Jack punched the emergency number into his pod communicator. A robotic voice answered immediately.

“Pod 414. What is your emergency?”

“It’s my dad. I think he’s dead!” Jack shouted, his voice trembling.

“Disposers will arrive shortly,” the voice replied before abruptly hanging up.

Jack stared at the communicator, stunned. Disposers? That was it? Less than a minute passed before the pod door slid open. Two meat puppets entered, their movements precise and devoid of life. One held a compact medical scanner against Rob’s chest.

“He is deceased,” the puppet stated flatly. “As a medical tester, prompt disposal is required.”

“Disposed? How? Can I at least say goodbye?” Jack asked, his voice breaking.

“He will be incinerated in the building’s facility immediately. As next of kin, your account will be charged for disposal,” the other puppet replied, already lifting Rob’s lifeless body.

Jack’s grief was quickly replaced by rage. “Thirty years of work, and all you can say is that? You won’t even cover the cost?”

“That is correct,” the puppet replied without pause.

Jack stumbled back, gripping the edge of his cot for support. “How could he die just two days before his contract was up?”

The puppet paused, its head tilting slightly. “Full depreciation of the asset was anticipated upon contract completion. The expiration occurred two days early.”

Jack’s chest tightened as he watched his father’s body being carried away. Five minutes. That’s all it took for the system to erase a life, reducing it to nothing more than a line on a ledger. He collapsed onto the cot, tears blurring his vision.

The pod door hissed shut. Jack sat alone, his thoughts spiraling. He had always known this world was cruel, but the loss of his father made the brutality unbearable. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

A notification buzzed on his communicator. His account balance flashed: -4 credits.

“You heartless bastards,” Jack muttered, slamming his fist into the concrete wall. Pain shot through his hand, but he welcomed it—at least it was real.

For ten long minutes, he lay on the cot, letting his grief and anger wash over him. Finally, he forced himself to sit up. Crying wouldn’t change anything, and despair was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

For the first time, the thought of suicide crossed his mind. They had no leverage over him now. No one to punish, no one to harvest. Jokes on you, motherfuckers. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But even that thought felt hollow. If they didn’t have leverage, they’d still win—because they’d made him feel like ending his own life was the only option.

No. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

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His mind drifted to the hacked broadcast. Cabins, forests, freedom. Was it a trap? Probably. But what did he have left? Here, all he could do was help the very people who had driven off his mother and slowly killed his father.

Jack reached for Rob’s pocket notebook, the only thing left of him. He flipped through its worn pages, his father’s scrawled notes and doodles blurring in his vision. He tried to focus on the words, but his mind kept spinning. He tucked the notebook into his pocket and laid down, staring at the empty cot across from him.

They’d assign him a new podmate soon. Someone chosen not to comfort him, but to minimize loneliness without fostering trust. The thought of someone else sleeping in his father’s cot made Jack’s stomach churn.

The blaring waking siren broke his thoughts, accompanied by a cold, mechanical voice.

“Jack Carter. You are late for work. Report immediately.”

Jack stumbled to the communicator, pulling up his work schedule. He clicked the button to request time off and selected bereavement as the reason. He hit submit.

A response arrived almost instantly: Bereavement day off request denied. Report to work immediately.

Jack’s temper flared. “Why even allow the request if you’re going to deny it?” he shouted, pacing the small pod. “It wasn’t some distant relative—it was my father, my podmate, my best friend!”

For a moment, he contemplated not going. But vagrancy carried the ultimate penalty, and the fear of organ harvesting outweighed his anger.

At work, the system had logged his tardiness but excused it “due to circumstances.” The gesture felt hollow.

“Yeah, fuck you,” he muttered under his breath as he logged in.

Jack’s tasks felt endless. Reviewing lines of code, approving requests—none of it mattered today. His mind wandered back to his father, his grief bubbling to the surface. He moved too quickly through his tasks, blindly approving submissions until the system flagged him with a test. It submitted a line of intentionally flawed code. Jack failed it, approving the error without noticing.

The system dinged: Performance violation logged.

“Approved, motherfucker,” Jack muttered bitterly, slamming the terminal shut.

When the day finally ended, Jack returned to the pod, relieved to be alone. Seeing Rob’s empty cot cut deep, but at least here, he could pretend Rob was still there, just sleeping. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, trying to clear his mind.

His communicator dinged. He groaned, dragging himself to check the message.

Due to poor work performance, you have been reassigned. Details will follow.

Another ding:

Reassigned to: Marrow Donor. Report to your local donation center by 7:00 AM tomorrow.

Jack froze. His heart raced as the implications sank in. Marrow donors weren’t immediately killed, but it was a death sentence nonetheless—a slow, grueling decline with no way out.

“No. Not a chance in hell,” Jack muttered, his hands trembling.

He stared at the communicator, the memory of the hacked broadcast flashing in his mind. He could still remember the number, seared into his memory. His fingers hovered over the screen before he typed:

Please help me. I’d rather freeze to death than stay here.

Jack hit send, his heart pounding. He sat back, expecting nothing. Minutes passed. Then, a ding.

Meet us at midnight near the token kiosk on 7th Ave. Bring nothing but the clothes on your back. P.S. We won’t let you freeze.

Jack stared at the message, his breath catching. For the first time in years, a spark of hope flared. It was faint, fragile—but it was there.