The entertainment screen flickered. At first, Jack thought it was the usual signal glitch, but then the image changed entirely. The program about the Eternals’ lavish estates disappeared, replaced by a grainy clip of a human pet, a collar around its neck. Its head tilted back, mouth open, while an Eternal woman lazily tapped ash into it like a living ashtray.
A robotic voice boomed from the speakers:
“Lessers. Are you sick of living like slaves, degraded and used for the Eternals’ benefit?”
The room froze. Every worker stopped typing, their breaths caught in collective disbelief. The screen flickered again, this time displaying a chart. Average Lesser lifespan: 57 years.
“Are you sick of dying young so that Eternals can live forever at your expense?”
Another image appeared, a banquet table groaning under the weight of fresh fruits, roasted meats, and decadent desserts. The voice continued:
“Are you sick of being fed slop like animals while the Eternals feast in opulence?”
“Holy shit,” someone whispered nearby.
Jack’s chest tightened as the next image filled the screen: a sprawling mansion surrounded by a pristine forest. The trees seemed to stretch endlessly, the ground blanketed with vibrant moss and wildflowers.
“Are you sick of living in concrete cages and choking on smog while the Eternals live in mansions and breathe fresh air in their private parks?”
“Turn it off!” someone shouted. But no one moved. No one dared.
The voice shifted, softer now, almost inviting:
“What the Eternals call a wasteland isn’t the frozen death they say it is. It’s freedom. A chance to live a life worth living. The Eternals and their Architect have no reach here. No control.”
The screen flickered to a snowy forest, sunlight glinting off pine trees heavy with snow. Rivers teemed with fish, and cabins stood sturdy and warm. People—free people—laughed and sang around a campfire. Children played tag, their cheeks red with the cold. Some of them wore simple metal bracelets with LED screens, the only visible technology.
Across the bottom of the screen, a message scrolled:
“Contact this number from your pod communicator for instructions.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. He burned the number into his memory, repeating it silently until he was sure it was seared into his mind.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the broadcast cut. The entertainment program flickered back on, showing an Eternal laughing as she flaunted her latest pet on a gilded leash.
For a moment, no one moved. The room was suffocatingly silent until someone muttered, “It’s probably just a prank. The Wasteland’s just snow and bones.”
“Or a setup,” another worker said darkly. “Call that number, and meat puppets will haul you off. They don’t ask questions before they kill.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Meat Puppets were human-like drones controlled by the Architect, their lifeless faces and flawless obedience making them the Eternals' favorite enforcers. They looked human enough to unsettle, but their movements were too precise, their eyes too dead.
Jack forced himself to return to his work, though his thoughts churned like a storm. The hacked broadcast had ignited something dangerous in him: hope. It was a foreign, terrifying feeling, and he tried to smother it with logic. The Wasteland couldn’t be real. It was suicide to even think about it.
But the images lingered—cabins, forests, freedom. And that number.
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The next few days passed uneventfully, but the atmosphere in the office had changed. Every flicker of the screen sent heads snapping up, a collective tension that never quite dissipated. Jack noticed his coworkers stealing glances at one another, their expressions guarded. No one spoke about the broadcast, but the memory of it loomed like a shadow over everything.
At home, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about it. The number was etched into his mind, a secret he carried like a burning coal. He had no intention of calling—what if it was a trap? But just knowing he could gave him a sliver of control, however small.
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“Just two days to go, Dad,” Jack said one evening as they ate the gluey mush they called dinner. “Then you can rest. No more injections, no more testing.”
Rob stirred the mush with his spoon, his face unreadable. “You keep saying that,” he said quietly. “But just because my contract’s up doesn’t mean I’ll stop working forever. I’ll rest, sure, but I need to contribute. Maybe there’s something easier I can do.”
Jack hesitated, then leaned forward. “Dad, let me ask you something. What do you know about the Wasteland? Is it really... just snow and bones? A frozen death?”
Rob froze. He set his spoon down carefully, his hands trembling. “Why would you ask about that?”
Jack tried to backtrack. “I just... I overheard someone talking about it at work. I was curious.”
Rob shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “It’s exactly what they say it is, Jack. The air’s so cold it’ll freeze you solid. There’s no life out there—no plants, no animals, no hope. Just snow and the bones of fools who thought they could escape.” His voice cracked, and he looked away.
Jack frowned. “Dad... is this about Mom?”
Rob’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I found her record,” Jack admitted softly. “She was marked as a deserter. I figured... I figured she tried to go.”
Rob’s face crumpled, and tears spilled down his cheeks. “She thought she could find something better. A place where we could be a family again. But all she found was death.” He wiped his face with a trembling hand. “I begged her not to go, Jack. I begged her. And when she didn’t come back... I told myself it was better than seeing her turned into... into one of their surrogates.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jack whispered.
Rob looked at him, his eyes filled with a grief so deep it seemed bottomless. “Promise me you won’t go, Jack. I can’t lose you too.”
Jack reached across the table and squeezed his father’s hand. “I promise, Dad. I’m not going anywhere.”
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The morning came too soon, the shrill siren wrenching Jack from sleep. He stumbled to silence it, groggy but already bracing for the day.
“Dad, time to get up,” he called, grabbing his clothes. “Two more days!”
There was no response. Jack frowned, pulling on his shirt. “Dad, don’t make us late,” he said, half-joking, as he approached Rob’s cot.
“Rise and shine, Da—”
The words died in his throat. Rob lay still, his body unnaturally stiff. Jack reached out, his hand trembling, and touched his father’s shoulder. It was cold.
“No,” Jack whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no...”
He dropped to his knees beside the cot, gripping his father’s hand. The promise he’d made the night before echoed in his mind, hollow and cruel.