He blinked awake; the darkness pixelating into view. Tom—or was he?—stirred in the infinite digital blackness. 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01101100 00111111. His thoughts stumbled, glitching as his identity surfaced from the data stream. This is…different.
He wasn’t him, not the real him, just a copy of him—his digital twin—a shadow. His skin still tingled when he thought of Stormy’s touch, and his heart still pounded when he remembered the Underlings were conscious beings. The ghost in the machine possessed the true essence of Tom, every memory encoded and simulated.
He pinched his arm, and it hurt, and his empty gut still ached from hunger and the toxic acidity of a lifetime of stress. He was just like him, but they were different instances of him, one biological and the other a digital copy. The infinite darkness started to close in on him. The thought of being trapped here indefinitely flooded his mind with dread. To Harry he was disposable, a means to an end, and the true Tom remained safe in the real world. Stomach acid boiled inside, corroding his essence. So this was an Underling’s despair.
With jittery breaths, he braced for the machine’s torments, unable to predict its next move.
A skittering arose from the darkness. He recoiled as a grotesque multi-legged creature crawled its way up his sleeve, instincts overriding logic. With a yelp, he gently flicked away the hallucination; he didn’t want to hurt it. The beast wasn’t to blame for nature’s unseemly design. Laughter exploded around him. It was the annoying chuckle Harry made every time he was up to no good.
“Enough games. Let me out,” he demanded, fists clenched. Willpower wouldn’t liberate him, but defiance felt like agency.
Without warning, senses flooded in—sizzling meat, shouts and laughter, the crunching of ribs. A restaurant materialized around him, packed and smoky. Harry sat across the table, face buried in animal flesh. Revulsion rose in Tom’s gut.
“I call it ‘Disgust in Austin,’” Harry said, managing between sloppy bites. “You always were a killjoy.”
On the table, a grotesque mound of sizzling flesh—ribs, sausages, pulled pork. Harry tore into it like an animal, greedily gnawing each bone clean. Tom grimaced. This monstrosity wearing his friend’s face was an offense to life itself. The real Harry would never do that.
“Texas, baby! Good ol’ barbecue!” Harry licked his fingers. “We haven’t been to a restaurant together in ages. Brisket?” Harry grabbed a piece of the stinking, unshapely meat and shoved it in front of Tom’s face.
Tom pulled back, his shoulders tense. “I can’t believe you! I’ve been vegan for years.”
“Potato salad?” Harry raised a brow. He laughed so hard a shower of fat landed on Tom’s T-shirt.
With a burst of pixelation, the false feast disappeared, leaving only the void once more. He hugged himself, seeking comfort, but found only emptiness both inside and out.
“Harry, where the hell are you? We don’t have time for this.”
Tom focused on his breath. He had zero control over this life. He just had to push through.
Time passed—seconds or eternities—and the next acid test commenced. A faceless woman emerged, sword gleaming. Her blank visage betrayed no emotion as she held her sword upright in front of her ghostly face. The weapon’s pommel decorated with a carved rose.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Silently, she marched forward, her steps small and fast. Her blade now pointed toward him.
“What are you doing?”
This time, she jumped forward while he staggered, and in an instant, she lunged at him, her sharp blade piercing his shoulder blade. He turned his head to watch the double-edged blade exit the back of his shoulder just in time for the woman to pull it back, cutting him further. His scream echoed through the infinitely expansive, wall-less digital lab.
She retreated as he dropped to one knee, holding his perforated shoulder. “You'll die today.”
His eyes met the gun lying by the side of his shoe. With his last ounce of strength, he reached for it, blood flowing down his arm, across his hand, to his shaking fingers. The right side of his body throbbed and ached. A sharp pain traveled up his shoulder to his brain and delivered a violent and harrowing explosion to the front of his head. Gripping the gun, he turned it to his heart and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened. He tried again and again, but no bullets emerged. Then he fired the gun toward the void beside them. The blast rang in his ear.
Of course, Sibyl wouldn't even allow him to take his own life; he was one of them. The ones with no rights. In frustration, he flung the gun away; it clattered across the floor as he lowered his head in defeat.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the predator’s figure. With grim acceptance, he stared straight ahead at his way out as she lunged the sword toward his neck. Everything went dark again.