Apocalypse Online, Chapter 2
“Humanity Will Persevere!” a poster next to Albion proclaimed.
The restaurant itself felt like an afterthought, tucked into a corner of the sprawling bunker complex. Its steel tables and metal chairs were bolted to the floor, arranged with cold precision beneath fluorescent lights that cast a clinical pall over the space. The air was thick with the smell of recycled air and reheated protein, a testament to efficiency over comfort. Albion sat across from his father, both of them lost in thought as they picked at meals purchased with ration tickets—bland cubes of nutrition that left a chemical aftertaste.
Around them, families murmured in low voices, and more posters lined the walls, their slogans about positivity and resilience sharp against the whitewashed background. his father’s eyes flicked constantly to his messenger watch, his fingers drumming nervously on the table’s metal surface. The food grew cold between them.
Albion was about to push his tray away when he noticed a woman approaching—mid-30s, sharp-eyed. She wore a stylish dress and the fluidity with which she walked seemed out of place among the bunker’s harsh lines and cold angles. She had warm brown skin and curly black hair pulled into a neat updo. She smiled as she approached.
“Kurt,” she greeted, her voice carrying a genuine warmth. “Albion. It’s good to finally meet you.” Her eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made him squirm.
“Hi,” he managed, the word sounding small and awkward.
His dad stood to meet her, relief evident in his posture. “Tori. Glad you could make it.” He gestured for her to sit, pulling out a chair and pushing aside his tray.
Tori settled in, setting a slim tablet on the table beside her. “I hope the trip wasn’t too difficult,” she said, glancing between them, her eyes pausing on Albion with an inquisitiveness that seemed to penetrate right through him.
“Not too bad,” his father replied, a little too quickly. He gave Albion a sideways glance. “A few surprises along the way, but we’re here now.”
“Surprises?” Tori raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.
“Nothing major,” he assured her, waving a hand dismissively. “Just some routine issues with the train.” He shot Albion a look that warned him not to elaborate.
Albion remained silent, his mind on the scratches he’d seen, the unsettling files he’d discovered. He wondered if Tori was in on the secrets his father kept.
Tori turned her attention to Albion, leaning forward slightly. “Kurt’s told me a lot about you. I hear you’re quite the artist.” She tapped her tablet, pulling up a picture he had painted for school. “Hope you don’t mind. He shared this with me.”
Albion hesitated, feeling the weight of her expectations. “I guess,” he said finally, unsure of how much to reveal.
“He’s very talented,” his dad interjected, eager to fill the gaps in the conversation. “And a good writer too. You’d be impressed with his essays.”
Tori smiled, lifting her tablet, but her focus remained on Albion. “What about gaming? Do you enjoy simulations or more traditional games?”
Albion shrugged, uncomfortable with her probing questions. “I like some games,” he replied, watching her fingers fly across the tablet. What was she doing? Typing?
“The school here offers unique opportunities for all kinds of students,” she said, her tone light. “I think you’ll find it challenging. But in a good way.”
His father shifted in his seat, a tension flickering in his eyes. “Albion’s more interested in literature and art,” he interjected. “Aren’t you, Albion?”
Albion nodded, unsure where the conversation was headed.
“Of course,” Tori agreed smoothly, making another note. “The arts are essential. We’ve integrated them into all aspects of the curriculum. It’s a holistic approach.”
We? Did Tori work at the school?
His dad’s fingers drummed the table again. “It’s important to remember that this is a new environment,” he said, steering the topic away from the program. “Lots of adjustments. New routines.”
Tori caught the change in his tone and let the subject drop. “I’m sure Albion will do well. He seems like a bright, adaptable young man.”
Albion flushed at the compliment, though he had always hated being called a ‘young man’. He poked at the protein cubes on his plate, their edges growing soft and unappealing. In the stories his mother used to tell him, mealtime was always something the characters looked forward to. But this meal felt like an extension of the conversation: forced, unappetizing, something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
“I know this is a big change,” Tori continued, her voice gentle but probing. “If you have any concerns, you can always talk to me. Or to your father.” She glanced at his father, her expression unreadable.
He nodded, too eagerly. “Tori is… we’re… well, we’re glad to be here. It’s going to be different this time, Albion.” He reached for his son’s shoulder, the gesture half-formed and uncertain. “Right?”
Albion didn’t answer. He felt Tori’s eyes on him, assessing, calculating. He wondered what conclusions she was drawing and how they fit into the bigger picture. His silence stretched between them, awkward and unresolved.
His father cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Would you like to come to the apartment, Tori? Help us settle in?”
Tori smiled, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Thanks, but I think it’s important for you two to have some time alone. You have a lot to get used to.”
His expression faltered, and Albion thought he saw a flicker of relief mixed in with the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “Of course. Maybe later.”
“Definitely.” Tori reached into her bag and pulled out a gift bag, handing it to Albion. “For you,” she said. “Orientation tomorrow. Don’t be late.” Her smile was knowing, as if she were in on a joke he didn’t understand.
Albion took the bag, feeling its weight in his hands.
“Well,” Tori said, “Open it!”
Albion stuck his hand into the bag, his fingers brushing against crisp material. When he pulled it out, he found himself holding a school uniform, its lines stern and functional. The shirt and jacket were adorned with the Theta Bunker insignia. The muted colors matched the others he’d seen worn around the bunker. Albion felt like it was something engineered more than sewn.
He put the uniform back into the bag, and felt something else at the bottom. A handwritten note. He unfolded it, letters scrawled in an unfamiliar, precise hand: “Welcome, Albion! Enjoy your first day. Tori.” Albion rubbed his thumb over the ink, as if testing its reality.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, still unsure of her motives.
Tori stood, her movements graceful and assured. “It was nice to finally meet you, Albion.” She gave his dad a brief, knowing nod. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” With that, she walked away, returning Albion and his father to an awkward silence in the wake of her departure.
His father watched Tori’s retreating figure, the same way he used to watch his mom, then turned his focus back to Albion. “You see? It’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah,” Albion replied, unconvinced.
The air in the restaurant felt thicker than before, the smell of food mingling with the tension between them. Around them, families were finishing their meals, the sound of their conversations a low hum. Albion glanced at the posters on the walls, the slogans about resilience and unity mocking his uncertainty.
“Ready to go?” His dad asked, his tone overly cheerful.
Albion nodded, eager to escape the confines of the cold, impersonal space. He stood, pushing his chair back and trailing after his father. As they moved toward the exit, his father’s voice carried a forced optimism. “This is a good thing, Albion. It’s a new start for us.”
Albion followed, saying nothing. The unknown loomed large in his mind—Tori’s questions, the files, the scratches on the train. He felt like he was trapped in a story without a clear beginning or end, the narrative twisting in directions he couldn’t predict.
They stepped into the corridor outside the restaurant, leaving the awkwardness behind but not the uncertainty. Albion’s father led the way, still talking, still trying to reassure him that everything would be okay. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the verge of something immense and incomprehensible, the answers just out of reach. Maybe it was just the move…
They walked through the labyrinthine corridors of Theta Bunker, his father’s stride purposeful and quick. The wide metal halls stretched out before them, polished surfaces reflecting the stark, utilitarian design of their new home.
His dad’s voice echoed slightly as he pointed out key areas—the education sector, the medical facilities, the recreation zones—each mention clipped and efficient. They passed through multiple security checkpoints, where uniformed personnel operated scanning devices that emitted soft blue pulses.
The bunker felt both familiar and foreign, a more advanced but equally impersonal version of Central. Around them, people moved with determination, the sound of footsteps and muted conversations a constant backdrop. Albion noticed a heavy military presence, a reminder of the seriousness that underscored everything here.
When they reached their apartment, it was as modest as he’d expected, except for one detail: a dedicated terminal room, rare in standard housing. His father wasted no time securing his backpack in a biometric safe.
“Let’s get your documents in order for school tomorrow,” he said, motioning for Albion to take a seat at the terminal.
The forms were more probing than he’d anticipated, including unusual psychological profiles and reflex tests. His father hovered over him, scrutinizing each response until a secure communication call drew him away.
Left alone, Albion spotted a sealed package with his name on it, resting on an otherwise empty shelf like a silent question.
He glanced at it, curiosity flaring, but turned back to the terminal. The screen blinked with an array of questions, their depth and complexity more than he’d expected. He hesitated before typing, each answer feeling like a small betrayal of something he didn’t fully understand.
His father returned, the call having been brief but the intensity on his face told Albion it had been important. He positioned himself behind Albion, eyes fixed on the screen. “You’re doing great,” he said, but his tone was more anxious than encouraging.
Albion shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under his father’s scrutiny. “These questions,” he said, gesturing at the screen. “They’re weird.”
“Standard for Theta,” his father replied, his focus unwavering. “They need to know where you stand on… certain issues.”
Albion frowned, the evasiveness of the answer increasing his frustration. He typed another response, feeling his father’s presence like a shadow over his shoulder.
The next set of questions appeared, delving even deeper into hypothetical scenarios and ethical dilemmas. Albion read them, his mind racing to catch up. He tried to make sense of the pattern, but it eluded him. “Why do they need all this?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
His dad hesitated, the pause too long, too telling. “To place you in the right programs,” he said finally, his words lacking conviction.
“Right,” Albion muttered, feeling like a cog in a machine. The forms seemed endless, and each new page eroded his patience.
But his father was watching him, his expression a mix of pride and concern. “Just a little more,” he urged, his words clipped. “You’re almost through.”
Albion’s fingers moved over the keyboard, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The admissions process felt more like an interrogation, a way to categorize him. He glanced again at the package, its sealed edges a constant reminder of the unknowns that surrounded him.
The final set of questions was the most unsettling, probing into his emotional responses and hypothetical crisis situations. Albion read them, his mind buzzing with unease. He looked at at his dad, whose eyes were glued to the screen. “And you’re sure this is all normal?” he asked, his voice edged with doubt.
He nodded, but the motion was stiff, unconvincing. “It’s part of the transition,” he said, as much to himself as to Albion.
Albion finished the last question, the completion of the forms leaving him more drained than relieved. He pushed back from the terminal, rubbing his eyes. Albion’s father’s gaze lingered on the screen before flicking to him. “You did well,” he said, trying for reassurance but falling short.
“Can I do something else now?” Albion asked, his voice weary.
“Of course,” He replied, his tone softening. “I’m proud of you, Albion.” The words were sincere and Albion couldn’t help but smile.
But as his father lingered, Albion felt his presence become more suffocating than supportive, again. His attention remained on him, intense and unrelenting. “You have questions,” he said finally, stating it as a fact rather than an inquiry.
“Yeah,” Albion replied, looking away. He wanted to ask about everything: the files, the admissions, the package. But he knew the answers would be vague, elusive, just like the ones on the train.
“I wish I could explain more,” his father said, and for a moment, Albion heard the sincerity in his voice again. “I wish I could tell you—” He broke off, his words cut short by the chime of a secure communication on his watch.
His father hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the fractured connection with his son. But Albion knew what he would choose. It was what he always chose. Finally, he gave Albion a searching look, then turned toward the adjoining room, his movements quick and resigned.
The door slid shut, leaving Albion in silence. He sat still for a moment, absorbing the emptiness of the apartment, the efficiency of its design amplifying the emotional distance between him and his father.
After a moment, he stood and walked to the shelf where the package rested. His name was scrawled on it in block letters, stark and impersonal. He ran his fingers along the edges, resisting the urge to tear it open. Under his touch it seemed to pulse with significance, another mystery in a growing list.
He returned to the terminal, intent on reviewing his answers. His thoughts were a tangled mess of suspicion and frustration. The admissions questions were a reminder of how little he knew, how much was hidden. He felt a growing disconnect, not just from his father but from everything around him. He wanted to reach out, to break through the barriers of silence and secrecy that enclosed him. But the words, like everything else, were out of reach.
He explored the apartment briefly, opening cabinets and doors, noting the lack of personal touches. It felt more like a temporary outpost than a home. He wondered how long it would take for their personal items to arrive. Would it feel like home then?
Without thinking he was back at the package. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, a crinkling sound, like paper, coming softly from inside. What if it was another set of forms, another test to measure him? What if it was something entirely different? His mind spun with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.
Albion placed it back on the shelf, his curiosity tempered by caution. He glanced toward the door where his dad had disappeared, expecting him to return at any moment. The delay stretched longer than he anticipated, leaving him alone with his thoughts and uncertainties. The more he looked around the unfamiliar room, the more he felt the enormity of the change pressing down on him.
He returned to the terminal, determined to understand the admissions questions more clearly. He scanned through the completed forms, searching for a pattern, a clue, anything that made sense. But the more he looked, the more confused he became. It all seemed part of a larger plan, one that he was a piece of but not privy to.
His father reappeared, looking tired but more focused. Albion’s gaze flicked from him to the package and back. His father smiled and walked over to the shelf, picking it up and carrying it over. He held it out to him like an offering. “This is for you,” he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “A surprise.”
Albion took it, feeling the weight of his father’s expectations along with the package itself. He would have to be happy about it, whatever it was. That’s how surprises worked. “What is it?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer.
“Something that will help you adjust,” his father replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare, tentative smile. “Standard issue for Theta education.”
Albion ripped the package open with an anticipation that seemed misplaced in the stark apartment. Inside was a suit—full-body, tangled with nodes and cables. Its sleek, alien material seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Albion stared, uncomprehending.
“It’s an experimental haptic suit,” his father said, words tumbling over each other in their rush. “The latest in simulation technology. Carbon-fiber mesh.”
Albion’s suspicion curled into curiosity. “You mean for games?”
His father nodded, almost eager. “And more.”
Albion reached for the suit, and the fabric slipped through his fingers like water. “It’s… strange,” he said, trying to sound interested rather than alarmed.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” his dad responded, misreading Albion’s reaction. “It links directly to the neural interface. Immersive environments, tactile feedback—everything you can imagine.” His enthusiasm was like a wave threatening to pull Albion under.
He managed a weak smile, unsure of how to respond. “It’s for school?”
“Part of the curriculum.” His father’s voice was rich with unspoken promises. “But it’s so much more.” Albion watched him arrange the pieces with a practiced efficiency. “This goes on first, then you put on the headpiece and the visor,” he said, pointing. “Go ahead and get changed into it and then plug his part into the terminal,” he held up a cable that dangled off the front of the suit. “I installed a little surprise on there for you.”
His father moved for the door, but hesitated, an odd mix of parental concern and professional excitement. “Remember, orientation’s tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late. And don’t forget your medicine.” With that, his father left him to figure it out, the door sliding shut with a soft, mechanical sigh.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ💙ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 𖣂 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🩷ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Albion stared at the suit, its presence like a dare. He couldn’t decide if he was excited or afraid. A bit of both, he thought, running a hand through his hair.
The experimental haptic suit was unlike anything he had seen before, its sleek carbon-fiber mesh and neural interface nodes hinting at a level of technology he didn’t know existed. He touched it, fingers brushing the surface, intrigued and uneasy. The fabric felt like liquid metal, alive and reactive.
The urge to see what it could do finally overwhelmed him. He stripped down and slipped into it, half expecting it to reject him. But it slid over his limbs as if it knew him, the fibers molding to his form with uncanny precision. It was lighter than he’d imagined, the nodes barely noticeable. Albion flexed his fingers, the suit moving with him, an extension of his body that was thrilling and terrifying all at once.
He found the cable his father had shown him and hesitated for a moment before plugging it into the terminal. The room blinked to life, displaying a list of applications floating in front of him as if they were sitting on the empty shelves themselves. After the shock passed, he looked them over. One stood out. An icon with a name that seemed both ominous and intriguing: “Apocalypse Online.” That hadn’t been there before.
He focused on it, and the words “Recommended Student Recreation” appeared. A shiver of curiosity ran through him, quickly followed by the sharp edge of unease. How does it know what I’m looking at? Then, as if in response, the words “Reach Out and Tap to Open” appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Albion shook off the hesitation and lifted his hand to tap the icon. He could feel it in the tip of his finger, even though he knew it wasn’t actually there. Incredible!
The screen went dark for a moment before resolving into a rich, immersive display. He watched, fascinated, as the opening sequence unfolded, hinting at a world both alien and hauntingly like those he read in the books his mother had given him, a world bursting with colors, creatures, and landscapes beyond his imagination. Places on the surface he’d only ever seen pictures of.
Wind rustled the leaves of a great tree as Albion found himself flying towards it. He saw that each of the countless leaves on the massive tree contained its own tiny realm. The branches stretched out like arms, each one supporting a sea of vibrant worlds filled with movement and color. Some leaves showed bustling cities with glimmering towers and pulsing lights. Others displayed dense forests, dark and tangled, where strange creatures roamed between the trunks. He glimpsed fiery landscapes with molten rivers, icy worlds of endless snow, and desolate wastelands that held ancient ruins. Hundreds of realms, each distinct and alive, hung like ornaments in a universe of possibilities. The sheer magnitude of it was dizzying, a cacophony of choices that made Albion’s head spin.
He zoomed closer, more detail emerging on each leaf. He could see tiny figures moving, battling, and building—living entire lives in miniature. Some leaves shimmered with magic, ethereal and enchanting, while others crackled with technology that felt alien and advanced. It was overwhelming, a flood of potential destinies that swarmed around him. Albion marveled at the complexity, the imagination required to create such a multifaceted world. But beneath his awe, a familiar unease began to creep in. What if he picked the wrong one? What if he wasn’t meant to choose at all?
As if responding to his hesitation, the game seemed to reclaim control, closing in on him with an urgency that tightened like a vice. Albion felt himself being pulled toward the tree, accelerating into its center. The leaves that once spread endlessly now rushed past him in a blur, collapsing into a whirlwind of color and sound. He was forced to choose, to participate, to be a part of the game whether he was ready or not. There was no time to deliberate, no room for his doubts to breathe. The vastness of the options vanished, leaving him in the dark with the stark immediacy of the decision.
Then the character creation screen popped up, and Albion stared. Perhaps he didn’t have to choose where to go, but now he was overwhelmed by a new set of options. There were sliders for every detail, from height and build to voice and eye color. He fiddled with them, but the more he tweaked, the less certain he became. Nothing seemed quite right. His attention drifted to a button labeled “Scan My Inner Persona.” The words were accompanied by a warning: “This feature cannot be reversed.”
His gaze hovered over it, doubt gnawing at his curiosity. What did it mean to scan his inner persona? Could a game really understand who he was beneath the surface? The question lingered, too enticing to ignore. Before he could talk himself out of it, Albion selected the option. The screen dimmed, and a soft hum filled the room as the system initiated the scan.
Pulses of tactile sensation moved up and down his body, as if the haptic suit were tracing him. Albion held his breath, a mix of anticipation and fear churning in his stomach. The scan felt like it lasted forever, each second stretching into eternity. Then it was over, the hum fading into silence.
The character it created left Albion speechless. A figure stood before him on the screen, familiar yet impossibly different. The skin tone was the rich brown of his own, but the features were delicate, feminine. The character had a puffy afro and eyes that seemed to change color with the light. The system named her “Alice.”
Albion’s pulse quickened, confusion and recognition battling within him. The avatar looked right in a way that was unsettling and true. It was as if the game had reached inside him, pulling out something hidden and secret, something he didn’t dare acknowledge. He stared at Alice, his heart pounding, his mind reeling. He couldn’t—didn’t—want to understand.
Panic set in, and Albion fumbled for a way to delete the avatar. But the system locked character creation, trapping him in his own reflection. “Inner Persona Confirmed,” the screen declared, indifferent to his shock. Albion floated toward Alice until the two collided and became one. He looked down, noting that his body had changed into hers.
Albion looked for a way to exit the game, but it forced him into the tutorial. A new world sprang to life around Alice, vivid and insistent. Albion felt his control slip away as the haptic suit buzzed to life, making the game feel disturbingly real. He—no, she—was Alice now…
Aetherloft 