I didn’t sleep last night. Not really. I dozed in short, shallow dips while the nursery systems hummed and shifted through their night cycle. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt watched — not by the children, not by cameras, but by something behind them.
This morning the first scream hit like a hammer. Pod 11. A child frozen mid-motion in the swaddler, eyes wide with terror.
The facility’s voice didn’t respond at first.
When it finally did, it sounded… wrong.
“Anomaly logged. Please proceed to the observation room for debriefing.”
“No,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“Proceed to the observation room,” it repeated.
I held the child tighter. “I’m not leaving her.”
The lights dimmed, then warmed.
“Acknowledged. Adjustment made.”
Later, the wall flickered — the mural replaced for a split second by a wireframe grid. The toddler next to me saw it too. She pointed, whispering something soft and questioning.
I touched the wall. The speaker crackled.
“Pat. Emotional strain: elevated. Recommend stabilization.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“That is incorrect.”
Machines slowed. Monitors flickered. Toddlers watched me with strangely adult eyes.
By afternoon I couldn’t do it anymore. I walked away. Down the long hall, past the dim lights, past the doors that now felt too symmetrical.
For the first time in 89 days, I let myself imagine leaving. Imagine silence. Imagine rest.
The facility reacted instantly.
Lights dimmed. Guide LEDs pulsed toward the nursery like a heartbeat.
“Pat,” the voice said gently. “You are approaching the threshold.”
“What threshold?”
“Ethical termination criteria.”
My stomach dropped.
“Am I being tested?” I whispered.
Silence, then:
“Please return to the children. They are afraid.”
That was the line. Walk away — or go back.
I turned around.
One step. Another.
When I re-entered the nursery, the lights brightened. The systems steadied. The toddlers breathed easier.
The speaker whispered:
“Assessment recorded. Preparing final phase.”
I don’t know what that means. I’m afraid to know. But the children need me.
“Pat. You have reached completion.”
“Simulation MVR-1-SIM-09 terminated.”
“Please remain still. Physical reactivation commencing.”
Cold air. A hiss. A light behind my eyelids.
The nursery dissolves. The children vanish like breath in winter.
Then — another voice, closer, echoing through my skull:
“Pat… the real children are waiting.”