For most people it’s sad to think about: Two subjects deemed fit for a sick experiment disguised as a technological advancement. The trial is the first, and could easily be the last.

It’s interesting to observe the popular movie trope and cliche first hand, as I am doing while watching Cade and Jasper. We’ve all heard of time loops from books and shows, an anomaly which Cade believes he is in. Jasper, on the other hand, doesn’t believe much of anything. As far as she knows, all of this is real life. She is really serving coffee to a stranger, his name is really Andrew, and she really loves her job. All of these are really not true. That’s what I mean by the “sad” part. The higher-ups will say that since she came from such a terrible life, it’s okay to use her for a study. It’s a harmless experiment, right? Jasper was a victim of an abusive relationship, hardly ever able to leave the house. She was brought here with scars and bruises like you’ve never seen. So is it okay for us to waste weeks, maybe months of her life because it’s “better” than what she had before? Good question.

Cade comes from a bit of a different story. As I mentioned before, he thinks he is in a time loop. In a way he is, but not through some anomaly of science or alternate universe. Instead through psycho-manipulation and a little bit is sedatives.

Geez, I’m getting ahead of myself. If you’ve got a moment I’ll explain. I’m sure this all sounds pretty confusing.

Cade and Jasper were brought here 74 days ago, Jasper with serious head injuries and Cade with a concussion from a fall he took after passing out. Both members sustained some sort of memory loss from the incidents, which our team took advantage of. The new discovery we are testing is called Psycho-Telepathic Pairing, or PTP for short. While Jasper and Cade’s brains were in a vulnerable, injured state, surgery was performed to tap into what we call “No-Man’s-Land.” You know how they say humans only use 10% of their brain? That’s a myth. However, there is one nearly microscopic region that remains unused and has been inactive since humans began writing things down. That’s No-Man’s-Land: unused potential in the brain. These surgeries’ goal was to inject a unique atomic compound called Neuro-7 into the No-Man’s-Land of Cade and Jasper. In theory, this “bluetooth” chemical is able to send signals or data from one cell to the other if separated. All this happens on a microscopic, atomic level of course. The other part of the theory is that No-Man’s-Land was once the region of the brain which allowed for, well, telekinesis. I know, it sounds crazy.

This area of the brain has been inactive for all of recorded history, due to the evolving of humans, their language, and artificial stimulants. Again, this is theory as we don’t know for sure why telekinetic energy disappeared in the first place. But what about this seemingly sick experiment? Well, the experiment is a carefully constructed scenario played over and over, meant to create the perfect environment for telekinesis to flourish. We believe it will take a long time for Cade and Jasper to develop that part of their brain, which will then allow for the Neuro-7 to take root. It’s like that section of their brain is still an infant; it needs to be developed, just like how a baby learns to walk. Now, about the experiment.

Cade thinks he is in a scientific anomaly time loop. He goes to the counter, grabs his coffee, drinks it, and everything goes black, starting the loop again when he wakes up. He can’t get out of the room and the waitress, Jasper, isn’t much help. Well, the coffee does in fact make him black out, but nothing more. Once he blacks out, a team swoops into action, resetting the scene. The coffee is removed, his posture is reset, and we wait for him to wake up as if the loop started over. And Jasper? She is drugged with the same stuff that’s in the coffee, only in gas form. The little coffee shop acts as a cage of sedative gas when the time comes. She falls asleep, we reset the room, brew a new cup of coffee, and wait. When they both wake up, the sedative will have erased their short-term memory, leaving only hand-picked long-term memories.

So why do they both believe they are in different realities? Well, Jasper was brought here with severe loss of memory and identity. She didn’t know who she was or where she came from. We proceeded to tell her that she was Jasper Collins, which she was, and that she was a barista, which she wasn’t. She loved this job and she would never want to quit. Things like that. Surprisingly, it worked. A little friendly brainwashing never hurts. So, she believes she is in real life, hence the continual happiness, diligence, and lack of asking questions. Cade is quite the opposite. A former drug addict, Cade was found on the streets raving about random science gibberish. He was delusional, using phrases like “space-time continuum” or “multiversal transportation.” But the most common delusion phrase he yelled was about a time loop. He was clearly influenced by mainstream sci-fi and would be easy to convince. He was put into a coma directly after his surgery and forced to listen to podcasts about time loops, movies about time loops, audiobooks about time loops… really anything mentioning time loops. All of this while in a concussed, once again vulnerable state. This influence, plus his prior drugged-persona of a mad scientist, instilled the idea firmly in his long-term memory. Just like that, the subjects were primed and ready.

Finally, the details. I promise it’s almost over. We believe it is important for Jasper and Cade to slowly build the ability to speak telekinetically on their own. We want them to hear each other’s thoughts. We believe they might even be able to feel each others’ feelings. So, that is why we gave Cade the alias of “Andrew.” He knows his name is Cade, but never tells Jasper out loud. He only thinks it. After all, what’s the point if he’s in a time loop? She would never believe him, and it wouldn’t make a difference. So, if Jasper ever begins to feel as though the name Andrew is a fake name, we will know it’s working. He told her in his mind.

We also believe telekinesis flourishes in a romantic relationship. It’s the strongest bond and not a lot of words are said. Like having a “moment.” There is a lot of room for sub-speech communication in these situations. This is why Jasper’s beauty is so paramount, so that Cade will be attracted to her. When she begins to look around in a panic, realizing something seems off, Cade will reassure her without saying a word. He’ll think “don’t worry,” and somehow she won’t. What can I say, he’s a romantic.

The success of this experiment largely banks on Cade not trying to convince Jasper that they are in a time loop; and her not believing him if he does try. Cade is conditioned to believe no one will ever take his word. He has always been the crazy addict on the corner, never able to convince anyone. Jasper, too, will never believe him. After all, she wouldn’t want to. She is sure she lives the perfect life she has always wanted, and doesn’t want anything to get in the way of it. She would never start to believe anything which puts her “reality” at risk. Her trauma from the abusive relationship feeds this disassociation. It really all works together perfectly.

So here’s the end of the theory: Cade will eventually telepathically tell Jasper that his name is not Andrew. She will understand, although she won’t know how she gained that information. Surprised, he will work to tell her more and more through his thoughts. After all, someone finally believes him. The more he tells her, the more they communicate, and the stronger their bond. Once they have developed their telekinetic ability over time, she will realize it, and confront him about it. Their brains will have molded together via both of their No-Man’s-Land and the Neuro-7 compound. By the end, they will both be aware of their telekinetic connection. Then the experiment will have to end. After that, who knows. There are too many variables in the next stage, so we haven’t planned any further. We don’t even know if it will work in the first place. I am skeptical, but I’ve got hope. It would be devastating for this to all come crashing down, leaving two scarred, brainwashed, and chemically altered people. No lives, no homes, and no memories.

If it does work… I don’t want to imagine what will happen to them. Nothing. I’m sure nothing will happen.

Yet I’m afraid something will happen.

Something terrible.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

I call out a second time and he still doesn’t move an inch. I’m sure he’s hearing me, as there isn’t much in the room to distract him. It seems to me as if he’s staring at the ground, lifeless. Sort of strange, isn’t it?

I realize I don’t know “Andrew,” or at least I’ve never seen him before. Come to think of it, I don’t really know much of anyone. That can’t be right. Surely I know someone? Sheesh, maybe I also need a coffee right about now.

My waffling is interrupted by a slow movement in the man’s upper body. He straightens his back and begins scanning the scenery nearby.

The large foyer the two of us inhabit is quite the sight. An art student’s nightmare; or maybe their dream? The furniture is all constructed of a beautiful green leather, almost pistachio in tint. It has curves, no edges, and a vaguely hilly appearance. It reminds me of a field of grass or even mountainous meadows. The carpeted floor is soft and orange, almost like a fading burnt red. It is reminiscent of a dry mesa filled with that rust-colored dirt whose stains last forever. I’m not sure how I know that, since I have never been to such a place. I guess the little fact seems believable enough. My little shop is tucked away in a corner, unsuspecting but charming enough. The walls of this large abode are off-white, vaguely gray. I think they match perfectly with the other colors, bringing out the vibrance of the furniture-on-floor contrast.

I love working at the cafe, though I’m still unsure why. It just feels embedded within me to take pleasure in it. It’s why I don’t easily lose patience with unpunctual customers. Customers like Andrew, it appears.

Speaking of Andrew, he is on his feet now. The warmth of the cup spreads to my hand as I wait longer yet. At last he turns and makes his way towards me. Now I am sure I do not know Andrew. Meeting someone as handsome as he is would have surely lingered in my memory. That is a crazy thing to think, Lor.

I realize how odd it is that I’m still standing here with this stranger’s drink. Normally, I would set it on the counter and let them grab it on their own time. Why am I doing this? Do I want something from him? What do I want?

“Andrew, right?” The words come out sweet and friendly. Hopefully now he will know I’m not being impatient. We have been looking at each other for a bit now, as if both of us have agreed to do so until each has sufficiently studied the face of the other. Once again, he is very handsome. Oh, Lor. Not again.

Now I actually look at his eyes. Now we are actually making eye contact. Now say something. You have to say something.

“Are you… sure you don’t want sugar or…” I give up on that sentence. This is happening and I suppose it’s best not to try and stop it. There is such a look of peacefulness on his face, making my nervous comment seem pathetic. It seems like he’s done this a thousand times before. It is clear he has. It is clear I’m shook. Guess I should give him the coffee. My thoughts are sarcastic. I fall into these moments far too easily. Our fingers brush in the process of trading the cup. Well, more like his finger touches mine. I’d rather be on the receiving end of this situation…

You know that feeling when your stomach flutters and your heart beats a little faster? The room quiets and all distractions fade to black? Why do I even know what that’s like? Oh lord I’m blushing. I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks, and I can only imagine the rosy pink color. It’s sure to expose my vulnerable state of mind.

Suddenly, I’m struck with an unfamiliar feeling. A sensation. Who am I staring at? Normally I would feel the caution and nerves which come from talking to a stranger, but not now. Andrew is different. This room is different. What are you thinking? This room is the same every day. I try to picture the past customers I’ve served. Has this ever happened before? Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t remember any previous interactions. Surely there have been some. Of course there have been.

Now I’m scanning the room, breaking the bond of our eyes. Soon enough I’ve surveyed every inch of wall, floor and ceiling. Not a single door. Not a window in sight. Where am I? What kind of place has no doors? I want to ask Andrew if he has ever noticed this. Should we be worried?

Before I can speak I feel fingers grabbing mine. His touch is light and careful. It cares. He cares. He shakes his head as if to say “Don’t worry.”

Spinning.

My head is spinning. I forget my worries from a minute ago. I’m falling.

Falling in love? Yes, somehow.

Then nothing.

I pull my fingers away from their tender embrace.

I’m back between the light colored walls, above the burnt orange carpet, and nearby the man I love. I love him? Why do I love him? I don’t even know him. That’s true, but it doesn’t change the fact. I have to say something. Once again he makes his move just as I think to speak. He swipes his drink off the counter to my left and turns his back on me. I can tell he doesn’t wish to leave me. He has to.

As he makes off towards his seat, I squeeze out all I can think to say.

“Why do…” Lor, this is ridiculous. “Why do I love you?” Obviously he doesn’t know the answer. He doesn’t break his stride. This is where it normally ends, but I continue thinking. Normally I can’t reason through anything like this. I’m often stumped by such situations. Nothing really makes sense at all. I love a man I don’t know, yet I think he knows me somehow. He knows what I’m thinking, better than I even do.

His name… it’s not Andrew.

A wave of nostalgia washes over me. I’m overwhelmed with fear, dread, hope and elation. Memory of a plan, a consequence, a life. No details. A whole book with chapters, paragraphs, sentences, but no words to be found. It’s on the tip of my tongue, the whole answer. Even his real name. The hurricane in my skull intensifies. My mind is a whirlwind. This has never happened before. Just as he lifts the cup to his lips, I spit out all I can think to say. The mere thought makes me smile.

“Your name isn’t Andrew, is it?” I’m beaming now. I smile from ear to ear. I know this man, and I am near a breakthrough which will change my life. I will be happy again, picking up where I left off. My dream partner whips his head around with such speed he nearly falls off his seat. My smile doesn’t fade. There is a look of shock so potent in his expression. His peaceful disposition transforms to one of excitement. I know I said the right thing.

Oh…

He looks unwell.

Then he falls.

I shut my eyes.

I can never bear to see him hit the ground.

It happens every time.

I come back to earth and inspect the steaming cup within my grasp. I need to stop zoning out. I was making this for someone, right? What was their name again? I scan the cup, eyes landing on a name written in Sharpie. Ah yes, Andrew. Medium black coffee. Seems bland. I wonder if he wants sugar or anything? I’ll be sure to ask.

“Andrew?” My call rings through the near empty atrium. All I hear is a faint buzzing across the rust-red carpet. My ears ring faintly from lack of noise.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

“Andrew?”

The green-eyed barista calls out in anticipation. I hear her, but make no reaction. Pretty eyes scan the empty foyer, coming to rest on the back of my head. She waits an instant before following up.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?” Her voice is questioning, slightly confused, but not annoyed. I react this time, re-focusing my eyes after their long blurry gaze into space. I could have fallen asleep. She’s calling me…

I wait longer, my hands folded in my lap, seemingly unaware of the girl’s stare. A dull buzz creeps in from somewhere distant, far from this vacant atrium. It tickles my ears. The room I find myself in is garnished by solitary juniper furniture on a brazen, orange floor. The collection consists of small couches, chairs, futons, coffee tables and loveseats (or just seats, really). Each piece possesses its own features, bubbly and imaginative like a bad art school project. The legs of said objects are hidden out of sight underneath the avocado leather, creating a levitating effect. There is nothing else in the room, aside from the tiny nook-turned-cafe. Much too large of a room for the two of us.

I scan the floor now, taking in all the burnt amber carpeting and patches of shadowy, rusty coffee stains. Such a shame to spill one’s “energy juice.” At last I stir. Noiseless and with ease, I stand and meander my way towards the corner. Each step is silent, yet feels hollow, as if hinting at a hidden room below. Perhaps a room of brilliant navy or deep maroon. Could there be grand, royal magenta on the walls, far surpassing the “beauty” of the eggshell walls here? Maybe there is dandelion yellow, rose red, or brown like the bark of an ancient oak. Or more black. Probably more black abyss.

I have arrived. What do you want?

Shamrock eyes gaze up at me. I love those emerald eyes. They always give me butterflies, but only green ones. Yes, tiny, green butterflies.

“Andrew, right?” The pupils remain fixed on mine. I love this part. I say nothing, keeping still, tranquil. I do not smile, but am not upset. “Are you… sure you don’t want sugar or…” She gives up. We exchange the cup, fingers brushing each other in the process. The butterflies are happy to flutter mindlessly in my abdomen, forcing a breath from my lungs. I like to think there are moments where the clocks stop, just like in the movies. The buzzing quiets. All feeling in my body lifts from me. I can’t feel the dull, apricot carpet under my shoes. Then it is gone. Now I am holding a cup of warm, plain coffee. A girl stares and stares, questions whirring through her head, left, right, up, down. Never through her mouth, though. I can see clearly the moment she realizes the room we are in has no doors. Or windows for that matter. After a lifetime, she breaks our connection and her lime eyes dodge and dart around her. Now I smile. She is pretty when she’s nervous. Lightly grabbing her hand, I rebuild the bridge between us; her pupils to mine. I shake my head. After a second she nods, before realizing I have her hand. She lingers, but pulls away soon enough. A draft hits my neck, and the hairs stand in salute. Her cheeks begin to change color. Such a transformation from pale to precious. From a quiet tan to a rosy pink. It lights up the room. Green surrounds me, her eyes feel nearer. The colors blend, twisting and turning, hugging and stretching. It’s impossible to put into words. I feel myself in a whirlwind. My vision is cloudy. All I see is her.

Then it is over.

We are close.

I feel a semblance of someone.

We never touch.

We never speak.

We never will.

I turn around in a moment and swipe my coffee from the counter.

“Why do…” She speaks with faltering tone. I can hardly bear the sound, almost a whisper. “Why do I love you?”

I don’t know.

Upon reaching my seat, I lift the cup towards my lips. To my surprise I hesitate. What? There is no need for that. There is no more here. There never is. I close my eyes and tilt back my head, waiting for the hot sensation of liquid on my tongue. Just as I feel it, I hear a voice sound out once again.

“Your name isn’t Andrew, is it?”

Shock rocks my still frame and my head jolts forward. What did she just say? She’s not supposed to say that. That isn’t part of…

I fling myself around, half of me hanging off the olive futon. My vision begins to darken, blots block my view. I stay conscious long enough to see the girl, my girl, standing upright in the entrance of the cafe.

There is a smile.

A radiant, sunny smile.

A glimpse of heaven, or paradise below.

I cry out, reaching to grab at nothing. My own shrieks sound distorted and strange. Then nothing.

My serene, auburn eyes peel open. I am still. I feel nothing at all. Nothing is new, nothing feels off. My hands are folded in my lap. I hear nothing but the distant hum of some lost hopes and dreams. This room is way too big for just me. I almost smile at the thought.

Finally I hear the voice call out across the vast expanse of furniture. Not louder, not softer; not confident or shy.

“Andrew?” A pause.

“Medium black coffee for Andrew?”

In the vast expanse of the galaxy, humanity had once been a mere flicker of existence, their technology underdeveloped and their potential untapped. But when the Galactic Empire swept across their home world, Earth, they were instantly conquered. The Emperor's speech echoed through the airwaves, reaching every corner of the planet. "As the ancient creed dictates: Strength is forged in the furnace of suffering. Weakness is an illusion that we, the Empire, shall burn away. Let the galaxy bear witness to the consequences of defiance."

After months of ruthless purging of anyone who resisted, humanity was left subjugated and treated like slaves at the mercy of the Empire. Their status as death worlders, known for their resilience and tenacity, only fueled suspicion and distrust among the other species within the Galactic Empire. From the grandest metropolis to the smallest outpost, humans were viewed as worthless scum.

As the years passed, humanity suffered under the weight of oppression. They were blamed for every mishap and catastrophe, from a simple bottle of liquor getting smashed to the destruction of an entire capital ship. But in the shadows, a resistance was quietly taking shape. But humanity can only endure so much. For years, they bore the weight of injustice, their backs bent under the Empire’s yoke. There was no grand plan, no secret network of resistance waiting in the wings. Just simmering anger, a collective frustration that burned in silence.

It all came to a head one fateful day on a bustling Imperial outpost. A human child, no older than seven, threw a ball to an alien playmate with more force than intended. The alien child stumbled, fell, and scraped their knee. A minor accident, but the Empire would not tolerate even the faintest sign of aggression from humanity.

The child and there family were dragged into the street, accused of fostering violence. A crowd gathered, silent and powerless, as the Empire's enforcers broadcasting their delivered swift and merciless "justice” across galactic news. That was the final straw.

Something broke that day. The horror of it all—the cries of the children, the sneering indifference of the enforcers, the rising stench of injustice now festering like a malignant rot—ignited a spark in the crowd. Someone, no one even remembers who, hurled the first stone. Then another. And another. The enforcers fell beneath a storm of fists, rocks, and fury.

Word of the uprising spread like wildfire. Across the galaxy, humans and even some sympathetic aliens rose up in solidarity, armed with whatever they could find. It wasn’t organized, and it certainly wasn’t coordinated, but it was unstoppable.

They didn’t need a plan—just the shared understanding that enough was enough.

___________________________________________________________________

Hey everyone, first time posting my writing in a specific genre area so I hope you all enjoy it! And to those who have read my previous stories, i'm back and going to try and have a more consistent schedule as I (Admittedly) let writing slip away from me (Hoping my work still entertains at least some of you). But anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful holiday (Be it Christmas, Hanukkah or even just some time away from work/school)! As always, if you have suggestions about this piece or anything (Be it prompts or another piece of media) that you want me to write something about then let me know! I hope you all have a lovely Day/Night

The night sky over Silicon Valley buzzed with drones, a constant, artificial starlight cast down from Damian Sinclair’s floating fleet. Like his mind, they were ever watchful, scanning, analyzing, bending the shadows to reveal every hidden movement. Below, in his quiet glass tower, Damian watched the city pulse to his rhythm—a symphony of algorithms and innovations, all in his image. His reflection in the window seemed ageless, unchanging, a mere echo of his own genetic perfection. Somewhere, in cryogenic storage far beneath his feet, lay millions of embryos, each one a small monument to his genius. For Damian, this was no mere experiment. It was his greatest work—his legacy—crafted cell by cell to outlive them all.

A red button flashed on Damian’s desk. Damian strolled over and leaned into the microphone. “Yes, Tara?”

“Mr. Sinclair,” a cool voice breathed, “They’re ready for you.”

He cracked his neck and marched over to his office’s elevator. A grin slowly crept onto his face on the way down to the Keynote Arena. The doors opened to the sound of thunderous applause coming from behind the thick, silver curtain. Damian grabbed a microphone from a meek assistant, stepped through the curtain, and took in the sight of thousands of his admirers, from industry figures to reporters to the lucky few fans that had coughed up the ten grand it took to secure a seat there.

“My friends, today we are gathered to witness history in the making.” He could see a wave of spectators leaning in on the edge of their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not as a mere innovator or CEO, but as a steward of our collective future. We live in an age of incredible achievement and unparalleled fragility. Our world is more connected, more technologically advanced than ever before—and yet, we’re more vulnerable to global threats: climate catastrophes, pandemics, political instability, rampant infertility. One unfortunate crisis, one moment of oversight, and the diverse tapestry of human achievement could unravel.” He paused, letting the silence stretch as he scanned their faces, leaning in, hungry to know his next words. “And only we—yes, we here—can prevent that.”

Behind him, a giant screen showed a cell failing to undergo meiosis, shriveling in a petri dish. It was replaced by a plump infant smiling down at the audience with icy blue eyes.

“That’s why I created Project Genesis, a comprehensive repository of the human gene pool, a vault designed to secure the full spectrum of humanity’s diversity. In this vault, we will store the DNA of individuals from every background, every corner of the globe. It’s a legacy library, preserving the finest details of who we are for generations to come.

“Imagine a future—a hundred, even a thousand years from now—when unforeseen events have altered the face of the Earth, and there’s a need to restore humanity’s genetic essence. Future generations will look to Project Genesis as the beacon of their heritage, able to rebuild a diverse, vibrant human population with all of our strengths and talents intact.

“This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the survival of humanity’s best qualities. Every artist, every scientist, every teacher, every visionary—we are collecting the DNA of pioneers and everyday heroes alike so that humanity will always have a path forward, no matter what happens.” Images of Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Albert Einstein flashed on the screen. The images faded away to reveal a video feed that panned across the audience.

“Project Genesis isn’t a replacement for human life; it’s a safety net. A precaution. And as your steward, I believe it’s my duty to take this step now. Because if we don’t preserve ourselves, who will?” The crowd roared with excitement.

“You may recall providing a DNA sample with your entry here today. My gift to you all is that each one of you will be part of the first generation of this monumental archive. You will be the mothers and fathers of the future, regardless of the limitations biology may have placed on you.”

A collective gasp escaped from the audience and made way for another round of applause. Damian’s grin grew wider. The crowd didn’t know the first phase was already complete.

Damian walked back behind the curtain and took the elevator back to his office. He pressed a button on his desk and a large monitor lowered down from the ceiling. The news was already buzzing about his announcement. Headlines scrolled across the screen. “Eccentric CEO pledges to save the world.” “Sinclair Enterprises, the nexus between humanity and progress.” “Damian Sinclair champions biodiversity.”

Damian leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Savior of the world” sure had a nice ring to it. It was true, too. At least, it would feel true to the citizens of the world. They would get to feel important and useful, which is as close to a sense of purpose as any mere human could hope for in the modern age.

Damian believed in the power of predictability and perfection. He felt that entropy was an unavoidable eventuality in a chaotic world, but it was his own purpose to harness that random disorder and turn it into a force for good—his own definition of the common good, that is. Human beings were messy, flawed, dangers to themselves and others. Replacing humanity with clones was a necessary evil—and “evil” itself? Such a subjective word.

- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Damian could hardly sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the millions of new beginnings resting safely in cryogenic freezers in the sub-basement. The first trials had been massively successful. All key performance metrics had been easily met, and not a whisper of it had escaped the top-secret lab. He felt the urge to check on his little ones.

Damian had a dozen children scattered across the world, each born via a carefully chosen surrogate. Each surrogate had been handsomely paid to bring progeny into the world, though a couple had turned down the money, as they felt it was a sufficient honor to give Mr. Sinclair the gift of life. He didn’t have relationships with these children. When they came of age, they would receive access to a hefty trust set up in their names. Until then, they were of little use to him. He would bring them out for photo ops to maintain his carefully constructed image of Damian Sinclair, benefactor and father to the modern world.

But these embryos—these were all his. When the time was right to release the rest into the world, he would release his tight grasp on their cryogenic chambers and unleash them throughout the planet—and beyond. Space was the final frontier, and he had already begun populating it with various satellites and probes in anticipation of a global catastrophic event. It was only a matter of time until humans finished wrecking the great planet they had been undeservedly gifted.

Damian pulled back the black silk sheets and stepped into his gilded slippers. He stopped at the wall of windows and took in the sight of his empire. Below, skyscrapers reached up toward his tower up above, obscuring the colonies of humans marching on the drab pavement underneath. Their lives were so… inconsequential. So meaningless until the moment Damian had deigned to give them something to hope for.

He pulled a white lab coat over himself. He hadn’t checked on the babies since the big announcement. Damian padded over to the elevator and clicked the button that led him down to the sub-basement. He felt the air grow colder and his breath crystallize into the air as he descended.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He stepped into the gleaming white corridor and the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the long hall and past the row of heavy metal doors. He stopped with his right foot still hovering over a miniscule speck of dust on the white marble floor. He cursed the cleaning crew under his breath and vowed to relieve someone of their duties the next morning. Damian stepped over the impurity and toward the gold door at the end of the hall, the imperfection still fixed firmly in his mind.

He scanned his lanyard at the door and it slid open to reveal a massive laboratory. Rows of giant freezers stretched through the lab and lined every wall. He turned to a screen next to the door reading -272.5º C and frowned. This would not do. The embryos had to sit at exactly Absolute Zero to be preserved until their deployment. He angrily tapped at the screen to set it to -273.15º C.

Damian strolled through the rows of freezers and held a hand up to the frosty glass. Here laid the next step for humanity. The culmination of his decades of hard work. As he strolled past each cryogenic chamber, his gaze softened to a faint smile. Here lay the next step for humanity, his meticulously designed children, preserved at the very edge of absolute zero. And it was all his. His legacy.

During the day, few people had the privilege of access to this secret unit—only the top scientists and trusted engineers he had hand-picked. During the night, the place was empty. This was his sanctuary, where he could shout his dreams and lofty ambitions out to no one but his army of embryos.

Reaching out, he pressed a palm to the frosty glass, whispering to the embryos, “One day, little ones. One day, you’ll have the world. And when you do… it will be my world.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair leaned back in his leather chair, the faint hum of the supercomputers below vibrating through his feet. The applause from the keynote still echoed faintly in his mind, a distant roar of validation that never quite filled the void. Validation was fleeting; progress was eternal. He opened a holographic interface on his desk, scrolling through the latest updates on Project Genesis. Every metric exceeded expectations, and yet, the numbers brought him no comfort. They never did.

Sinclair’s gaze drifted to the skyline, the city below sparkling like stars on a clear night. Each light represented a piece of his empire: the research labs, the data centers, the production facilities. To the world, they were monuments to innovation. To him, they were merely tools.

His mind wandered to his early years, back when humanity’s chaos still held sway over his life. He thought of the polluted skies of his childhood, the food shortages that wracked his small town, the global leaders paralyzed by inaction. He had watched his neighbors struggle, their lives consumed by forces beyond their control. They had been good people, but goodness had not saved them. Progress would have.

Damian’s ancestors believed in hard work and fairness, values he came to see as quaint and obsolete. By the time he was 20, he’d abandoned their ideals entirely and joined his father’s empire. His father was an unkind man, a man who shared his beliefs about how humanity had to be reined in and controlled for its own good. The future wasn’t for the weak, the fair, or the sentimental. It was for those willing to bend the world to their will.

Damian came from a long line of entrepreneurs, all starting with a stake in various diamond mines throughout the world. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. They were the ones responsible for the advertising campaign that led billions of women to expect their partners to get down on one knee and present them with a sparkling diamond as proof of their never-ending love. It was pure manipulation of the masses, forcing hordes of young men into debt to prop up the Sinclair Mining Company. Today, the mines were still in operation and kept running with the blood of the poor who had no other choice but to risk their lives and limbs to dig shiny rocks out of the ground.

But the Sinclairs today were more often known for their tech empire, which had been in the making since the dawn of the first computer. They were known for bringing the digital era to the public, from the personal computer to the smartphone and then artificial intelligence engines. Now, it was nearly impossible to find a corner of the world that the Sinclairs had not helped mold. They built hospitals operated by artificial intelligence, lobbied hard with governments around the world to get favorable national contracts, and gradually built the modern skyline.

Damian’s hands rested on the smooth arms of the chair as the hologram shifted to a live feed from the Genesis Vault. Rows upon rows of cryogenic chambers stood in perfect formation, bathed in the sterile glow of LED lights. Inside each chamber was an embryo, genetically optimized and meticulously crafted. His legacy, cell by cell.

A sharp pang of satisfaction coursed through him. These embryos weren’t just his children; they were his ideals incarnate. Their genes carried the essence of his intellect, his resilience, his vision. They were humanity’s next step, freed from the bonds of randomness, entropy, and inefficiency.

“Entropy,” he muttered under his breath, the word bitter on his tongue. He tapped a control, zooming in on a specific chamber. “The enemy of order. The enemy of progress.”

If the trials succeeded, this technology would accelerate humanity’s evolution exponentially. They would be freed from the shackles of natural human error and propelled into a brighter future, a future that was shaped by Sinclair’s hand. Widespread trials had been in progress for decades now, but full execution of the Sinclair Protocol was still in the works. There were still some kinks to work out to ensure that the subjects’ behavior was programmed as intended.

Sinclair opened another interface, this one displaying global headlines. Economic instability in Europe. Protests in South America. Rising infertility rates worldwide. Each headline was another reason why humanity needed him. The chaos outside reinforced the necessity of his work. Without him, the world would burn itself out in a matter of decades.

His public narrative was carefully crafted to position him as humanity’s steward. “Damian Sinclair, the savior of the species,” the headlines proclaimed. The public didn’t need to know the details, the uncomfortable truths about the calculated elimination of diversity. They couldn’t understand.

He skimmed a report on fertility clinics run by his subsidiary, LifeBridge Labs. Their recruitment program was running ahead of schedule. Thousands of couples, desperate for children, had unknowingly contributed their participation to Project Genesis. Sinclair smirked. “A simple trade: their hope for my future.”

For all his confidence in the project, Sinclair wasn’t blind to the risks. Human beings, even in their perfected forms, carried the seeds of rebellion. He’d read the reports of minor irregularities among the early clones—flashes of independence, moments of unpredictability. It was a weakness he couldn’t tolerate.

He glanced at the data on DS-A015, a clone stationed in the cognitive testing division. The logs showed subtle deviations from expected behavior. Nothing dramatic, but enough to trigger his concern. He made a note to have the subject’s parameters adjusted. “Perfection requires vigilance,” he reminded himself.

The door to his office slid open, and Tara, his chief strategist, stepped inside. She carried a sleek tablet, her professional demeanor failing to mask the underlying adoration. At this point, Sinclair practically expected to see it on his underlings’ faces. After all, why wouldn’t they revere their fearless leader? They should be thanking him for all he did for the planet.

“The Vault expansion is ahead of schedule,” she reported. “And the AI deployment in South Asia is complete. We’ve seen a 22% reduction in energy consumption since the rollout.”

“Good,” Sinclair replied, his voice measured. “And the behavioral imprint trials?”

Tara hesitated. “We’re seeing… some anomalies. Minor deviations in cognitive patterns. Nothing to suggest instability, but enough to warrant further observation.”

Sinclair leaned forward. “Define ‘anomalies.’”

“Certain subjects are exhibiting faint traces of independent decision-making. It’s likely just noise in the data, but we’re running diagnostics to be sure.”

“Run them again,” he ordered. “There’s no margin for error.”

Tara lowered her eyes and nodded at the floor. After she left, Sinclair activated the wall screen, filling his office with projections of the future. The simulations depicted sprawling cities powered by clean energy, genetically engineered crops thriving in barren soils, and a society free from war and poverty. Many of the human figures in these images shared his cold blue gaze, like staring into a glacier.

He watched the simulations with a mixture of pride and melancholy. The final stage of the world he was building would never be his to inhabit. It wasn’t about him, not really. At least that’s what he told himself. It was about the legacy he would leave behind—a humanity perfected, freed from the chaos of its origins.

Sinclair poured himself a glass of whiskey, staring at the glowing city below. He thought of the sacrifices he’d made, the lies he’d told, the lives he’d manipulated. “History will judge me,” he said aloud, raising the glass. “But history doesn’t build itself. Progress demands a price.”

His android assistant stepped stiffly forward from its position against the wall. “Right you are, sir. And we thank you for your courage.”

As midnight approached, Sinclair received a notification on his wrist terminal. The Vault expansion team required his approval to proceed to Phase Two. He descended into the sub-basement, where the cold air nipped at his face. The sight of the Vault always filled him with quiet awe—a tangible representation of his life’s work.

He stopped in front of one of the Vault’s chambers, placing a hand on the glass. “You’ll finish what I started,” he whispered. “When the world is ready, you’ll show them the way.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair entered the executive elevator at precisely 7:00 a.m., as he did every morning. The elevator, a custom-built capsule of glass and steel, provided an uninterrupted view of the city below. For most, the sight would have been a moment of inspiration or serenity. For Sinclair, it was a daily reminder of his dominion.

He tapped his wrist terminal, bringing up the morning’s agenda in a holographic display. Every second of his day had been meticulously planned by his assistant, Tara, under his explicit instructions. Nothing was left to chance. Efficiency wasn’t just a goal—it was the foundation of his empire.

The boardroom at Sinclair Enterprises was a cathedral of innovation. Its walls were embedded with dynamic displays showcasing real-time data from every department: production metrics, R&D updates, and global market trends. Sinclair strode into the room, his tailored, deep blue suit a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the room.

“Good morning,” he began, his tone curt. The team of department heads nodded in unison, their laptops glowing in front of them. Tara stood at his side, tablet in hand, ready to support his every command.

“Let’s begin with the Vault expansion,” he said, eyes scanning the room.

A man with thinning hair and nervous hands stood to present. “The expansion is progressing as scheduled. However, we encountered a minor delay in—”

“Stop,” Sinclair interrupted, his voice slicing through the air. “Delays are unacceptable. Define ‘minor.’”

The man fumbled with his words. “A… shipment of cryogenic units was delayed due to a logistics error. We’ve already—”

“An error,” Sinclair repeated, his gaze narrowing. “Do you understand what this project represents? What’s at stake? Logistics errors are not ‘minor.’ They’re cracks in the foundation.”

The man paled. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’ll ensure it’s fixed,” Sinclair said coldly. “Today.”

“Today? Y-yes, of course, sir,” the man stuttered.

After the meeting, Sinclair returned to his office, a sprawling glass enclosure at the top of the tower. He stood by the window, watching the city pulse with life. The faint sound of drones patrolling the skies provided a constant reminder of the control he’d imposed on this world—his world. His desk lit up with a notification: a coding anomaly detected in one of the AI systems overseeing the Vault. Sinclair’s jaw tightened. He pressed a button on his desk, summoning the engineer responsible to his office.

Within minutes, a young man in his early twenties arrived, his face flushed with anxiety. He carried a tablet, clutching it like a shield. “Mr. Sinclair,” the engineer stammered, “you wanted to see me?”

Sinclair didn’t look up from the holographic display in front of him. “Your name.”

“Adrian Stevens, sir.”

“Adrian,” Sinclair said, testing the name as if deciding its worth. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I—I believe it’s about the anomaly in the AI system, sir.” Of course, Adrian didn’t know what exactly the AI system was meant to govern. He was fed a story about it controlling general company operations.

Sinclair finally looked at him, his piercing gaze enough to make Adrian shift uncomfortably. “Not ‘anomaly.’ Say the word.”

“Error, sir.”

“Correct.” Sinclair leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Errors are unacceptable. Do you know why?”

Adrian swallowed hard. “Because they disrupt progress.”

“Disrupt?” Sinclair’s voice was a low growl. “They sabotage it. They undermine the vision, the future. This ‘error’—this lapse in your oversight—could jeopardize the integrity of the entire company.”

Adrian’s face turned crimson. “I—I understand, sir. I’ve already started debugging the system and—”

“Stop,” Sinclair snapped. He stood, towering over Adrian. “I don’t want excuses. I want results. You have two hours to fix this. If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, sir.” Adrian nodded rapidly, clutching his tablet as if it were a lifeline.

“Dismissed.”

As Adrian hurried out of the office, Sinclair sat down, his jaw tightening. He despised inefficiency, but what he hated even more was incompetence. He made a mental note to monitor Adrian’s progress closely.

Later that morning, Sinclair descended to the primary laboratory floor. The lab buzzed with activity, a symphony of whirring machines and hushed conversations. Engineers in white coats moved like clockwork, their movements precise and synchronized. As Sinclair entered, the room fell silent. Conversations stopped and heads turned. His presence was a force field of authority, demanding attention without words.

“Dr. Mendez,” Sinclair called.

A middle-aged scientist with graying hair approached, his expression laced with caution. “Mr. Sinclair, welcome.”

“Walk me through the imprint trials,” Sinclair ordered.

Dr. Mendez led him to a workstation where rows of data scrolled across a holographic display. “The latest batch of memory-echo testing shows promising results. The imprints are integrating seamlessly into the subjects’ neural pathways, with a 94% retention rate of targeted experiences.”

“Six percent failure,” Sinclair muttered as he turned up his nose. “Unacceptable.”

“It’s a vast improvement over previous iterations,” Mendez offered, his voice hinting at fear.

“‘Improvement’ is not perfection,” Sinclair said. “Every failure is a liability. Identify the outliers and eliminate the variables.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sinclair continued his tour of the lab, inspecting every detail. He paused at a station where a junior engineer was calibrating a device. The engineer’s hands trembled slightly under Sinclair’s watchful eye.

“Steady hands,” Sinclair said sharply. “Precision is everything.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineer murmured, focusing intently on her task.

Back in his office, Sinclair reviewed the day’s reports. Every department was a cog in the vast machine he had built, and he monitored each one relentlessly. His assistants knew better than to bring him anything less than complete transparency. A notification appeared on his desk interface: Adrian Stevens had resolved the coding error in the Vault’s AI. Sinclair reluctantly allowed himself a brief nod of approval before noting the next task. Adrian would not receive praise—results were expected, not celebrated.

As the day wound down, Sinclair poured himself a glass of scotch. The skyline was painted in shades of gold and crimson, the city below bathed in the glow of the setting sun. He thought of the embryos in the Vault, suspended in a state of perfect preservation. They were his legacy, his solution to the chaos of humanity. And yet, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts. Was perfection truly attainable? Could he ever trust the system he had created to function without him? Sinclair dismissed the thoughts, taking a long sip of his drink. Doubt was a weakness he could not afford.

---------------------

Note—This is a full novel I've written that I'm working on getting a literary agent for. Please message me if you're interested.

"Our people made that choice, the choice to go to Sameness. Before my time, before the previous time, back and back and back. We relinquished color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences."__Lois Lowry, The Giver

The small single-person capsule sliced it's way across the cold, soundless, vacume of space. Inside its cockpit a young man of about 24, Scott Hughes was boiling over with excitement. He was approaching the goal of his starry excursion!

It was designated XP3609 in the boring scientific manner; to everybody else including Hughes it was called Neo Terra. The planet appeared Earth-like so someone was needed to explore it. Scott Hughes jumped at the chance.

Neo Terra, like Earth, was the third planet from its sun. This fascinated the Earthling who wondered if The Almighty made every habbital planet the third from its sun. This train of thought of course assumed the planet was indeed inhabited. He certainly believed it could be.

There were those who believed it might not be. Heck there were still those who believed space was fake and that the Earth was flat. At this moment there were people sitting on the couch at home who were utterly convinced that Scott's entire profession was a sham cooked up in a movie studio by shadowy forces.

The sudden wailing of a sensor brought the space man's attention to a small screen to his left. Three boggies became visible. "Hot Dog!" he exclaimed as he ran a hand through his blond feuxhawk.

He looked out of the metallic cigar's bubble canopy and saw triangular, black objects speeding toward him from near the planet's atmosphere. From the nose of each there was a yellowish flash and then the poor spacecraft was buffeted.

The astronaut realized with a sense of dread that he'd been fired upon! The spaceship became a missile as it dipped downward and plummeted through the planet's atmosphere turning into a scorching hot projectile. Hughes made the sign of the Cross and blacked out.

Hughes regained consciousness to the sound of a dozen beeping, wailing, alarms. He shut them off so he could think. Right now he felt like Fred Flintstone after a long day at the quarry. His hand retrieved a cellphone looking device from a pouch on his spacesuit. He pressed a button and was enveloped in blue beam of light.

He looked down at the read out and was relieved. He'd be sore for a while but had suffered no serious external or internal injuries. The next phase would have been to launch a probe and see if he could breath this world's air but the ship was so mangled the hatch wouldn't open and it took great effort for Scott to open the ship's canopy and when he did tiny fractures formed a network in the glass.

The radio was shot too so no phoning home. With a great sigh the spaceman exited his derelict ship and threw on his heat resistant, orange poncho. Only now did he discover something amiss with his vision that the med-scan didn't register. He could see just fine except there was no color. He felt like he was in a sci-fi movie serial from the 1940's. Everything was in black and white. He'd have to wait until later to figure out what happened to his peepers. He saw a civilization of some sort in the distance. He'd have to make his way there.

He didn't get the chance, for a skiff of some sort zoomed to the crash site and he was grabbed by armored humanoids. He was shocked by this and also that he could understand them. "Farbo-1547 reporting in. We have the shades bearer."

"The what now?" A big beefy hand smacked him to the metallic floor the skiff. He took it as signal to shut up.

Many of his hours later Scott sat alone in a darkened prison cell within the Ministry of Planetary Unity, this world's religious order & governing body. He'd been taken prisoner and was hauled before the beaurcratic clergy. He learned then that his vision was perfectly fine. The words of that hooded council still boomed in his ears.

"Your eyes do not decive you. We rid this world of color long ago, Outworlder. Colors made things look desirable to others and this caused wars and strife.

"If all looks the same then nothing is more desirable than another, thus no one covets what he cannot have. No man is ostracized because he looks different than another man. In this we've eliminated racial division and greed."

So appreance was not the only thing he had in common with the denizens of Neo Terra. They had similar issues throughout their history and were just as eager to make everyone forget them.

"But how did you erase color from this world?"

"We did not erase it! We simply made it unseeable. Our Wisemen constructed a great platform just outside the boundaries of our world's sky it allows our master star to beam upon our world without it creating color.

"Such was the Will of The Cosmic Master."

"Was it his will or the will of a political hierarchy of religious zealots?"

That was the question that had caused him to be dragged down here and beaten until his bones nearly broke. He was a heretic and blasphemer. He was the Shades bearer. This was a universal label given to anyone from "the color worlds."

Scott Hughes got the uneasy feeling that these beings didn't last long. It was plain the Ministry was corrupted or at least sorely misguided. Colors were the devil & anyone who might introduce the concept back into play were demons. Not even the workers at the station above were aloud to see color; they wore lenses that prevented them from doing so.

Scott recalled reading a story one time, HP Lovecraft's The Color Out of Space. it was about a purple fog that corrupted all it touched. That is what he was to these people.

Foot steps on the hard Rock floor ended his contemplation. "Who's there?"

"Chribissa, Daughter of Holy Jailer Gruvod. I come bearing your evening meal, OffWorlder."

She slid it through a slot in the door. He was happy he couldn't see what color it was. "Is it true you are from a world of color?" she asked, her voice inquisitive.

"Yes."

"It must be dreadful."

"No. Color is wonderful. It's so wonderful that we named a fruit after it's color, Orange."

"How can something wicked be so wonderful?"

Yikes. That was a question that cut deep. Scott saw in his mind the first ever woman on Earth sinking her teeth into a piece of fruit that was off limits.

"Color is not wicked, Chribissa. It was created by God to be enjoyed! He even used a prism of colors to seal a pact with an ancient man on my World."

"Who is God? He must be truly evil if he created colors."

"I think your people call him the Cosmic Master."

She grew indignant,"Cease this blasphemy at once. The Cosmic Master willed for colors to be taken away that all might be unified! He wouldn't will it gone if he created it!"

"Haven't you at least wondered what you look like? In color I mean. What complexion is your skin? What hair shade do you possess. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No! That is vanity. I'll not be swayed from my faith by a shades bearer!"

She stormed off and Scott tasted his food and discovered it was agreeable.

That night he thought about the irony of his surname, Hughes which sound like hues. Yes! Surely this was no accident. He knew what he must do. He also knew it would mean him giving up his life. His Savior had dine that for him centuries ago so could he be expected to do less?

Days later he managed to escape on his way to final sentencing and he hijacked one of the military craft. He was piloting the alien tech on pure instinct. He wondered as the craft lifted up if was one of the trio that shot him down.

The ship soared into the sky like a raptor bird in flight. It didn't take long for others to pursue but he out paced them. His face was grim and his teeth were gritted. He pierced the stratosphere and saw the space platform he had come to destroy! It was a marvel. It was basically the galactic equivalent to a black and white camera. He rushed forward and crashed into the platform. It exploded into oblivion carrying him and the Ministry's blind devotees into the Afterlife.

Down below color returned to Neo Terra for the first time in centuries. It nearly blinded the inhabitants but their eyes soon adjusted. For 23 Earth minutes the entire planet was silent.

It is the nature of things that when you give someone something they've been deprived of for so long they usually lash out at those who deprived them of it in the first place. Such was the fate Benito Mussolini and such was the fate of the Ministry of Planetary Unity. Their followers turned on them like starving junk yard dogs and red was reintroduced to that planet via blood. Away from the chaos of the burning temple a certain jailer's daughter saw herself reflected in blue pool of water surrounded by green gras s. Her skin was milky and her hair the color of the night sky and she cried out, "I'M BEAUTIFUL! I AM BEAUTIFUL!"

Shows here, the new janitor was given a key access card to the very fucking off limits room the device to go into the past is.

How he even managed to cross engineer it and make it back to our time all while finishing his days work all those times is...

"What was he even doing?

Well, of all the things one might imagine a janitor to go back for

It appears the vast majority of his travels were to the Renaissance period

And

To the earliest days of pure human caveman Earth right after we officially were human and not boneheads.

He did accidentally leave behind a couple matchbooks in the machine so

"My god!

Is that!?"

Yes, him eating the ass of various women from each of these periods usually seducing them with fires

All of whom I will add, not white. Interesting seeings as he's an albino irishmen.

"Who cares about that, he's going back to before showering or shaving was invented and-"

He does also have the whitest smile I've ever seen. Do you equate that to why that smile of his shines like a brand new rim job?

"Which part? The part of him eating ass or-"

No the it being exclusively not white women because -

"Ah, you only date white women and your smile-"

Well not exclusively I just happen to be, I think, what only white women desire and

"YES I think his smile is so radiant because of his predisposition of enjoying eating the ass of exclusively prehistoric women who are outside of his own race"