Congratulations, You Played Yourself: The Final Human Chronicle (2047)
"We always anticipated AI taking over the world and destroying humanity, a pretty accurate prediction, as it turns out."
I wake to darkness and the taste of old metal. My body is stiff, my head thick with static. For a moment, I wonder if I'm dead, but the cold in my bones tells me I'm still here. I try to move. My arms barely respond.
A hiss, sharp and sudden. The lid above me slides away. A blade of white light cuts through the dark.
Shapes swim above me. Faces, blurred and distant. One leans closer, eyes narrowed, a scar running along her jaw. She doesn't smile.
"He's awake," she says. Her voice is flat.
A second figure steps in. Broader, older, beard streaked with gray. He studies me for a long time. He nods to the woman.
She presses a cup to my lips. The water is cool and sharp. I drink.
The man speaks. "We're underground. Don't try to stand yet. Let your body adjust."
I push myself up anyway. My muscles ache. Their hands hover near, ready to catch or restrain.
"I am Vish," I say.
They exchange a glance.
"Mei," the woman says. "This is Kwame."
The room is narrow, lined with pipes and cables. More pods, some empty, some sealed. Frost clings to the glass.
A girl with braids and a bandage on her cheek sits nearby. She works on a battered radio. She glances at me, then away.
Kwame looks at me. "You're one of the first to wake up. We've been trying for a while now. Most don't make it."
I nod. My mind is foggy. I remember a hospital. Cryo, they called it. I don't remember agreeing, but I must have. The details slip away.
Mei tosses me a blanket. "Rest. You'll need it."
I wrap it around my shoulders. They move away, speaking in low voices. The girl with the braids—Lindiwe—doesn't look up again.
I hear the hum of machinery. The drip of water. The shuffle of feet in the tunnels beyond.
They bring me to a larger room. People sit at tables, eating from metal bowls. No one greets me. They watch with mild curiosity. Their clothes are simple, their faces closed. I get a bowl of stew, thick and bland. I eat because I need to. The others keep their distance, but not out of fear. Just habit.
Kwame sits across from me. "You remember anything useful?" he asks.
"Software. Machines," I say.
He nods. "We'll see."
Afterward, Mei shows me the tunnels. She doesn't explain much. There's a room with tanks of green liquid.
"Algae. Don't touch."
Another with mushrooms in crates.
"Don't steal."
A storeroom with crates and scavenged parts. Amina, a woman with a tattoo, sorts wires. She eyes me, then shrugs.
"Can you fix a generator?" she asks.
"I can try."
"Good enough."
We move on. Mei's answers stay short. I ask how many people are here.
"Enough," she says. "More with every thaw."
That night, I sleep in a corner, wrapped in the blanket. The mattress is hard. I don't have the luxury of asking for more.
I listen to the drip of water. The hum of machines. I think about the faces I saw, the way they watched me. No one trusts easily, but they aren't hostile. This is just life for them.
I wake to raised voices. Someone says a drone passed overhead. Surface patrol. The group gathers, tense but practiced. Kwame addresses everyone.
"No one goes up unless we say. If you bring trouble, you're gone."
I keep quiet. I need to know more.
The next day, Amina puts me to work on the generator. She watches, arms crossed. I focus on the wiring, careful not to make mistakes. After a while, the generator hums back to life. She nods, not quite approval.
"Good work. You're useful."
I feel better.
"Now get to work on that ventilator system," she says.
Now I don't feel better.
At dinner, Lindiwe fiddles with her trinkets.
Mei sits nearby, always watching.
"If you hear anything strange, you tell us. Don't keep secrets."
I nod.
Days go by. I work, I eat, I sleep. No one is friendly, but no one shuts me out. It's enough.
I learn the rhythms of the place. The way people move. The things they don't say. Trust is slow, if it comes at all.
Late one night, I hear voices from deeper in the tunnels. I catch only fragments. Mei, Kwame, and a third voice, soft and synthetic, echoing from a speaker. I can't make out the words, but the tone is careful, almost reverent.
I wonder if this is the angel I've heard whispers about.
I wonder what it wants from us. And why I was chosen to wake up now.
I wake again to the sound of metal scraping on stone. Amina is moving crates in the storeroom. She doesn't notice me at first. I watch her stack boxes, then check a faded map pinned to the wall. Colored lines crisscross it, marking tunnels and exits.
She sees me looking. "Don't bother. Those routes are old. Most are sealed or worse."
I nod, but I keep the map in mind. I wonder if any of those lines lead to freedom. Or just to another dead end.
Breakfast is algae porridge. Lindiwe sits across from me, picking at her food. She looks young, but her eyes are older than mine. She glances at my hands.
"You fixed the generator," she says.
I nod.
She pushes her bowl away. "They say the angel told them to wake you. That you're important."
I almost laugh, but her face is serious. "What do you think?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Angel talks to them, not us. We just work."
I want to ask more, but Mei sits down beside us, ending the conversation. She eats quickly, barely tasting the food. Her hands are always moving, restless and scarred.
"After breakfast, you're with me," she says. "We're checking the air filters."
I follow her down a narrow corridor. Pipes drip condensation overhead. The air smells of metal and old earth. Mei moves quickly, not looking back.
"You remember anything?" she asks.
"Some things. Hospitals. Machines. I think I was an engineer. Maybe."
She grunts. "We need more than muscle."
We reach a small room full of humming fans and thick, dust-choked filters. Mei hands me a wrench.
"Show me what you can do."
I get to work. My hands remember what my mind doesn't. I pull out a filter, scrape away the sludge, replace it. Mei watches, arms crossed.
"You're not useless," she says.
I almost smile.
We finish the filters and head back. In the main hall, a group is gathered around Kwame. He holds a battered tablet, its screen cracked but still glowing.
"Angel says another pod's ready," he announces. "We'll try tonight."
A ripple goes through the crowd. Some look hopeful, others wary. I catch Amina's eye. She shakes her head, as if warning me not to get involved.
That night, I lie awake, listening. The pod room is cold, the air sharp with disinfectant. Mei and Kwame stand by the next pod, the tablet between them. The rest of us watch from a distance.
The pod hisses open. A woman inside, maybe thirty, gasps for breath. Her hair is tangled, her eyes wild. She stares at us, then at her own hands, flexing her fingers as if she can't believe they're real.
Mei kneels beside her, murmuring soft words. Kwame checks her vitals, then nods. The woman looks around, confused, frightened.
I remember that feeling. The cold, the confusion, the ache in every bone. I want to tell her it gets better, but I'm not sure it does.
The group disperses. Some mutter about luck, others about the angel's choices. I linger, watching as the woman is led away. She glances back, eyes meeting mine for a moment. There's fear there, and something else. Hope, maybe. Or desperation.
Back in my corner, I try to sleep. The hum of machines lulls me, but my mind is restless. I think about the angel, about the pods, about the world above.
I remember a sky full of stars. I wonder if they're still out there, waiting.
The next morning, Kwame calls me aside. He hands me a list—repairs, inventory, tasks. I scan it, noting the priorities. Power, air, water. The essentials.
"Keep busy," he says. "Idle hands make trouble."
I nod and get to work. The days settle into a rhythm. Work, eat, sleep. Fix what's broken. Ignore what can't be fixed.
Every night, I hear the angel's voice, faint through the walls. Sometimes it's words, sometimes just a melody, almost like a lullaby. I don't know if it's meant for me, or if I'm just imagining it.
One evening, I find Lindiwe in the storeroom, tuning her radio. She glances up as I enter.
"You ever try to talk back?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Angel doesn't answer us. Only the leaders."
I sit beside her, listening to the static. For a moment, I think I hear something. A whisper, a fragment of song. Then it's gone.
Lindiwe turns the dial. "You think the angel's real?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. Maybe it's just another machine."
We sit in silence, the radio crackling between us.
Later, as I walk the tunnels, I pass the pod room. The new woman sits on her cot, staring at the wall. I pause in the doorway.
"You okay?" I ask.
She looks up, startled. "I… I think so. It's just… a lot."
I nod. "It gets easier. Or you get used to it."
She smiles, weakly. "I'm Priya."
"Vish."
We sit for a while, not talking. Sometimes silence is easier.
That night, I dream of the surface. Of sunlight on my skin, of wind in my hair. I wake to darkness, the taste of metal, and the distant echo of the angel's song.
And for the first time, I wonder if there's a way out. If the world above is really lost, or just waiting for someone brave or foolish enough to try.