standard Development Mode” and hovered my finger over it.
A warning popped up immediately:
Caution: Downgrading a child post-adjustment may affect future housing eligibility, educational opportunities, and social credit scoring. Are you sure you want to proceed?
I closed the app.
The next week, Zayn won “Optimised Pupil of the Month” at school assembly. He stood on stage, back straight, voice clear, explaining how the SmartPal™ had helped him “reach his potential.”
I clapped from the audience. Everyone clapped. He gave a perfect, soulless thank-you speech.
He didn’t even wave at me when he saw me in the crowd. He always used to wave.
Bedtime used to be our thing. We had this game—Space Explorers—where his bed was a spaceship and we’d visit made-up planets with silly names. Planet Spaghetti, where everything was noodles. Planet Burp, where the only way to communicate was through burping. I’d do ridiculous voices for the aliens we met, and he’d collapse in giggles, his whole body shaking with laughter.
Six months into the Optimal Child™ Pathway, I tried to resurrect the game.
“Ready for blast-off, Commander Zayn?” I asked, making rocket noises as I tucked him in.
He looked at me blankly. “That’s not in my recommended script anymore.”
“What script?”
“SmartPal says imaginative play should be structured around realistic scenarios.” He reached for the device on his wrist. “We can do ‘Future Career Roleplay’ or ‘Responsibility Rehearsal’ instead.”
“But you love Space Explorers.”
“That was before I was optimal.” He said it matter-of-factly, without any trace of loss or regret.
That night, after he fell asleep, I searched through the BrightPath app for information about our bedtime game. I found it logged under “Cognitive Development”:
Intervention Note: “Space Explorers” game classified as cognitive clutter. Redirected to more productive imaginative play. Compliance: 98%
Something broke inside me. I gently took the SmartPal™ from Zayn’s sleeping wrist and tried to find a way to reset it, to delete the programming that was erasing my son bit by bit.
The screen immediately flashed red:
WARNING: Tampering with progress tracking may trigger Child Protective Review. All attempts are logged and reported.
I put it back on his wrist, hands shaking.
I found the Parent Recovery Circle through a cryptic message on a school noticeboard—just a time, location, and the letters “PRC.” One of the other dads in the playground had nudged me towards it with a knowing look.
“If you’re missing who they used to be,” he’d whispered.
The group met in the back room of a community centre, eight parents sitting on plastic chairs in a circle, speaking in hushed tones as if what we were doing was illegal. Perhaps it was, in a way.
“My daughter used to collect snails,” a woman was saying as I slipped into an empty chair. “Had names for all of them. This whole little snail village in our garden. The SmartPal flagged it as ‘unhygienic attachment behaviour’ and redirected her to collecting data on her tablet instead.”
Nods around the circle. Understanding.
“Jamie would only eat orange foods,” a father said. “Carrots, Wotsits, orange segments. Drove me mad. Now he eats a perfectly balanced diet and says things like ‘my body is my performance engine.’ He’s seven.”
More nods.
“Can’t we just…stop the programme?” I asked when it was my turn. “Go back to how they were before?”
The woman who seemed to be leading the group—Sarah, a former educational psychologist—shook her head. “The system won’t allow full reversal. Once certain neural pathways are established and reinforced, they become the dominant patterns. And the consequences for attempting to subvert the process…” She trailed off.
“They threatened to review my custody arrangement,” one mother said.
“My son lost his place at the good secondary school,” another said.
Sarah leaned forward. “The best we can do is preserve the memories of who they were. And find small ways to nurture what remains of their original selves.”
I left with a hollow feeling in my chest. Zayn was now top of his class. His Future Projection Graph showed a steady climb towards something called “Elite Contribution Potential.” He’d been selected for a “Junior Strategy Placement” at a local consulting firm—essentially a photo opportunity where five-year-olds in tiny business attire pretended to work in an office.
At the public showcase for this programme, each child was interviewed on stage about their ambitions.
“What inspires you, Zayn?” the interviewer asked.
“I want to optimise my output so my dad gets a better pension band.”
The audience laughed. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Later that night, as I was collecting his clothes for the wash, I knocked over his waste paper bin. As I picked up the scattered papers—mostly printouts of productivity charts from his SmartPal™—I found a crumpled drawing.
A sun. With sunglasses.
I smoothed it out, heart racing. Had some part of the old Zayn survived the optimisation?
But looking closer, I saw the difference. This sun was perfectly symmetrical, the rays all exactly the same length. The sunglasses were anatomically correct, proportionally perfect.
It didn’t have a face. Just the rays. Just the outline of something that used to smile.
