Simulation #212 // Pillar of Virtue loses sanctity—commonwealth descends into chaos—sends groups into the wilderness

Reconstruction #078 // trading wars escalate in the valley—The River Ordinance plots rebellion against settlers

Simulation #011 // Project Hexidae sends first interplanetary fleet—protests in the metropolis over automated vehicular accidents

Reconstruction #006 // Bradford cotton mill burns down—leaves hundreds of children on the streets

Brooks unplugs the electrodes from her temples, invigorating waves of energy pulsing through the follicles on her scalp, neck, and arms. A serene but somber hum passes through her ears—just for a moment—then fades, replaced by distant thunder and rain pelting the solar panels. She sighs, gazing at the switches, cartridges, wires, and various aparati cluttering the desk, then checks the time.

22:04—Is it dangerous to be in for so long?

The bunker door clicks open. Brooks closes her tattered notebook and wipes a tear from her cheek, adding to the stain on her sleeve. A soaked pair of boots stands at the top of the stairs. They descend, giving sight to ankles, knees, then a waist, and finally a curly, chestnut beard with grey patches. The man removes his hood and smiles timidly, dropping his pack near a bucket catching water from a leaky pipe.

“How’d it go?” The words slip from her parched lips in monotone. 

“I uh…”—he clears his throat—“cleaned out a small camp. No sightings—one nest, actually. It was all...rotted and shredded. Bear must’ve gotten to it.” He fumbles to remove his protective plastic jacket, then turns to face her, nodding in the general direction of the machines. “How about you?”

“Fine,” she says, “I mean, there’s been some…setbacks.” 

The man’s fingers pause for a moment as he works to untie his laces. 

“But I’m learning,” she adds hastily, staring down at her logbook. “I’m thinking of setting up a new one, actually,” she decides, snatching up her pen with a flourish. “Blending the elements of environmental scarcity in S018 with the religious artistry of...R097—Yes, I think that might produce a uniting sentiment of common suffering and—”

A gentle hand grabs her shoulder, and her franticly-scribbling wrist ashamedly grows limp.

“I got something for you,” he says, retrieving a sharp, gleaming object from behind his back. 

Brooks accepts the hefty, utilitarian blade. She turns it over in her hands until she notices the feathered detailing on its wooden handle. “Where did you find this?” she asks, brows furrowed in perplexed sorrow.

“By the old creek.” He scratches his arm bashfully. “I know you liked that one. It needed a little sharpening but…I’m surprised it held up after all this time.” He chuckles anxiously, “Reminded me of the Caravan. Remember when we used to—”

“Yeah,” Brooks interrupts, “I remember, Davis.” She stands and moves to her bunk, tossing the knife disdainfully on the table beside it. She  rubs her eyes as if to unsee its existence.

Davis nods, rapping his fingers on the empty chair. He lunges toward the stairs and says a bit more demandingly than he intended, “We need to go hunting tomorrow. Get some rest.”

The garden exudes abundance. Vibrant peppers, tomatoes, and herbs glisten exquisitely under the sun’s glow. Hearty laughter amidst tents and wagons—barely distinguishable surreal shapes—reaches her ears as men sip from canisters of fleeting reprieve. A girl whispers something sarcastic and witty, but Brooks is preoccupied by the garden’s spontaneous withering. A small winged insect appears near a wilting rose—enough to send her heart into a fit of spasmodic, wretched horror. She reaches for a bottle of repellant, but it’s too late. Screams pierce the air, and the girl collapses in convulsions in the grass. Brooks watches helplessly as a ravenous cloud surrounds her, and suddenly there’s a sharp sting on her own calf. She collapses, throat swollen and throbbing as ailing screams try to escape. She crawls desperately in the direction of triangular peaks and raucous celebration, fingernails ripping up clumps of grass. Just as her muscles give out, there’s an injection in her arm, and strong arms carry her away, muttering soothing phrases in her ear.

Light from the radiator illuminates Davis’s sullen expression as he gazes up through the plastic bubble at the pine branches, squinting for some indication of stars. 

“Reserves are almost empty,” he says. “We’ll be lucky if there’re any rodents in these damn woods. There’s nothing for them here either.” 

“We’ll get the greenhouse patched up by winter,” Brooks reassures, slowly chewing her oatmeal concentrate.

“It’ll take more than duct tape,” he scoffs, “We need insulation, fertilizer. There’s a reason Ellis couldn’t get it to work.”
“Don’t talk about her,” Brooks snaps.

“What? Can I not talk about Gasper, or Jankins, or—or Flores?”
“Stop it.”

“What about Langley?”
“Stop it!” She shakes her head mournfully.

“They’re gone, Brooks. You know I wish things were different.” He sighs, noticing her dejection, then bends over to meet her gaze. “Hey. I’m sorry. I just…we’ve got to focus, you hear me?”
She nods numbly.

“These…experiments…they’re not—”

“Not what?” She looks up testingly.

“Important,” he squeaks.

She bites her lip, gazing through the plastic walls into the silent night, wishing she could storm off into the unknown. The warm glow illuminates her watery eyes. “I made them a promise. These people—they—they gave their lives so that I could figure out a way—so that I could...make things different.”

Davis nods knowingly.

“Imagine if tyranny, and espionage, and—and greed didn’t exist? Imagine if we would have protected our trees and animals? We—we would have had lives, Davis.”

They pause for a moment, listening to the whistling wind and rustling leaves.

“I can’t believe you don’t see it.”
“What?”

“Did you ever think...that you could make a thousand governments but nothing would change if the people running them were human?”

“Jesus Davis, that's—that's so like you. I happen to have a more favorable outlook on my own species—” 

“And how’s that working out,” he retorts bitterly, voice quivering as his foreign anger unleashes. “All that matters is right now! This...fantasy of yours is not going anywhere—and you know it!”

Brooks shakes her head in defiance, trying to hide the tremors in her fingers as she grasps her spoon to take another bite.

There’s only so long Davis can listen to static before he pounds his fist and goes out for some fresh air—air as fresh as his hazard suit can filter through, at least. He hasn’t reached that point yet, though, so now he sits under the yellow glow of his lamp, twisting the dial of his radio delicately, cursing only occasionally. Brooks sits on the floor taking inventory—a task which turns out to be more depressing than she anticipated. 

Bottle of painkillers -- 1

Antibiotics -- X

Can of soup -- 7

Seed packets -- 4

Water distilling tablets -- 3

Each entry is a blow harsher than the last. Reality never seemed to bear kindly on her spirits. Brooks starts to long for the company of modest village folk, and the thrill of watching rockets disperse across the planets—even for the tears of women standing before soldiers with infants in their arms, and the sweat of slaves erecting sculptures of the heavens—for the applause of majestic festivals distracting from skeletons behind walls, and the relentless optimism of scarred voyagers searching for new lives—for miserable adversity, life-altering bewilderment, foreboding enthusiasm, and grandiose catastrophe.

The radio cracks, and a voice emits from it. The two perk up with astonishment at the first few choppy syllables. Immediately Brooks springs to her feet as Davis ever-so-slightly nudges the dial.

“Hello?” he says after remembering how to operate the microphone.

His desperate call hangs suspensefully in the air.

“I hear you,” a man replies.

Brooks and Davis lock eyes, unable to breathe, completely unsure of how to respond.
“Hello. Who is this?” Davis says between gasps of emotion.

“Gordon. Who are you?”

“Uh...Davis. Our rations are low—we’re...in a bunker upstate. Where are you?”
“We’ve got a settlement,” Gordon explains.

“A settlement?” Davis processes aloud.

“Hundreds of us. Food, water, electricity. We’ve been rounding up stragglers.”

Davis scrutinizes the man’s tone, trying to decipher his intentions. “That’s...not possible,” he says, skeptically.

“We’ve got towers—speakers emitting sounds at certain frequencies keep the swarms out. The little buggers squirm and turn right back around.”

“Frequencies?”

“I know it sounds...crazy, but it’s real. What are your coordinates?”
Davis hesitates, glancing at Brooks. The dark circles under her eyes contrast the brightness of her irises—the two features in a constant struggle to overcome one another. He sees her lying in the grass, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth—Ellis a few feet away flailing in agony—the caravan’s last injection locked between his fingers…

Davis turns away with determination and reaches for the map tacked to the wall to recite their whereabouts.

“We’re sending out choppers to that area in a few weeks. Can you hold out until then?”
“I hope so,” Davis answers, wryly.
“Alright. Good luck, Davis.” 

The signal cuts, and the radio returns to its typical static drone, leaving the two to wonder whether they had imagined the conversation entirely.

The winter came earlier than expected. Davis had read his survival manual front to back. Each year the animals seemed to have migrated further south, leaving the forest’s ecosystem closer to a wasteland. They both knew the violent breed would eventually lead to colony collapse of the others, and that the rest of the world couldn’t possibly be better off. All her life she’d been taught to stay away from cities, and yet the prospect of being rescued by one seemed her only hope.

Could it really be true?

She didn’t know the answer, but she became increasingly aware that something inside her was torn about what she wanted it to be—especially when she listened to the hum of the machines. She’d begun working longer, transporting herself to so many worlds that the realities seemed entangled. 

One minute she was repairing a pipe, but the sound of her tinkering screwdriver materialized an army of droids descending upon the Capitol of Oswald. She found herself on the floor, stool knocked over, tiny screws scattered about.

A voice was calling out to her—a starving child wrapped in hides and furs, begging earnestly for the seed packets in her pocket. Then he jumped atop her and began clawing for them, turning into a rabid bear with ferocious teeth engraved with feathered detailing. Blood was spilling out of her chest, but at the last second an arrow sliced through the beast, knocking it to the ground in a single defeating blow.

“Brooks!” a voice shouts. 

She rouses to Davis’s hands clasped around her shoulders, jerking her violently back and forth. “It’s here!” he shouts in ecstasy. Brooks stares at him blankly, prepared to be yanked into another vivid scene. She can’t remember falling asleep, or how much time has passed. All she knows is that Davis is as thrilled as she’s ever seen him. “Get your stuff!” he cries out before scrambling up the steps.

Brooks finally notices a rapid, beating clamor and the rattling of her mattress as something large and heavy lands in the clearing outside. She sits up slowly, glancing around the room cautiously, inspecting every object to make sure nothing is out of place. Then she springs to her feet and begins shoving items into her pack. 

Just before she reaches the stairs, the whirring of the machines catches her attention. She turns around slowly, observing the impressive electrical rig powering the advanced technology. She imagines all of the souls trapped within, living out simulated lives—lives as real as any. 

She remembers the faded logbook at her workstation, its pages filled with so many naive conclusions and helpless speculations, decorated with frustrated scribbles of consistent failure. And yet, the thousands of stories contained within prove otherwise.

“Brooks!” a muffled voice shouts from outside. 

Her gaze lands on the knife presented atop her bedside table, where it has remained untouched for weeks. She slips it into its sheath, attaches it to her belt, and heads for the concrete steps.