POV: Leeann
My head hurt.
Not the kind of hurt that throbs or pulses, but the kind that drifts—like smoke in a sealed room. A cloud I couldn't clear. Not with blinking. Not with breathing. Not even with screaming, though I'd tried that once or twice. Nothing helped.
Blue light touched the corners of my vision.
I opened my eyes slowly, lashes sticking slightly from tears I didn't remember crying. The ceiling above me was smooth and gray, like concrete smoothed over by careful hands. The blue light came from strips embedded in the walls, humming softly, constant. Cold.
I tried to sit up, but my limbs were heavy. Like they didn't belong to me. I managed to roll onto my side, groaning.
Same room. Same light. Same blank corners.
Same silence, broken only by the soft mechanical hiss of air moving through vents.
I didn't know how long I'd been here.
Long enough to know the guard's name.
Kenny.
He was kind, in his own way. Too kind for a place like this. Mid-thirties, maybe. Always neat. He wore black, like everyone else, but his uniform was softer somehow. Not pressed for intimidation. Just worn. Like it belonged to a person.
He brought me food. Water. Books, once, when I asked. He answered questions when he could.
He never answered the one I needed most.
"Where am I?"
And worse than that?
He never let me leave.
The door buzzed.
I didn't move.
I heard the click of boots and the quiet exhale that meant it was him.
"Leeann?"
I didn't answer. Just stared at the blue strip of light tracing across the floor. My body ached like I'd run for days. My throat felt dry.
He walked a little closer. I could feel his presence more than see it. "You should eat. It's been a while."
"How long?"
A pause.
"Three days."
"I slept three days?"
Another pause. "Something like that."
That wasn't right.
I turned my head toward him. He was silhouetted against the light, holding a tray in one hand and a flask of water in the other.
"Am I sick?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what am I doing here?"
Kenny shifted. He never liked this part. "You were flagged by an anomaly. High priority neural displacement. They pulled you in for evaluation."
"Pulled me in?"
His eyes softened. He set the tray down carefully on the end table. "I shouldn't even be telling you that much."
"But you are."
He nodded. Just once.
I reached for the water and took a long sip, letting the cool liquid coat the dry ache in my throat.
Evaluation.
They weren't just watching me. They had been studying me.
And then the memories hit.
It had been the middle of the night. Stephen and I had just logged off Fallout for the night, still laughing over some dumb comment made in-game. We were in bed, curled up together, when I heard it.
The scream from one of the cats. Then—
The door. Kicked in.
I remembered the rush of footsteps. Shouting. Stephen bolting upright as I turned to the baby monitor. Sebastian. Still asleep—until he wasn't. Someone in black gear, full SWAT-looking armor, reached into the crib.
Lifted him like he was nothing. Like he was theirs.
I had screamed.
I turned—and saw Stephen get hit across the head. I couldn't tell if he was knocked out or worse. Then—
Darkness.
My pulse thudded loud in my ears. I sat up straighter, my breath coming faster. My son. My baby. My husband—
Were they alive?
Did they take him too?
And what about Beckett? Was any of that—was he—even real?
Or was this the real dream?
The memory returned in fragments: firelight, a cold lab with crackling fire, Beckett's face behind glass.
I shivered.
"Is this... real?" I whispered.
Kenny didn't answer.
And somehow, that was louder than a yes or no.
It could've been hours—or minutes—when the door buzzed again. This time, when it opened, it wasn't Kenny who entered.
It was a man I hadn't seen before.
Tall. Pale. Late fifties, maybe older. Clean-shaven with short-cropped silver hair, and a pristine white lab coat that practically glowed under the blue lights.
He closed the door behind him, the lock clicking into place.
"Ms. Remmings," he said smoothly.
His voice was calm. Professional. Not cruel, but not kind either.
I sat up on the edge of the cot. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a tablet from the inside of his coat and began scrolling through something. His eyes never left the screen.
"I want to ask you a few questions. I'd appreciate your cooperation."
I didn't speak.
He continued anyway. "Tell me about the dream. The one you woke from."
My stomach tightened. I said nothing.
"The neural imprint you left behind was extensive. More than most. We believe you retained core emotional stimuli. Familiarity. Names. Places. There's a man—Beckett. Tell me about him."
I looked at him sharply. "I don't know what you're talking about."
A lie. A weak one.
The doctor finally looked up. Cold eyes. Measured. "You're aware of your son, correct?"
My breath caught.
Kenny flinched just outside the door. I could feel it.
I hadn't mentioned Sebastian before.
"You took him," I said quietly.
The man offered no denial. "Your recall is impressive. Most subjects don't remember families until weeks after integration. You retained his name almost immediately."
"I want him back."
He tilted his head. "That depends on how useful you are."
I stood, slowly. "You think I'll help you?"
He shrugged. "You already have. Every synaptic echo you left behind is being analyzed. But if you'd prefer the hard way, we have other methods."
I was shaking now. Not with fear. With fury.
"Let me see him."
Silence.
"I said, let me see him."
The doctor stepped back to the door, tapping something on the wall.
"We'll talk again soon, Ms. Remmings."
Then he was gone.
The lock sealed.
And Kenny wouldn't look at me when he brought dinner.
That night, the facility dimmed to its evening state—whatever passed for night in this underground tomb. The lights softened to a deeper shade of blue, a hush falling over the vents and mechanical murmurs. I could hear faint movement down the hall. Kenny's shift had ended.
I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling.
I cried quietly. For Stephen. For Sebastian. For the version of myself that didn't understand any of this. The one who thought a dream was just a dream. That what I'd lived in Appalachia was just fiction, a trick of the mind.
But they wanted those memories. They needed them.
Why?
The doctor had said something about synapses. About Beckett. Had asked about him specifically.
What could they possibly want from a dream?
Unless it wasn't one.
Unless he was real.
I rolled to my side and clutched the blanket tighter around me.
"Beckett," I whispered into the quiet. "If you're out there… if any of that was real… I need you."
I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know if anyone was listening.
But I let myself reach.
And prayed that somehow, he might reach back.