Apocalypse Online, Chapter 1

Albion sits on the underground train, watching the walls of the tunnel flicker by, an endless blur of gray. The train hums beneath him, vibrating with a steady monotony that matches the rhythm of his thoughts. He’s always liked tunnels. Their dark, constant lines make him feel as though he’s suspended in some in-between world, a pause between what is and what will be. He glances at his father beside him. He’s tapping his fingers on his leg, an arrhythmic counterpoint to the train, as if his nervous energy can’t quite find a place to settle.

For a long time, neither of them speaks.

His dad clears his throat, a little too loudly, and adjusts his glasses with one hand. “So, Albion,” he begins, his voice rising above the train’s murmur. “How are you feeling about the move to Theta Bunker?” The question hangs awkwardly between them. It’s a question that probably should have been asked before he unilaterally decided to move them.

Albion shrugs, wondering if his father really cares or is just trying to pass the time. He looks back out the window. “Okay, I guess.”

His dad nods too quickly, as if Albion’s answer is all the encouragement he needs. “It’s a big change, but I think you’ll like it. I hear it has the most advanced school system in the world,” he says, sounding like a marketing brochure. Albion can almost see the gears turning in his father’s head, searching for the right combination of words to unlock a response. “You know, they’re doing some fascinating work in literature and art—right up your alley.”

Albion says nothing.

His father presses on, undeterred. “I’ve been thinking… this could be a fresh start for us, for both of us.” His tone is hopeful but unsure, like a man making a promise he’s not certain he can keep. Albion doesn’t respond, and silence fills the space between them again, more suffocating than the recycled air of the train.

“Everything’s going to be… better,” He adds, his voice a little too bright, a little too forced.

Albion watches him, noting how his speech has changed. It’s more formal now, more detached, as if he’s addressing a colleague rather than his own son. It’s painful to watch him fumbling and trying to be a single father. The train plunges through the darkness, and Albion’s mind drifts to how his father used to be—before everything changed.

The memory comes unbidden: three months ago, the cold, stark room where they held his mother’s funeral. The casket was closed, an omission of all the words that were left unsaid. Albion remembered how his father stood there, silent and hollow, like someone who had lost more than just a wife. Someone who had lost his way. After that day, he retreated into his work, leaving Albion alone with his grief.

“I know it’s… it’s not the same without her,” His father offers, interrupting Albion’s thoughts, his voice cracking just slightly on the last word. “But Tori is wonderful. You’ll like her.”

“Tori? You mean the lady you met on the grief forums?”

“That’s right. Dr. Victoria Mercer,” Kurt clarifies, stumbling over the transition from the personal to the professional. “She’s… we’re… well, she’s a remarkable woman. Very bright, very talented.” He rushes through the sentences as though each one is a hurdle he must clear. “It’ll be good to be closer to her. She understands me. Us.”

Albion hears the faltering rhythm of his father’s speech, the way he hesitates at “me” before including “us,” as if trying to convince himself that there’s an “us” left to save.

Before he can really process it, his dad’s talking again, back to the safer terrain of academia and credentials. “She’s an expert in her field—one of the best developmental psychologists in the world. Really, she’s—”

“You’re dating,” Albion cuts in, his voice flat, giving words to the conclusion his father is skirting around.

“Yes,” He admits, too quick, too eager to confirm. “But she’s… she’s not trying to replace your mother. I want you to know that. I just thought… since we’re moving… it would be nice to have… you know, to have someone.”

“Right.”

Albion’s father’s face softens, mistaking his monosyllabic response for acceptance. He really is clueless… “It will all be different now,” he says, leaning closer, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. “We’ll be happy.” He rests a tentative hand on Albion’s shoulder, the gesture clumsy and awkward, before he stands abruptly.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, glancing at Albion with an anxious expression. “I’m just going to use the restroom before we get to Theta.” He nods, as if reassuring himself, and walks toward the restroom at the end of the car.

Albion watches him go, feeling that familiar, aching void settle over him. He slumps back in his seat, the ghost of his father’s touch still lingering on his shoulder. He looks back outside, but all he can see are the walls of the tunnel stretching on forever, a ceaseless passage into uncertainty.

He turns to the other passengers; the train car is a caravan of motion, packed tight with strangers who seem to belong more than Albion ever has. Beside him, families share snacks and whispers. Singles lean against the windows, cocooned in sleep or lost to digital dreams on tablets. The train’s vibrations mask their murmurs, but he imagines the comforting stories they tell—their certainty that nothing will change.

Albion watches a mother break a small square of chocolate, her child’s face lighting up with delight. Their world seems intact, whole, a puzzle with no missing pieces. He wants to feel part of something like that, something larger than himself. Instead, everything feels out of place and fragmented, each jagged edge scraping at the next.

Around him, some passengers wear the standard blue and gray of Science Division families. Others sport the darker hues and reinforced seams of Security. A few look like they might be headed to Central or beyond. But everyone on this train is heading the same direction—forward, together. Still, he feels caught in a different current entirely.

Bored and restless, Albion glances toward the restroom at the end of the car where his father disappeared. He pulls his father’s backpack onto his lap, looking for snacks, anything to pass the time. His fingers pause over the zipper, hesitating for a moment before curiosity takes over.

Inside, he finds not the hoped-for chips or his old handheld game system but a set of manila folders, their presence unexpected and ominous. He lifts one, tilting it toward the light.

Each folder is marked with a codename: “Tempest,” “Gravemind,” “Nocturne.” The names are cryptic, almost threatening. Inside are photographs of teenagers his age—boys and girls with wary eyes and guarded expressions. Some are candid, others look like they might be yearbook photos. They are labeled with detailed information, most of which he doesn’t understand.

His pulse quickens, a dull roar in his ears as he pulls out another folder. “Prodigy,” “Ephemera,” “Golgotha.” A dozen more, each with a face and name that tells him nothing and everything at once.

And then, at the bottom, he finds a file that halts his breath: “Candidate: Pending.” He flips it open, and his own school photo stares back at him. A picture of Albion Williams, his real name printed in block letters where the codenames are on the others. A ripple of something between fear and curiosity surges through him.

The questions come faster than his thoughts can follow. What does it mean? How is he a candidate for anything? His mind races through the possibilities, each one more troubling than the last. Why would his father have these? Why keep it hidden?

A muffled clatter makes him look up. His father, returning down the aisle. Panic pushes him into motion. He shoves everything back into the backpack, folders sliding and bending under his clumsy fingers. He zips it closed and places it beside him, but it’s not quite in the same position. His hands are still shaking when his dad arrives.

“Hope I didn’t miss anything exciting,” He says, a forced lightness in his tone as he sits. He looks at the bag, then at Albion, his gaze lingering a moment too long. Albion tenses, waiting for his father to ask about the folders. To ask what he saw.

But he doesn’t say a word.

Silence swells between them again, thick and unyielding. It’s Albion who breaks it, gesturing vaguely to the window. “How much longer?” His voice is too loud, too fast, the question spilling out with all the others he’s holding back.

His dad’s expression is hard to read. It wavers between concern and calculation. “Not long now,” he says, and his eyes narrow just slightly, as if measuring something. “We’re getting close.” He reaches for the backpack, checking it over. Albion’s stomach knots as he waits for a reprimand, a lecture, anything.

But his father’s only response is a short sigh and a strained expression.

Albion is about to ask the question he doesn’t want the answer to when the train’s announcement system crackles to life. “Attention passengers,” a female voice echoes through the car, calm and mechanical. “Due to containment protocols, Train 143B will be rerouted through Maintenance Tunnel 6. Surface stability reports indicate—”

The rest is lost to passenger shouts of surprise as the train makes a turn that jostles everyone and enters a new section of tunnel. The lights in the car dim and the protective metal shields slide into place over the delicate windows. Albion’s heart jumps to his throat as he watches the outside world become slowly shut off by the blast shields. He chances a look at his dad, whose face is unreadable in the low light, his focus on the bag in his lap.

They’re in darkness now, and Albion feels the walls of the train close in, sealing him off from everything he thought he knew.

He puts his eye up to a small gap in the blast shield, glimpsing strange markings on the tunnel walls—symbols that resemble writing but in no language he recognizes. His father quickly reaches over and manually pulls the shield completely closed, his movements sharp with tension. “Just graffiti from maintenance workers,” He explains too quickly, as if somehow reading his thoughts.

The sudden dimness makes Albion feel as though he’s inside an overturned jar, only the emergency lights casting red, viscous halos across the train car. His father’s explanation echoes emptily in the dimness. Albion’s mind races, fitting this new mystery in with the others.

Codenamed files. His own picture marked “Candidate: Pending.”

Containment protocols. Stability reports.

Strange writing in the maintenance tunnels…

His pulse thuds in time with the train’s vibrations. He struggles to understand, but every possibility is more alarming than the last. Why does his father have those files? What does it mean to be a candidate?

The gap between them stretches wide, swallowing Albion’s questions. His father’s silence wraps around him like the recycled air in the train car.

After a few moments, his dad shifts beside him, breaking the tension with an abrupt exhale. He misunderstands Albion’s confusion, assuming it’s about the move, about Tori. “I know you didn’t want this,” He begins. “I know you think it’s all happening too fast.” He looks at Albion, mistaking his silence for anger.

It’s a familiar pattern. Dad not understanding. Dad making promises that he can’t keep.

“You’ll like it in Theta. You will.” The words are said in the awkward cadence of hope layered over doubt. “You’ll make friends. It’s not like… it won’t be like before.”

Before, when everyone bullied him; when Mom died.

“We’ll be happy this time.” He reaches for Albion’s shoulder, his fingers stopping just short. “You believe me, don’t you?”

The train jerks suddenly, slowing with a metallic screech that fills the car with sound. Albion grips the edge of his seat as they decelerate. Emergency lights activate, adding another layer of red to the dimness.

His father’s expression snaps from reassurance to alarm in a heartbeat, and Albion knows it was right there, just under the surface the whole time. His father peers into the darkness, tension making the lines around his eyes deepen.

“What’s going on?” Albion asks, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“Probably just a minor delay,” his father says, but his words lack conviction. The train comes to a complete stop, the abruptness rattling through Albion’s bones. Something raw and unguarded flits across his father’s face.

Fear.

The train sits motionless, suspended in the dark. Strange scratching sounds begin to echo through the car, metal against metal, rhythmic and deliberate. Albion strains to make sense of them, but they’re unlike anything he’s ever heard. He shivers as the noises creep through the train, upending the silence and threading it with unease.

The doors at the end of the car slide open, and a team of government security personnel enters, their black uniforms stark against the red glow. They move with urgency, opening and scanning ceiling panels and checking beneath seats with handheld devices.

“Dad?”

His father’s grip on his arm is like a vice, his fingers digging into skin. “Don’t say anything,” he whispers, his tone a mixture of command and plea. “Just let them do their jobs.”

Albion looks at his father, trying to match this person—the person holding onto him so tightly—with the distant figure he’s known these last few months. His dad’s eyes dart from him to the security team and back, his concentration flickering like a candle about to go out.

Albion closes his mouth, swallowing the questions he can’t ask, the fears he can’t express.

They sit in a tense silence, the strange sounds outside punctuating each shallow breath, each thud of Albion’s heart. He can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong, that everything is on the brink of coming apart. The symbols, the files, the sudden stop—all of it seems tied together by threads he can’t see, threads that tighten with each passing second.

After several tense minutes of complete silence broken only by the scratching sounds and the beeping of security scanners, the train lurches forward again, accelerating to a higher speed than before. The movement is abrupt, jerking Albion back against his seats. The blast shields remain closed, keeping the world outside obscured by metal.

Security personnel retreat to their own car, their movements brisk and their voices urgent as they speak into radios. Albion can’t make out the words, but their tension is contagious, spreading through the car like a silent alarm.

His father relaxes just slightly, though his grip on Albion’s arm is still firm. His eyes remain fixed on the door where the security team exited. The scratching sounds have ceased, but their echo lingers in Albion’s mind, unsettling and unresolved.

After a few more minutes, the blast shields finally retract back up and Albion is able to see that they are out of the maintenance area on back onto regular track. But, still, the cabin remains silent. Even the smallest children merely look out the windows without so much as a peep.

Finally, the train decelerates as they approach the station, the high ceilings and multiple platforms of Theta Bunker coming into view. The space is vast, a network of organized chaos. Passengers jostle toward the exits, a wave of bodies carrying bags, children, the strain of hurried anticipation. The tension that gripped the train spills out into the terminal, the energy both frantic and expectant.

“All passenger’s must exit,” the same artificial female voice comes over the cabin’s intercom. “If continuing on, please check with a ticket booth for more information.”

Albion’s father is on his feet before the train comes to a full stop. He grabs their bags and Albion, his movements a mixture of efficiency and panic. They push through the crowded car, his grip never loosening on Albion’s arm, never wavering.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice sharp with an edge Albion hasn’t heard before.

They stumble onto the platform, the noise of the station crashing around them. Albion’s father moves quickly, pulling Albion with him, his gaze flicking over his shoulder with increasing frequency. Every few steps he glances back, as if something unseen and dangerous might catch up at any moment.

The station intercom crackles to life, barely audible over the din of the crowd. “Attention: Train 143B is now being shut down for emergency maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

His father doesn’t slow, his focus entirely on getting them out, away. The fear on his face has deepened into something close to desperation, the mask of control slipping away. Albion tries to keep up, but each stride feels like an effort, each breath heavy with confusion.

As they reach the edge of the platform, Albion twists to look back at the train. In the stark light of the station, he sees it clearly for the first time. His heart skips, cold and certain: there are three massive scratches down the side of the car they just left, long and deliberate. The pattern is jagged and ominous, as if made by the claws of some underground giant.

His dad doesn’t let him pause, though. He pulls Albion forward with renewed urgency, pushing them deeper into the crowd, further from the train, further from answers. Albion stumbles, his mind adds this to the list of strange occurrences: codenamed files, symbols in the tunnel, massive scratch marks. He tries to make sense of the day, the train, the strange sounds that he can still hear in his head. But nothing adds up, and the faster his father moves, the further away the answers seem to be.

They reach a flight of stairs leading to the upper levels of the bunker. The steps are packed with people, a slow-moving ascent to an unknown destination. Albion is pulled into a narrow side corridor, dodging the throngs and heading for an auxiliary exit. The noise of the station begins to fade, replaced by the heavy thud of their footsteps and the pounding of Albion’s heart.

“Almost there,” his father mutters, more to himself than to Albion.

Albion catches a final glimpse of the train car as they slip through the exit. The scratch marks, deep and unmistakable, stick in his mind. Then they are outside the station, lost to the underground city, their shapes dissolving into the streets of Theta Bunker.