CHAPTER ONE:

“THE LAST SHIFT”

Greenville, North Carolina - 2047

Rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the patched metal roof of Harbor Pointe Food Station, a symphony of droplets that blurred the line between sky and earth. The faded Huckleburger sign still peeked through layers of rust and grime, a ghost of better days when beef was real and hope wasn't rationed. The world outside was a wash of grey, the kind of persistent downpour that soaked into bones and dreams alike.

Inside, Mike Harper moved with practiced grace, his spatulas conducting a dance of survival on the battered grill. Steam rose in waves as rat meat and ProcessedProtein™ sizzled, the sound mixing with the rain's endless percussion. Behind him, John worked his station with methodical precision, making what passed for buns these days look almost appetizing.

"Order in!" Sarah's voice cut through the kitchen's chaos, her server's pad already torn and damp. "Four number threes, heavy sauce. Table six wants to pretend it's chicken today."

"Customers can pretend all they want," John muttered, arranging synthetic lettuce with careful hands. "Just like we pretend these buns didn't come from a chemistry lab."

Mike flipped five patties with his right hand while his left arranged three rat fillets, each movement precise. "Ready for dressing, John."

"Always ready." John's response carried their years of shared rhythm. "Even if ready means whatever this pink stuff is supposed to be."

Ryan emerged from his office, his sixty-five years wearing heavy in the fluorescent light. He touched the ancient name tag out of habit, fingers tracing the Huckleburger logo beneath Harbor Pointe's newer markings. "Sarah, check on table three. Lisa's got her hands full with the couple pretending they're on a real date."

The Gamepass in Mike's pocket seemed to grow heavier with each order. Through the grease-streaked window, East Carolina University's walls rose like a fortress in the distance, its barriers gleaming wet and cold. The university that had once been Greenville's heart now stood as its gatekeeper, deciding who would learn and who would serve.

"Remember when ECU was just a school?" John's voice carried quiet recognition of Mike's gaze. "Now it's got walls higher than my hopes for retirement."

"Table eight needs their check," Lisa called, her smile never wavering as she swept past with a tray balanced on one arm. "And table four's trying to trade extra ration points for a real beef patty, like we've got those just hiding somewhere."

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Ryan sighed, running a hand through grey hair. "Tell them the same thing we always do. Everything's prepared to Global Resource Council standards. No substitutions, no exceptions."

The dinner rush flowed like the rain outside - constant, demanding, relentless. Mike's spatulas never stopped moving, John's hands never ceased their careful assembly, and the waitresses danced between tables with practiced efficiency. Each order fulfilled was another small victory against hunger, against despair, against the dying world beyond their walls.

"Last call," Ryan announced as the night deepened. His voice carried the weight of countless similar announcements, though something in his tone made Mike's hands pause briefly over the grill. "Make it count, people."

Through the window, Mike caught a glimpse of movement - a woman standing motionless in the rain. She seemed to exist between the droplets, water flowing around rather than through her form. When he blinked, she was gone, leaving only questions in the rain-soaked dusk.

The final orders trickled in, each one carrying its own small story. A father treating his children to what passed for a special dinner. An elderly couple sharing a single meal, their dignity intact despite the circumstances. A group of workers still in their refinery uniforms, spending precious ration points on something that almost tasted like remembered normalcy.

"Good shift," John said later, as they cleaned their stations. His methodical movements matched the rain's rhythm. "Though I swear these buns are more synthetic than last week's."

"Everything's more synthetic these days." Ryan leaned against the prep counter, his shoulders carrying decades of change. "Remember real beef, John? Real bread?"

"My kids wouldn't know real beef if it walked up and introduced itself," John replied, but his hands never stopped moving. "Hell, sometimes I wonder if I remember it right anymore."

Mike scraped the grill one final time, the Gamepass a constant weight in his pocket. Sarah and Lisa counted their tips - ration points and favors instead of cash, currency of the dying world. Through the darkened window, he caught another glimpse of the woman, her reflection impossible in the rain-streaked glass. Her eyes held ancient knowledge, and when she smiled, it carried both comfort and warning.

"You okay, Mike?" Ryan's voice carried genuine concern. "You've been quiet, even for you."

"Just tired," Mike answered, though the lie felt heavy on his tongue. "Long shift."

Ryan's eyes, sharp despite his age, lingered for a moment. "Take care of yourself, kid. World's got enough ghosts already."

They left one by one - first Lisa, then Sarah, then John with a final nod. Ryan paused at the door, looking back at the place he'd managed through its changes. "Lock up tight," he said, though his gaze suggested he meant more than just the doors.

Alone, Mike finished the closing ritual. The woman appeared twice more - once in the reflection of a stainless steel panel, then again in the pool of water that had collected near the back door. Each time, she seemed to beckon, her presence an unspoken promise of purpose.

The streets of Greenville stretched empty before him as he finally left, the rain painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Despite the billions crowding the planet, this part of the city felt abandoned, as if the rain had washed away all but the most desperate souls.

He walked home through the downpour, each step weighing heavier than the last. The woman appeared again near ECU's towering walls, a silhouette that shouldn't exist between the raindrops. She raised a hand in silent greeting or warning, then faded like mist in morning light.

Mike reached his apartment as the last light faded from the sky. The familiar drip of water from the ceiling welcomed him back, a lullaby in the language of rain. He sat beside his father, the rain's melody filling the silence between them.

The Gamepass burned in his pocket like a coal of possibility. Outside, between the raindrops, a figure watched - present yet absent, real yet impossible. When Mike finally looked directly at her, she was gone, leaving only the rain and the weight of tomorrow's choice.

He touched the Gamepass one last time, feeling its edges through the fabric of his pocket. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I'll decide. But in his heart, watching the rain paint patterns on the window, he knew the decision was already made. She had shown him that much, at least.

The rain continued its relentless descent, each drop a countdown to dawn, to change, to whatever waited in the pods that promised both salvation and oblivion. Mike closed his eyes, letting the rhythm wash over him, carrying away the remnants of his last shift and leaving only the quiet promise of what might come