"Good morning, sir!"
A pleasant female voice made the man open his eyes fully. Above him loomed an enormous black sphere, nearly obscuring the grimy white ceiling. His gaze shifted to his hand—a delicate pink, touched here and there with a faint blush. Wrinkles ran across his palm—thicker in some places, thinner in others. A web of blurred lines glittered under the pastel-yellow light that filled the room. Studying the blue tubes that hid beneath the thin skin, he tensed his hand, making some wrinkles vanish and others appear. When his palm was stretched as far as it would go, the skin turned almost matte, and the broad lines upon it became a deep crimson-pink, like looking down from above at canyons and their ravines. He lingered over the chips and hollows, the steep drops and tiny branches that ended in dead ends. The yellow light around him illuminated his palm more brightly. Touching the skin with his fingers, he felt both tenderness and a slight roughness. His hand sensed the tiny grooves on his phalanges as they scraped gently across the skin.
All the while, the quiet sounds of nature played in the background. Birds gave way to strings, the sound of water faded into a soft bass. Gradually, a woman's voice joined in. The words were in a language he didn't know, but it did nothing to diminish the beautiful harmony playing now. The melody grew livelier and livelier. This was no longer gentle music, but a vibrant dancey neo-pop that stuck in your head, making you hum its tune over and over: at home, in the car, at work, with friends, wherever you were. The scene was completed by the scent of citrus in the air.
Slowly rising from the bed, he kept his gaze on his hands. Around him it brightened, as if it were midday. Catching a glimpse of a colorful landscape out of the corner of his eye, his gaze shifted to a panoramic window, through which he could see the sunrise. There was a beach outside, and the sound of the surf, rising together with the wind from beyond the horizon. A slightly cool breeze brushed his face—the sort that invigorates rather than annoys. The sun climbed higher, illuminating everything, reflecting off a thin layer of water atop the dark sand. The water washed over his bare feet, stronger and stronger, submerging them deeper into the warm water.
Looking down, he saw that his feet, while he sat on the bed, were resting in a warm bath that seemed to have appeared out of the floor itself. Standing up to his full height, he took in his surroundings just as the light shifted to white. Everything vanished, as if it had never existed. Only pale grey walls and a bed of the same color remained.
"The plan for today is already displayed on the main screen in the living room," the voice continued, pausing the music for a moment.
"Where am I right now?" he shouted into the void, hoping for at least some kind of answer. "Who am I?" But the voice, echoing from everywhere, remained silent.
A door, which until recently had blended perfectly into the walls, opened without a sound. Suddenly, everything was bathed in red—the walls seemed to burn. Swallowing his fear for the moment, he stepped into another room, searching for anything that might tell him who he was.
"If I woke up here, this must be my home. If this is my home, there must be information here about who I am." His thoughts formed as heavily as his speech; his tongue tangled itself into shapes his mind could barely grasp.
He entered the next room and found himself in a spacious area. Minimalist in style, the furniture was made up of simple shapes: the sofa was a series of parallelepipeds, the chair a cone and a hemisphere atop it. Every partition, table, and piece of the interior was as simplified as possible, down to the color—everything was monochromatic.
The room was divided into three sections: living room, kitchen, and dining area. The floor and walls were all white, occasionally broken by windows like those in the bedroom, offering a view of a well-groomed forest. There wasn't much furniture, and each section had its own distinct color: the living room—beige, the kitchen—dark green, the dining area—gray. Everything gleamed, immaculate, as if it belonged on a television screen. As soon as he stepped inside, he was enveloped by the subtle scent of tuberose and jasmine—a gentle, unobtrusive aroma. Sitting down on the soft couch, he found himself facing a huge screen displaying a list:
— Walk the dog
— Breakfast
— Package from VMP
— Meeting with Rachel
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the bedroom door had already vanished. The room itself was rather small, but the interior design made it seem much larger. There were hardly any doors here, so he decided his first priority would be to examine everything inside.
On the dresser were electronic panels displaying a selection of family photographs. The husband and wife appeared together in only a few of them—first date, first kiss, wedding day. The man had short dark hair, green eyes, sharp features, a refined nose, and small ears. He looked no older than twenty, perhaps twenty-five. The woman was about the same age, with red hair and freckles. Despite her rather round face, her nose was quite narrow, its tip pointing upward. The family already had a child, who featured in most of the photos. Blue eyes of a red-haired boy peered out from a stroller set among tall mushrooms glowing in all the colors of the rainbow. Fluorescence illuminated everything as the red-haired woman ran about, setting the flowers on the caps alight in rippling waves.
Before him stood a young man with a beard—unkempt and patchy, as if it hadn't been trimmed in weeks. The wardrobe carried the pleasant scent of mint. Everything in this house had its own smell. Even the bathroom felt like a coastal retreat. There was an entire organizer of perfumes; you could choose how each room would smell. The kitchen—coffee, the hallway—none at all.
"What if I change the scent?" he wondered, pressing a slightly warm panel. A hologram appeared before him, listing all available aromas: "Category—floral scents, category—for the wardrobe."
A faint rustle came from somewhere in the room. The mint disappeared, replaced by a floral fragrance he didn't recognize. Looking up, he saw the white ceiling illuminated by ambient lighting. Everything here was beige, from the drawers to the shelves. Running his fingers over every surface, he felt the same thing each time—smoothness, the sensation of solidity. Rubbing his hands together, he felt warmth spreading. Rough skin, a sense of dryness, a soft rustle, like two pieces of paper rubbing together. For the first time he noticed the back of his hand. There were markings—angles and lines, triangles and curlicues, winding across his skin.
"Next on the agenda—a walk."
His eyes opened to the street. There was nothing around him—or rather, the scent had vanished. Buildings stretched upward, ending somewhere far above, out of sight. He couldn't see their tops; the lights were blinding. The only thing illuminating the street were the lights themselves, shining from everywhere at once. They always did. Overhead, there was a constant noise—massive channels, roads, and structures weaving between the high-rises. Wires stretched here and there; elsewhere, there were pipes, no bigger than those in which hamsters race in their cages.
He felt something smooth in his hands, like the cabinets and shelves from before. Glancing down, his hand jerked slightly, as if wanting to let go of a leash, but a strap on his wrist wouldn't allow it. From his white hand extended an equally white tube, which connected to the nape of a small creature. It looked like some new breed of dog. The pet simply walked straight ahead, not making a single unnecessary movement. He was afraid to look at the creature's face.
"How glad I am to see you, Jimmy! What brings you here to Elam? I didn't know you were one of the walkers," said an old man—though he looked no more than forty—who suddenly stopped and blocked the way. There were many people around; only now did Jimmy notice them.
People were strange. Their movements split into four currents, flowing in different directions and at different speeds. When they crossed paths, they stopped automatically, never breaking stride or looking up from their own tasks. Everyone here looked unsettling. Their clothing varied so dramatically that, next to a naked dwarf, a woman as tall as a floor walked by, white tubes sprouting from her head and disappearing under a multi-layered fur coat in three shades of gray. There were plenty of such oddities. Many wore respirators, some had helmets. Jimmy distinctly saw a few people shoot cables from their own hands, lifting themselves on black ropes to the next tier of the road above.
"Who are you?" Jimmy asked—the old man was a bit odd himself. He wore a black jacket with strange markings, similar to those that covered Jimmy's own body. The old man wore glasses of a peculiar shape—rounded squares, with something like glass inside.
"In what sense?" The old man looked genuinely puzzled.
"I don't know." At that moment, Jimmy tried to mimic the old man's expression. He had no idea why. Ever since waking up in an unfamiliar bed, Jimmy hadn't been able to remember anything. His thoughts were like molasses, sloshing inside his head—a strange sensation, as if something were flowing, shifting from side to side.
Jimmy stood in his living room. A body lay on the floor.
"I wonder what his name was? I'm Jimmy. But what was Jimmy's pet's name? I'll have to come up with one until I learn it. Why not… Jimmy Junior. He'll be a little me. Why not? We're alike, after all."
Reaching toward Jimmy Junior, he grabbed a chunk of something. Beneath tufts of fur was a mashed, dark-black substance. Squeezing the goo in his hands, Jimmy realized it wasn't uniform.
"What is this?" An odd feeling rippled through his body—something vivid and strange. It was hard to describe. Squeezing the substance again, Jimmy felt a growing heat in his hand. Instinctively, he wanted to let go, but his mind wouldn't allow it.
The substance dripped from Jimmy Junior onto the floor. The more he squeezed, the more red spots appeared within it.
"Next on the agenda—breakfast."
A strange sensation burned in his palm. It wouldn't go away, even though the substance was gone. Jimmy examined his hand again. Just recently, it had been almost smooth, only slightly rough, but now little grooves appeared. Bits of skin parted, almost like those crimson-pink stripes, as red lines ran across his hand. They were born from the ruptures that had appeared on his palm, spreading all over his hand. Scarlet rivulets fell in droplets onto the table before him. A green plate stood there.
He touched a bit of peeling skin protruding from his hand, now completely colored by the red lines. Reflexively, Jimmy jerked his hand back, clenching it slightly. That warm feeling spread from his palm through his entire body, a feeling he didn't understand at all. His mind seemed to melt slowly under the white light of the dining room lamps.
Red water remained on his finger, settling into the grooves of his phalanges—fading as the droplets trickled down his fingers. Now the same stream flowed down his other hand, only this time it broke off where it passed, leaving red trails behind.
Dragging his finger across the green plate, Jimmy left a red streak, almost identical to the one on his skin. Only the plate was smooth. The liquid gathered into tiny droplets, darkening against the plate's surface.
With his red-stained hand, Jimmy ran his fingers over the green, the gray, and the red, leaving his artwork—a tangle of doodles—on the table. He didn't understand why he was drawing these angles and lines, triangles and curves. His head was splitting with pain.
"What would Jimmy Junior draw? I did this. We're alike, so he would draw as well. Our colors are different, but we live in the same house, so we must be connected." The migraine grew unbearable. In front of his eyes lay the dog—its body twisted, mangled beyond recognition, but Jimmy still saw his own Jimmy in it. He stared ahead, tears welling up and falling onto the bloodied body.
Amid the crowd of people hurrying somewhere, Jimmy stood. The line was massive, like a python whose tail was lost somewhere in the grass, only its body stretching away.
"Here's your package. Do not open. Next!"
A gray package lay before him, stamped in large letters with VMP. There was plenty of text on the back, but it meant nothing to Jimmy. His mind still hadn't cleared, so he couldn't read.
"You can't open it. Why not?"
Pacing back and forth, Jimmy pondered.
"What will happen if I open it? Nothing bad will happen…" He waved his arms faster and faster, trying to calm himself, and sat down on a chair. Without realizing it, Jimmy bit his lip.
"So, let's say I open the package, though I'm not supposed to. Who's going to punish me? Will I punish myself?"
Blood began to trickle from his mouth. He jumped onto the table, yelling and leaping with all his might. Jimmy bounced and screamed. It didn't last long, but the sensation was extraordinary. Climbing down, he felt how easy it was to move. Such energy and good spirits filled Jimmy for the first time since waking up. Something thumped inside him, making his chest rise and fall.
"YAHOO!!!" Expecting punishment, he received none. The package no longer seemed important—Jimmy could do anything he wanted. In high spirits, he tore open the gray package, revealing a black box tied with a red ribbon.
Jimmy sat by the wall, clutching his head in his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"NONE OF THIS IS REAL!!!" Something inside him contracted, making him hunch over from the sensation. He couldn't understand why the once-pleasant burning had turned so painful. It was destroying something, eating away at him from within.
On the white floor lay a black box: small white panties with a pink bow, a tuft of red hair, and a black-and-white school uniform.
"Excuse me, how do I get to my table?"
"Hello. What's your number?"
"Three AB."
"One moment." Jimmy nervously tapped his boot on the floor, trying to calm himself before the meeting. "You may proceed," the robot hostess indicated the newly arrived elevator.
"Rachel, Rachel… Ra-ay-chel…" He looked at his reflection in the glass, beyond which was a bright metropolis where every second the lights changed and machines sped by in every direction. "If I forget her name, that'll be so awkward. And what if she's my wife?! DAMN!!! How do I look?" Checking himself in his formal suit, Jimmy fixed a few stray hairs, trying to judge if his hairstyle was decent. "Maybe a bit to the left?" Adjusting his hair, he tried to calm his pounding heart. A deep breath, followed by a harsh cough. As if trying to pull something out of his throat, Jimmy scolded himself for not bringing a respirator. "I don't remember, does she like stubble or not?" Stroking his chin, he realized he wouldn't make it in time anyway—he'd barely arrived as it was. "Should've left earlier…"
The elevator doors opened. At the table sat a brunette with sharply defined features.
"You're not my wife?!" Jimmy almost shouted.
"What?" the woman replied gently, clearly out of politeness—she couldn't possibly have missed it.
"What?"
"You just said that out loud."
"Out loud?" Realizing the situation was spiraling out of control, Jimmy decided to take the initiative and sat down at the table. "My name is Jimmy!"
"I know, I read your profile. We've already spoken."
"Yeah…" Jimmy lowered his gaze, looking at the menu, where he understood nothing except the drawings of strange creatures, half of which, for some reason, had sails.
"Well… My name is Rachel." She reached her hand across the table, gazing intently at Jimmy. Unsure how to respond, he placed his hand on top of hers.
"You're funny…" Jimmy paled and chilled all at once as Rachel giggled at his gesture. It was probably half a minute before she calmed down and began to place her order.
Jimmy kept trying to decipher the symbols on the panel, but he was running out of ideas. He picked something opposite the picture of a creature with four webbed limbs, and another dish somehow related to a huge carcass shaped like an oval with a triangle at one end, and waited.
"You said you'd made progress on the project in Zov. They've swapped out the trikovs, right?"
"…." The pause dragged on, his mind a blank but for the screaming thought, "THINK OF SOMETHING!!!" "Yeah… I need to step out," he finally said. Getting up from his seat, Jimmy headed back to the elevator. The glass doors slid shut. Slowly descending, he saw Rachel watching as the lift went down.
"Damn… Awkward… I'll have to wait here for a bit, then come back… Maybe I'll say I'm not myself? Maybe she's had this happen too…"
A completely black room with soft white light. In front of him stood a row of small boxes. Out of curiosity, Jimmy decided to stick his hands inside. He felt something warm flowing over his hands. When the sensation faded, a violet light lit up inside. Looking at his hands, Jimmy saw no real changes—same color, only the skin had become a little softer.
"You ran away from a date too?" came a woman's voice from somewhere to the left.
"…." Blinking, Jimmy looked at a red-haired, freckled girl. "Are you my wife?"
"What?" The girl's eyes widened, like a puppy caught in the rain.
"Nothing… I just forget sometimes that you all can hear everything… Never mind. Don't worry about it." Jimmy babbled, waving his hands.
"Did you wake up for the first time today too?" she turned to the mirror across from them. "Everything feels strange here… Is it normal that I don't remember anything about yesterday?"
"I don't know."
"And why us?"
"I don't know."
"And what's the point of all this? Why are we here? Why just the two of us? Are there other people? Do the people upstairs not remember either? And those on the street?" Her shoulders shook slightly. Looking in the mirror, Jimmy saw her hiding her eyes, head bowed. Drops fell one after another into the white sink, running down the drain.
"I haven't really figured things out myself… I have plenty of questions too. For example, what is this?" Trying to lighten the mood, Jimmy smiled faintly. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the markings on his arms.
"What's that?" The girl was intrigued by the lines. Jimmy had a thought—maybe she knew what they meant. "I think these are the krada and treba runes."
"What?"
"The krada and treba runes."
"That doesn't really make it any clearer..."
"Sorry, you don't know? For some reason, I remember them. I thought maybe you would too." Finishing her study of Jimmy's arm, she shifted her gaze to his eyes. "I love gray eyes..."
"What?" A gentle, heartwarming smile appeared on the girl's face.
"Did I say that out loud again? Never mind… So what do these runes mean?"
"They're from the Slavic alphabet. The krada rune means sacrificial fire, it's the rune of fire. The treba rune means sacrifice—it's the rune of the warrior spirit."
"It doesn't really help me understand why they're on me… but thank you." Jimmy smiled in return.
"I don't really get it myself either."
…He wished this moment could last forever. He didn't know why, but her face was so captivating. He felt like he could look at her forever, set her up in his living room and admire her every day for the rest of his life.
"…"
"And what's your name?"
"Kristina, but you can call me Kristi. And you?" Jimmy's eyes followed the movements of her lips, like a boat drifting to the riverbank that led to Eldorado. Unconsciously, his own mouth silently echoed her words.
"Jimm, or just Jimmy. But it's better if you call me Jimm…" There was a slightly drawn-out pause as they just looked at each other. "Would you like to have dinner together?"
A bright light struck his eyes. His heart convulsed, giving off painful jolts again and again. Jimm realized he couldn't breathe and saw nothing but blinding whiteness all around.
"Are… you… me?" Something reached his ears through the white noise. It felt as if a flashbang had exploded right in front of his face.
Blinking, Jimm began to make out something gray-white in front of him. Then, from inside, something started to break free, as if a hand was being pulled right out of his throat. Coughing up saliva, he closed his eyes. His head was splitting apart, and the white noise only faded a little.
"Can you hear me?!" The voice seemed to come from inside his own head, bouncing off his skull in all directions. Jimm groaned and coughed, struggling to understand what was happening.
Suddenly, someone grabbed his head and lifted it up. Some voices kept talking, but Jimm was barely aware.
"Are you conscious? Are you holding on?"
"Yes." As soon as she said this, Carrie vomited.
"Miss Carrie, it's normal—don't be afraid. After chip removal, there may be some distortions and you might feel quite unwell. We discussed all this earlier, but I'll repeat it once more. Mild hallucinations are possible, so don't be alarmed if you see anything strange." The words sounded a bit blurred, but her consciousness slowly returned. An image appeared before her, almost superimposed over her sight.
"I see Jerry. A man with stubble. Short dark hair, green eyes. He's young, about twenty." She was feeling better. Her vision was clearing up. Most of the unpleasant sensations were gone. Only a severe headache remained.
"Miss Carrie, who is Jerry?"
"What do you mean?" Picking up a pill from a tray, Carrie swallowed it. "That's better… Whew…"
"So who is Jerry? You just mentioned him."
"I don't remember. Must be some residual images or hallucinations." Standing up from the soft anatomical chair, Carrie straightened her shoulders. "Can I go lie down? I'm feeling unwell again."
"Yes, of course. We'll provide everything you need. And thank you again for participating in our project."
"It's nothing special. I'm interested in artificial intelligence myself, especially anything connected to practical training. Reach out anytime…"
"Thank you… Please use that door over there. Soon we'll provide all the data. You'll be able to review the training results yourself."
"Thank you." With these words, Carrie left the room.