I have never seen the sun.
There is only the Humbuzz of lights flickering above and around.
It comes from everywhere and nowhere, a low, metallic thrumming beneath the floors, through the walls, and inside the bones. It is the sound of the facility and the complex breathing. Of machines dreaming. Of something far deeper, waiting.
I wake in the same white room, same white bed, same white gown. The ceiling is smooth, seamless, like poured bone. A single light panel glows above, too bright to stare at, too dim to light the corners.
I am not allowed a mirror.
I know what I look like. I've seen it in other's eyes. A face that could belong to everyone and nobody at the same time. Hair the color of dust. Eyes which don't reflect light. A body built for function, not identity.
I am the Fourth Child.
That is all I am.
There are others. The First, Second, Third. The Fifth, Sixth, Seventh. We are not friends, nor are we enemies. We are variables in the same equation, each waiting for our turn to be solved and implemented.
I see them sometimes, during our training or Resonance hour. We stand in a circle, bare feet on cold tile, arms at our sides. No one speaks. The researchers watch from behind glass, wearing white coats and blank faces. Their eyes move like the arms of a clock, precise, measuring, timed.
Today, during Resonance hour, the Seventh Child looked at me.
That was wrong.
We are not supposed to directly look at each other.
But they did. Their head turned too far, too slow, or maybe just instinctually. Their mouth didn't move, but I heard their words in my skull, sharp and burning.
"You feel it too, don't you? The story is fraying."
I didn't answer. I don't know how to speak in that way, not in that state. My tongue and mind are heavy, while my thoughts aren't mine.
Later, in the dream tank, I saw it again.
A vast, eyeless face pressed against the glass.
It had no features, only a surface; smooth, wet, stretching beyond the edges of my perception. It was not looking at me. It was looking through me, into something behind my eyes, deep inside and beyond me.
I tried to scream. No sounds came from my throat. Only the Hum, deeper now, vibrating in my teeth. When I woke up, my hands were clenched into my blanket over the rails of my bed. My nails had broken. Blood had seeped into the sheets, forming small, dark red letters.
I wiped them away before the nurses came.
They check on us every two hours. They scan our vitals, record our brainwaves, and collect our urine. But they never touch us. Never make eye contact.
One of them, I call them all the attendants, left a tablet on my tray today. It was supposed to be my meal log, but for a moment, the screen flickered out of my profile and displayed the admin menu.
I saw a file name: "0th_Protocol_Redacted.pdf"
Then it was gone. Now I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the door. It has no handle. It opens only from the outside. A red light blinks above it once every ten seconds. I count them. I have counted 3,872 blinks since I woke this cycle.
I don't know how long I've been here.
But I don't know if "here" is real
But I know this:
Something is coming.
Something is awake.
And it knows my number.
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Medical report Excerpt —— Subject #4
(Found in Attendant #3's open terminal during Neural Calibration. I read it while they adjusted the electrodes on my head. I memorized it. I won't forget.)
Subject #4 - Cycle 17
Age: 17.8
Height: 177 cm
Weight: 58 kg
Cognitive resonance: 0.63
Dream activity: Elevated theta waves during REM. Subject exhibits signs of lucid somnambulism.
Memory integrity: 87%
Narrative Awareness Index: 0.04
Previous iterations: 4.3 terminated after vocalization of non-linguistic phenomes. 4.2 terminated after self enucleation. 4.1 disappeared during sub-level 9 exposure.
Recommendation: Continue standard protocol. Monitor for linguistic regression.
End of report.
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I don't dream like other people.
At least, I don't think I do.
The Dream Tank is not a tank at all. It's a room with black walls and a chair with straps. They strap me in, attach sensors to my temples, and flood the room with a constant low frequency sound that makes my inner ears and teeth vibrate.
Then they leave.
The dreams come.
They are not my dreams.
I walk through cities made of bone. I stand in grass fields that sing when the wind blows. I hear voices speaking in perfect union, reciting numbers or phrases that stretch into infinity.
Last night, I stood in a cathedral with no ceiling.
Not one I could see, at least.
Above me was not sky, but flesh, a vast, pulsing membrane veined with gold. Faces formed in it, opened their mouths, and dissolved before they could speak.
Then I saw her.
She was crucified on a cross of red, her body too large to comprehend. Her skin was white as milk. Her arms were thick, muscular, stretched wide enough to hold the world.
Her legs were gone.
In place, dozens of human sized legs sprouted from the amputated stump, twitching, kicking, grasping at the air.
Her head had no hair.
No nose.
No mouth.
Just a smooth surface with a triangle at the center.
And eyes.
Seven of them.
Four on one side, three on the other.
They were closed.
But I knew she was watching.
I tried to run.
My feet wouldn't move.
The Hum grew louder.
Then a voice, not in my ears, but in my mind, in my blood, in the space between atoms:
"Mci ofs bch o zws. Mci ofs o gsbhsbqs wb o ghcfm hvoh vog ozfsorm pssb kfwhhsb."
I woke up.
I was still in the chair.
But my hands were covered in blood.
I had scratched the words into my palms.
"SHE IS DREAMING"
I washed them off before the Attendants returned.
They didn't notice.
Or they didn't care.
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Final Entry — Cycle #4.17
I found a photograph today.
It was tucked inside a maintenance panel near Sub-Level 3. I shouldn't have been there. I don't remember how I got there.
The photo was old. Faded, black and white.
It showed seven children.
They stood in a line.
Us.
First through Seventh.
But there was someone else.
At the end.
A figure blurred, out of focus.
Labelled in handwritten scripture:
"0."
The photo was dated:
"Day of Origin."
I don't know what that means.
But I know this.
There was no Day of Origin.
There was only this day.
And this day.
And this day.
And this day
And this day.
And this day.
And this day.
And this day.
And this day.
There is no sun here.
There is only the Hum.
And it is getting louder.
And it is getting closer.
And it is learning my name.
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Observation Log - The others
(Written during quiet hour. Hidden in my mattress lining.)
The First Child:
Never blinks.Stands perfectly still during resonance.Speaks in perfect unison with researchers, even when they whisper.Skin is slightly translucent under UV light.Veins pulse in reverse.When I passed them in the hall, their shadow didn't match their movement.
The Second Child:
Hair is white, but not from age. From absence, or something else. Breathes through their skin. I saw it once, their chest didn't rise.During dream tank session #12, they began to glow. Soft, golden light from within their body.Vanished for 37 hours on the 521st cycle. Returned with no explanation. Smelled like something sweet burnt.
The Third Child:
Their eyes are blurred, like fogged glass. But they see everything.Knows things they shouldn't. Once said my name aloud. I don't have a name.Carries a small stone in their pocket. It's not from this world. I've seen it in my dreams.Whispers to the walls. The walls respond.
The Fifth Child:
The only one who seems normal.Tried to talk to me once. "You seem different," they said.I didn't answer. But I felt something. A spark. A connection.Later, I saw them crying in the hygiene room. No mist was running. Their tears were black.
The Sixth and Seventh Children:
Twins. But not really.Move in perfect sync, even when separated.Sometimes, when they think noone is looking, they merge. Their shadows become one. Their breaths become one.Once, I saw them standing back to back, whispering the same sentence in reverse.When they finished, the air smelt burnt.The Seventh Child looked at me today. They shouldn't have done that.
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