The coffee machine sputtered lazily, each drop dragging out like a bad holographic ad for instant noodles—the kind that promised a meal in seconds but never delivered on time or taste.

Marta stared at it, her mind caught in the same sluggish cadence, unsure if it was the machine or her perception warping. The whole apartment felt unnatural still, like a static photograph. Every corner of the flat was clean, not a speck of dust, and every item was placed with exact care.

Brandon had stuck to the end of their bargain—everything spotless, everything in its place. She had to admit Brandon was better than Jude at keeping the house spotless. But that would be a secret she will take to the grave.

Yet, something was off. The subtle buzz on her skin, like a faint current of static electricity, ran along her arm. Her instincts told her today wouldn’t be like the others.

She hadn’t bothered turning on the TV, craving a rare moment without the constant stream of bad news—updates on families abandoning their homes, images of towns swallowed by flood, ice, or mud. Tornadoes were ripping the land, and tsunamis were consuming everything in their path. Today, she needed the silence. Yet, it was hard to ignore that the end didn’t just seem real; it felt close, breathing down her neck.

The clatter of keys drifted up from the basement, where Brandon had buried himself in darkness for days. Marta knew he'd be hunched over, eyes bloodshot from the screen's glow, battling with codes, algorithms, or something equally incomprehensible to her. She didn’t understand the details of his quest, but it consumed them both. She wondered if he had even paused to sleep or eat today.

Marta cradled her belly as the coffee machine sputtered and dripped at its own stubborn pace. She and Jude hadn’t even settled on a name, not a single one. They had decided to wait to meet their son before choosing what would fit. But Jude wasn’t here.

She had called the Watcher Unit Bureau countless times, and each call met with the same frustrating response: His mission’s been extended, indeterminate time. When she asked why, they simply said, He chose it.

A lie. It had to be.

A weak attempt to cover the truth. Marta knew it was a lie and not even a convincing one. Still, a small, insecure part of her wondered if there was some truth in it—was she wrong to feel upset, to feel abandoned? No.

Jude wouldn’t choose this, not willingly. He wasn’t the type to disappear on a whim, especially not now, not with a baby on the way.

If he had a choice, he'd be here, no matter the mission. Jude wasn’t some hero, and she never needed him to be. But he was a husband. He was going to be a father. That was enough—more than enough.

Marta took a deep breath; the sharp scent of coffee snapped her back to reality, and she noticed the cup on the edge of overflow.

She carefully placed the cup on a tray, along with a few pieces of toast and butter. It was a small gesture, something to ground her and Brandon, something familiar—Normal.

She moved slowly down the stairs toward the basement, the tray clattering.

Lucy lay motionless in the pod, her childish figure barely rising and falling with shallow breaths. The glow from the monitors cast an eerie light on her face. Marta glanced at the screen displaying Lucy’s vitals—numbers flickering just on the edge of dangerous levels. She had been unstable the last few days.

They still had no way of knowing if Lucy was progressing in the simulation, if she was levelling up and what level she had reached so far. All Marta could do was watch as the girl slipped further into the inevitable.

It was a cruel symmetry. One soul, her baby, is preparing to arrive, and the other is silently preparing to leave.

"Brought you a pick me up," Marta said, snapping out of her head and setting the tray beside Brandon.

He flinched at her voice, fingers freezing mid-keystroke before slumping back into the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. His eyes were red and sunken, evidence of hours lost in front of the screen.

"Still nothing?" she asked.

Brandon exhaled sharply, sitting up straight with a frustrated jerk. "I’ve tried everything—ran scripts, modified the code, even bypassed a few firewalls I shouldn’t have been able to. Nothing works," he muttered. "I can't get in." His hands fell to his lap, defeated.

Marta pulled a chair closer, settling in beside him. "What exactly are you trying to do?" she asked, eyes scanning the maze of screens and lines of code she couldn't understand.

Brandon sighed, staring blankly at the glowing text. "I'm just trying to get a simple login and password. I sent Trojans to gather the info, but I didn’t count on them having a built-in cleaner. Wipes everything before I can grab it." His frustration bled through every word. "I’ve hit a wall. I don’t know what else to try." He rubbed his temples, the pressure of days without sleep finally taking its toll.

Marta leaned forward, her brow furrowed in thought. "Isn't there another way? Like... trying combinations?" she suggested randomly.

Brandon let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "That would take forever. Sure, there are generators, but the possible combinations? We're talking infinite. We’d have better luck just calling the user directly and asking for their password." His voice dripped with irony, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Marta raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Brandon blinked, surprised by the question. "You're serious?" he asked, studying her face.

"So, you want us to just start cold-calling people, asking if they work for UGS?" He scoffed, the sarcasm thick in his tone. "Oh, hey, could you hand over your credentials real quick? No big deal—just want to check on a husband and a kid. Marta..." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You see how insane that sounds, right?"

"People have social media, don’t they? They post where they work..." She glanced at Brandon, her confidence faltering as she continued, "Maybe we could filter through that, reach out somehow... say something..." Her words fizzled out, and she bit her lip, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it sounded.

Brandon's smirk widened, an idea clearly forming. "Wait... you might actually be onto something," he said, his voice picking up energy. "How do you feel about talking on the phone?"

Marta blinked, confused but curious. "On the phone? What do you mean?"

"Back in the 21st century, there was this thing called social hacking. Hackers and scammers would pretend to be IT support," Brandon explained, leaning in, his excitement growing. "They'd get people to spill sensitive info just by talking or even trick them into giving access to their computers."

"I... I don’t even know what an Eye-Tee is." Marta's face scrunched up in genuine confusion.

Brandon leaned back in his chair, hands moving animatedly as he explained, "You see, companies have this department—IT, Information Technology. They handle everything from computers to storage, networking, and all the devices and infrastructure that keep data flowing. So, think usernames, passwords, access to internal networks—the works. And guess what? We only need one person who's about as tech-savvy as you to spill the tea."

Marta crossed her arms. "I feel like I should be insulted."

Brandon grinned, unphased. "I'm gathering a list of people on the grid right now. Then we call, and with our best toothpaste-commercial voices, we charm them into giving us what we need." His smile widened mischievously. "What do you say, Mrs James?"

Marta narrowed her eyes slightly, clearly bargaining. "I want pasta today," she said with a casual wave of her hand.

Brandon didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening. "I’ll make you all the pasta you want."

"With cheese."

"Cravings again? Never mind, cheese it is."

Satisfied, Marta pushed herself out of the chair, stretching as she stood. Brandon looked up. "Where you off to? Aren't you going to—"

"I need a nap," she replied. "You get that list together. Wake me up for lunch, and then we’ll start making some calls. I need my pregnant beauty sleep session."

Brandon saluted playfully. "Yes, ma'am, sounds—"

His words cut off as the floor beneath them jolted violently as a massive truck slammed into the building. The tremor rippled through the concrete, sending a shudder that rattled everything in its path. Overhead, dust and loose debris shook free from the beams, drifting down like a fine layer of snow, settling across the floor and furniture. Marta instinctively grabbed the edge of Lucy's pod, her knuckles white.

Brandon shot up from his chair, instincts kicking in as he lunged forward, his body colliding with Marta’s just in time. He threw his arms around her, pulling her down and shielding her as chunks of debris rained down from the ceiling. The dust and shattered pieces of plaster hit his back, but he held firm, blocking her from the falling wreckage.

The walls seemed to come alive as the shelves trembled, frames of Jude and Marta, medals, and holiday trinkets tumbling down with a series of sharp crashes. Each sound felt louder, more threatening in the stillness that followed. The wood creaked under the pressure of the tremors, groaning as if the house was straining to hold together. Overhead, the light fixtures swayed wildly, casting jagged, shifting shadows across the walls as if they were moving with a mind of their own.

The tremors faded as quickly as they came, leaving an eerie stillness in the room. The dust settled, and for a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Brandon helped Marta to her feet, brushing the debris from his shoulders. "Third quake this week," he muttered, trying to shake off the tension.

Marta didn’t move right away. Her eyes seemed distant as she stared at the cracked walls. "It’s strange… I don’t feel like this is home anymore."

Brandon glanced at her, wiping the dust from his forehead. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. "Don’t you feel like we are no longer welcome? As if the world’s trying to push us out? Like if we don’t leave, it’ll make sure we do?"

Before Brandon could respond, a sharp, piercing beep filled the room. His heart dropped, and he spun around, eyes locked on Lucy’s pod. The flat line on the monitor blared louder. Cold panic washed over him, freezing him in place.

Misery loved company.

Marta bolted toward the pod, her hands trembling as she frantically checked the tubes. Her breath hitched, each second dragging her deeper into a panic. "I don’t know what’s happening," she stammered, eyes darting across the blinking screens.

The steady beep had become a slow, irregular pulse, fading with every second. "We are losing her!"

Brandon’s face drained of colour as he stared at the flatlining monitor. His voice came out rough, urgent. "We need to open it. Do CPR. Now."

Marta’s head snapped looking at Brandon. "We can’t open the pod," she muttered, her fingers flying over the connections, checking every line, every tube. "If we wake her up, she’ll leave Nirvana. She’ll be stuck here… with us." Her voice wavered, the panic edging closer. Her hands moved faster, looking for anything—an air bubble, a loose connection—anything that might explain the sudden crash in Lucy’s vitals.

Brandon’s voice broke through the chaos, tight with desperation. “What about the air compression? Can we work with that?”

Marta paused, her mind whirring. “Maybe… There was a device, centuries ago, called the iron lung. It mimicked the body’s natural compression and helped people breathe. It might work for CPR,” she muttered, fingers already flying across the control panel, tweaking the settings.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Marta’s hands moved swiftly over the control. A low hum filled the room as the pod’s system whirred to life, its mechanisms clicking into place.

Pressure and decompress from the air inside would work as pads pressed against Lucy’s chest, inflating and deflating in a rhythmic pulse, simulating the rise and fall of breath.

Brandon leaned in, his voice barely a breath, "Come on, Lucy."

The mechanical thumping synced with the soft beeps from the monitor. Brandon and Marta's eyes remained locked on the numbers flashing on the screen, every flicker a glimmer of fragile hope.

Outside, the distant wail of sirens cut through the still air—ambulances, police, maybe even something worse—but the chaos of the world beyond the walls faded into insignificance. Nothing mattered except for the steady rhythm, the pulse of life they desperately clung to.

“Oxygen levels are stabilizing,” she breathed.

The heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm, a sound that felt like a victory. Marta let out a long, exhausted sigh. "It worked."

Brandon, still catching his breath, asked, "What else could happen today?"

Marta's gaze dropped to her belly, drawing Brandon’s attention with it. Panic flashed across his face as he stared at her. "Are you...?"

For a moment, her expression was blank; she didn't move, and she didn't say anything before cracking a smirk. "No, I'm just fucking with you."

Brandon exhaled in relief, half laughing at himself for even thinking it. 'Fuck you!"

image [https://i.imgur.com/0JmTchD.png]