Pain. Chest heaving. Body convulsing.

  I’m choking. Gagging. A torrent of bitter gel pours from my lungs, splattering onto the cold, unyielding floor. My body refuses to stop, wracked by spasms as it forces out the last remnants. I claw at the ground, lungs burning, throat raw. Breathing feels impossible, like I’m drowning on dry land.

  A gasp. Then another. Air rushes in, sharp and cold, cutting through the haze. My head spins, my ribs ache, but I’m alive. I’m alive.

  I collapse back onto the floor, staring up at the flickering emergency lights. My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a drum of survival. Gel pools beneath me, slick and nauseating, but I can’t muster the energy to move.

  Then, absurdly, I laugh.

  Sputtering the last of the gel out between hoarse chuckles, I think, As my mentor used to say, RTFM: read the f***ing manual. My voice is a ragged croak, but the absurdity of it all strikes me.

  “You’re really outdoing yourself this time,” I mutter to no one in particular, wiping the gel from my face. “What kind of techie forgets their training? Truly, a masterclass in survival instincts.”

  The humor steadies me. I roll onto my side, coughing up the last remnants of the gel. Around me, the pod chamber is bathed in dim emergency lighting, casting long shadows on the walls. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of my labored breathing.

  I glance back at the pod, its door hanging ajar, smoke curling from the blasted hinges. The sight fills me with a bittersweet mix of relief and shame. Relief that I’m alive. Shame at how close I came to not being.

  Shaking my head, I shove the emotions aside. I survived, and that’s what matters. Now I need to figure out what the hell is going on.

  First, I need to stand. My legs tremble, weak and unsteady, as though they were never designed for this. Threatening to collapse, I heave myself upright, using the now-empty pod for support.

  The vertigo hits hard, and I pause, gripping the pod’s edge until the room stops spinning. Focus. One step at a time. First, figure out what’s going on. Starting with the basics—what time is it? I was supposed to wake up when we arrived at Aurora.

  Suddenly, the cold, corporate voice interrupts my thoughts: "Brain damage detected. Attempting to reconstitute memory."

  Pain explodes in my head. A sharp, blinding agony. A jet of blood streams from my nose, and I collapse to one knee, gasping. A piercing sensation, sharper than when I hit my head earlier, drills into my skull. Aurora. The name reverberates, triggering a cascade of memories that flood my mind in chaotic waves.

  A hazy memory begins to reform, fragmented and distant. I see a poster—a planet depicted with alien continents, unfamiliar shapes that do not match the Earth I remember. The image churns unease in my stomach. Pain cascades through my head, and I feel warmth trickle from my ears.

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  Earth. The word lands like a blow. My breath catches, and reality crashes in. It’s gone. Tears carve paths through the grime encrusting my face. Everyone I know, everyone I cared about—gone, lost to time and ruin.

  It started with the water wars. Nations tearing each other apart over the last clean rivers, the final drinkable reservoirs. The conflicts left scars across the globe, but they weren’t enough to end it all. That came later.

  The nuclear apocalypse was the death knell. Earth, already fragile, shattered under the weight of humanity’s self-destruction. It wasn’t just a collapse of governments or ecosystems—it was as though a darkness descended, smothering every last spark of reason and compassion. The spirit of humanity, once so bright, was dragged screaming into the depths of hell.

  Reaching into my personal node, I query the current datetime with a simple command: (datetime).year.

  The response freezes me. Colder than the gel clinging to my skin. A voice, sterile and emotionless, echoes in my mind: "Welcome to the year 47381 AD, Harold Lancaster."

  The words linger, heavy and incomprehensible. My hands tremble as I steady myself against the remains of the pod. A weariness deeper than my bones washes over me, dragging my soul down.

  Forty-five thousand years. Time that stretches beyond reason. Beyond humanity. Beyond everything I ever knew. The Distant Dreams departed Earth in 2478 AD, a lifeboat carrying the desperate hopes of humanity into the vast unknown. What remained behind was not just a planet, but the echoes of billions of lives—dreams turned to ash, history erased by its own creators. It was meant to be the beginning of something greater, but now it feels like the last chapter in a book no one will ever read.

  My legs feel like they’ll give out, but I push against the weight of it. Tears burn my eyes. I blink away the gunk clouding my vision, trying to make sense of it—of the emptiness that yawns wide in the pit of my stomach.

  Earth is gone. Everyone I knew aboard the Distant Dreams—gone. The cold steel beneath my feet offers the only semblance of solace. It is unfeeling, unchanging, a stark reminder of everything we left behind.

  The emotionless feminine voice returns, smooth and precise: "Mr. Lancaster, I am your integrated personal AI assistant. During your deep sleep cycle, a major system update was applied to all mental links. This update enables localized AI support for optimized functionality and assistance as needed." The voice pauses, as if it’s gauging my nonexistent enthusiasm. "In order for me to continue existing utilizing your hardware, I will require your express consent to complete installation."

  Another wall of legalese floods my mental vision. I sigh, shaking my head. "Of course. Because nothing says 'Welcome to the future!' like a EULA assaulting your brain." I scroll through the endless jargon, not even pretending to read it.

  I mutter under my breath, "Didn’t they roll this out in beta last time I woke up? And didn’t I opt out because I didn’t want some digital nanny poking around in my skull? Guess that wasn’t good enough for the update team." My lips twitch into a bitter smirk. "So much for free will."

  I sigh again, heavier this time, and select 'Agree.' By now, they must have ironed out the bugs, and I need all the data I can get. Survival doesn’t leave much room for idealism, and apparently, neither does the future.

  The moment I select 'Agree,' a strange sensation washes over me—a serene, almost artificial elegance. The emotionless corporate tone shifts abruptly, taking on an unsettlingly cheerful lilt.

  "How may I serve you, Master? Nyan~!" the voice chirps, now disturbingly saccharine, like an overly eager mascot from a themed maid café.

  Out loud, I stammer, "What the fu—?" before the absurdity of it all renders me speechless.