(Perspective: Antagonist as a boy)
They said it would be painless.
Go to sleep. Let the Earth breathe. Wake up ten thousand years later with clean skies and no memory of our failure.
But I don't want painless. I want proof. I want to remember what we did. What I did. I want them to remember who I was.
I've made my decision.
I'm going to take their memories. All of them. Every single one.
Not because I hate them. Not really.
Because they never listened. And someone needs to build the new world. Someone who knows.
It'll be me.
---
I sneak into the lower campus that night. The stasis center.
Dozens of pods—white, glowing, curved like empty shells. Each one labeled, sealed, pre-filled with oxygen, nutrient gel, and neural suppressants.
I look through the panels. No one's there yet. Good.
I map the room. I calculate how many steps it takes from the entrance to the far wall. I find the maintenance duct. I time how long the emergency lights cycle. I count security drones.
Then I check the lockers.
No bags. No personal items.
The sign reads: **NO OBJECTS ALLOWED INTO STASIS. MEMORY-PROTECTION PROTOCOL IN EFFECT.**
I hold my capsules in my hands.
They'll take them away. They'll confiscate everything. Even my own memories. Even the thing that makes me, *me*.
My stomach knots.
I spend the night dismantling a travel pillow and sewing a hidden pouch into the lining of my jumpsuit.
Then I go home. Pretend to sleep. Pretend to pray.
---
The next morning, it's time.
The sky is an ugly orange. Dust in the air. I wonder if the planet already feels better, knowing we're about to leave it alone.
My parents don't speak much. Just short hugs, standard goodbyes.
My mother brushes my cheek. "See you in the new world."
My father nods. "Be brave."
Too late.
I already am.
---
At the facility, everyone's in line. Quiet. Nervous. Some crying. Some laughing too hard. Teachers, engineers, kids.
They give us a small tablet. "Memory Stabilizer," they say. "Prepares the brain for stasis."
But I know it's the blocker. The one that keeps us from waking up.
I hide mine in my sleeve.
A guard sees. "Didn't take it?"
I fake a cough. "Swallowed wrong. Can I drink it myself?"
He frowns. "You're supposed to take it in front of us."
"I have a sensitive throat. Please."
He hesitates. Too many people. Too little time.
"Fine. But swallow it now."
He hands me the cup.
I take it. Pretend to drink. Turn my head. Spit it into the collar lining of my suit.
No one notices.
Heart pounding. Plan intact.
They line us up by pod number.
Then—
A second cup.
"Secondary dose," the same guard says. "Final neural inhibitor. Stronger. You'll be fully out within minutes."
I panic.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice trembling. "Can I drink this one myself too?"
He narrows his eyes.
"We're under orders. This one's administered directly."
He steps forward.
I step back.
"No. I can't—I have a condition—please—"
He grips my chin. Tilts it up.
"Open."
I glance at the capsule in my sleeve.
Still there. Still warm.
I open my mouth.
And the liquid pours in.
---
The liquid burns down my throat. For a moment, panic overtakes reason. I swallowed it. I actually swallowed it. My plan is ruined. I'll sleep. I'll forget. I'll be just another blank-faced, regretless idiot in ten thousand years.
Then, something odd happens.
Nothing.
No dizziness. No haze. No soft fog taking over.
Just… bitterness.
That's when I realize — my trick from earlier worked better than I thought. The first dose—the one I faked—must have been meant to prime the neural suppressants. Without that first step, the second dose isn't as effective.
My body is resisting it.
I play along.
Let my head tilt back.
Let my breathing shallow.
I fall into stillness.
Not sleep. Not yet. Just silence.
---
A minute passes.
Then another.
I hear shoes squeaking on the floor. Voices. Low.
"Row 4, Pod 11. Brainwave normal."
"Row 5, Pod 3. Still settling."
Footsteps again. Then silence.
I fight the urge to move. My neck itches. My back aches. My legs are numb. But I don't twitch.
The temptation to scratch my throat feels like torture. Like every nerve in my body is screaming, "Just do it!"
But if I do, they'll notice. And that's it.
So I stay still.
---
An hour goes by. Maybe two.
I start imagining conversations in my head. Entire dialogues with people who aren't here.
Liam saying, "You thought you were smarter. But you're just scared."
Ren: "Being alone with your ideas isn't the same as being right."
Ms. Arul: "If you can't listen, how do you lead?"
Shut up, I think. I didn't ask for any of you.
My stomach growls. Of course it does.
I try not to breathe too loud. The guards are still walking. I hear them pacing, checking panels.
And then finally—
One of them yawns. Loudly.
Another laughs. "Robots are prepping our dose."
A mechanical hiss follows. Liquid being dispensed into guard cups.
One by one, I hear them drink. One of them jokes something about wanting a dream with flying cows. Another mutters that he hopes this is the last shift he ever pulls.
A minute later…
Silence.
---
I wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
I twitch a finger. No response. No alarms. No movement.
I scratch my throat.
Sweet mercy.
Then I inch my hand back down.
Just as I'm about to stretch, I hear movement.
Not footsteps. Whirring.
My eyes flick open a sliver.
Robots.
Floating. Rolling. Scanning. Gliding by each pod.
I squeeze my eyes shut again.
I curse them silently. Why are they still on? Isn't this the part where everything sleeps?
More minutes pass. My muscles scream. I count breaths. I hum songs in my head. I think of every meal I've ever loved. I imagine walking freely, stretching, running. Peeing.
Oh no.
My bladder. Of course.
I squeeze every muscle I can.
Don't move. Don't ruin this.
One robot hovers close. I hear it make a clicking noise, like it's checking my vitals.
I freeze. Try to breathe like a sleeper. Slow. Controlled.
It moves on.
---
Another hour? Maybe more. I lose count.
Finally, the sound stops. One last beep. Then another. A strange rhythmic series of shutdown signals.
And then—darkness.
Every whirr, every hum—gone.
The robots shut each other off.
The lights blink out.
All I hear now is my own breathing.
I open my eyes.
Pitch black.
No glowing panels. No artificial nightlights.
Just the void.
I raise my arm and can't see it. I hold it inches from my face—nothing.
I roll onto my side.
The stiffness in my spine makes me want to cry. But I don't.
Instead, I crawl.
Blind. Palms out. Feeling. Searching.
Metal. Smooth walls. A pipe.
Then—
Skin.
Warm. Soft. Human.
I yank my hand back like I touched fire.
Heart pounding.
Don't scream.
I press my lips shut and breathe through my nose.
It's just a guard. Asleep.
I feel the keycard clipped to his uniform. Tempting. But too risky. I might wake him. And I don't need a key. Just a bathroom.
I keep crawling.
Eventually, I find a panel with texture. A push door.
I stumble in.
Washroom.
The relief is indescribable.
When I come out, I'm a new person.
Light. Free.
I grin to myself.
That's when I trip.
My foot hits something hard.
I fall forward, crash into a wall, catch myself.
But the sound echoes.
A siren blares.
Red lights flash on.
Spinning.
A robotic voice: "UNSCHEDULED MOVEMENT DETECTED. VERIFY NEURAL STATUS."
I look down.
My foot hit a robot lying inactive. Its core glows red now.
I bolt.
Alarms scream like broken lungs. The air flashes red, then white, then red again. I don't know where to run. I don't even know if I can run.
But I do.
Because if I don't, I lose everything.
The robots that shut themselves down—they're waking back up. One jerks to life behind me, its mechanical limbs twitching as it rolls off its dock. A voice echoes through the chamber:
"SUBJECT OUT OF STASIS. INITIATE CONTAINMENT."
No.
I dash down the hallway, socks skidding on the polished floor. My breath is sharp in my throat. My heart is trying to tear out of my chest.
Doors blur past me. My pod. Row 5. Row 4. I trip, slam into a railing, and keep going. My legs aren't working right—numb from hours of stillness. My joints creak like they're rusting as I move.
Behind me, I hear the metallic clunk of pursuit.
"STOP MOVEMENT. COMPLY."
"Access restricted."
"Medical intervention required."
I don't stop.
---
There's only one hallway I haven't explored in detail: the side access tunnel. Maintenance staff used it during construction. It's narrow, colder than the rest. The air tastes like iron and bleach.
I dive inside, ducking as the entrance seals behind me. Manual lock. No digital override.
I exhale for the first time in minutes.
Silence.
The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit by emergency strips. I keep my hand against the wall, letting the cold sting my skin. Just to remind myself I'm awake.
I walk quickly. Quietly. One foot in front of the other.
There's no going back now.
The capsule—my capsule—it's still tucked in the lining of my suit. Pressed against my ribs like a second heart.
---
I find a service hatch.
It takes three tries to get it open. The metal groans, flakes of rust breaking off. Inside, the shaft is tight. Claustrophobic. But I climb in, using the old maintenance ladder. My fingers ache. My arms tremble.
Above me, a vent panel.
I push it. Nothing.
Push harder.
It creaks, then gives way. I slide through into a backroom filled with crates and forgotten tech parts. Dust dances in the beams of emergency light.
This must be a pre-stasis supply room.
I rifle through crates. Cables. Food rations. Toolkits.
Then—bingo.
An old tablet with local access. Probably disconnected from the net, but still usable.
I power it up. Slowly. Carefully.
---
I spend the next thirty minutes pulling up the original stasis blueprints. I need an exit path. Something not monitored. Something off the grid.
There.
A waste disposal tunnel. Long abandoned. Used only during the prototype stages of the Sleep Protocol. Never cleaned. Never refitted.
Perfect.
I pack a toolkit, tuck the tablet under my arm, and take one last breath.
Then I run again.
---
The disposal corridor smells like everything you imagine and worse. Mold. Rot. Metal. Dried chemical fumes. I gag more than once.
But I keep going.
The tunnel slopes downward. Further and further. My lungs burn. My knees shake.
Eventually, I reach a sealed vent door.
I rip open the toolkit. Cut the wires. Override the lock.
The door hisses open, revealing a stairwell.
I take the stairs three at a time.
The sound of alarms is gone now. Just my footsteps and breath.
---
I exit into a tunnel beneath the facility. Forgotten. Cracked tiles. Roots growing through the walls.
The Earth is reclaiming itself already.
I find a small alcove in the stone. A hollow space behind an old pipe junction.
I sit.
Finally.
Safe.
---
My body aches. My mind spins. I've never felt so alive.
Or so completely alone.
I reach into my suit and pull out the capsule.
Still warm.
Still glowing faintly.
This is my memory. My identity. My truth.
And I'm going to build the future with it.
Not the one they wanted.
The one I deserve.
I close my eyes.
The Earth is sleeping.
And I'm wide awake.
To be continued...