Fate of the Fallen

After the AI's rather demoralizing and emotionally draining explanation, Tom found it hard to keep his eyes open.

Not that he was actually tired. Could he even get tired like this? He wasn’t sure. But whatever was left of his brain felt like it had been put through a blender—an incredibly efficient one. His thoughts were a mess, tangled between denial, frustration, and a desperate need for something familiar to cling to.

He flexed his fingers, just to remind himself he still had them. Small victories. At least the simulation had given him a body. At least he wasn’t just a floating consciousness in the void.

At some point during his self-reflection, the AI had gone silent. Which, somehow, was worse. He could almost feel it watching him, waiting for him to process everything. The quiet felt calculated like it knew exactly how long to let him stew.

Tom let out a slow breath, rubbing his eyes. “...Is there somewhere I can lie down?”

A second passed before the world around him changed. The dim, empty space was replaced by something just as unsettling—an endless white void, save for a single, plain bed right in front of him. No pillows. No blankets. Just a bed.

He stared at it. Then at the emptiness beyond it. Then back to the bed.

“Wow. Cosy.”

The AI didn’t respond this time.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Sure. Fine.”

He sat down, testing the mattress. It felt like... Well, like a bed. Which was something. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe for it to feel fake, or too perfect. But it was just a bed. Plain, clinical, but real enough.

Sighing, he laid back and stared at the nothingness above. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a bit, things would make more sense later.

Maybe.

Tom was getting really tired of waking up confused.

There was no blinding light. No weightless void. No strange sensation of being nowhere and everywhere all at once. Just... Sudden awareness. Like someone had flipped a switch in his brain.

And for a few blissful seconds, he almost convinced himself that everything had been a dream.
Then reality came crashing back down.

The plane. The crash. The AI. The fact that his body—his real body—was gone and his mind was trapped on some alien ship with no way home.

His stomach twisted.

Tom sat up fast, his breath hitching. His heart pounded—except, did he even have a heart anymore? He pressed a hand to his chest, half-expecting to feel nothing. But there it was. Steady. Real. His fingers curled and uncurled, the motion smooth, automatic.

But something was still off.

His room stretched out around him, exactly as it should be. His posters were on the walls, his desk cluttered with the same old junk, and his laptop sitting closed in its usual spot. Hell, even the faint dent in the TV screen—courtesy of his brother knocking it over years ago—was there.

But the air.

It smelled... wrong. Not like his room should. No stale laundry smell, no lingering scent of air freshener his dad had sprayed around last week. It was too clean. Too sterile.

His fingers tightened around the sheets. “...Okay,” he muttered. “Either I had the worst fever dream of my life, or I’m about to have a full-blown existential crisis.”

Silence.

Yeah. That was about what he expected.

Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor—and froze.

No cold shock. No sensation at all. Just neutral, room-temperature nothingness.

His stomach dropped.

Slowly, he crouched down, running his fingers over the carpet. It felt right, sure. But when he rubbed it between his fingers, no fibres came loose. It was too smooth. Too perfect.

“This is some next-level uncanny valley bullshit,” he muttered under his breath.

His heart was hammering now. God damn it, why did he let himself hope?

Of course, it wasn’t real. Of course he wasn’t home. The AI—or whatever was running this place—had just recreated his room.

But why?

To keep him calm? To mess with him? Probably both.

Tom exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “If this is a dream, I want way better scenery.”

Still, nothing.

Figures.

Shaking his head, he stood up, scanning the room again. There had to be something—some tiny flaw that proved this was fake.

His eyes landed on the desk. His old laptop sat there, the lid closed, and that was exactly how he’d left it. Hesitating, he walked over and sat in his office chair the worn leather squeaking as it took his weight flipping it open.

The screen lit up instantly. No boot time. No login screen.
Well, that’s not suspicious at all.

The desktop was just as he remembered—folders of old homework, some downloaded games, and a few unfinished projects.

But there, in the centre of the screen, sat a new icon. One he definitely hadn’t put there.

[Open Communication]

Tom narrowed his eyes.

“Oh yeah, that’s not ominous at all,” he said, dragging a hand down his face.

He hovered the cursor over it, debating. This was obviously a message from the AI. Or a trap. Or both.
But what else was he supposed to do? Sit here and twiddle his thumbs?

With a sigh, he clicked it. The screen flickered, and then— A soft chime echoed from the speakers. Then, a voice—calm, even, and just synthetic enough to feel off—spoke.

“Connection established.”

Tom exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Of course it is.”

The cursor blinked on the screen. He leaned forward, rubbing his face. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the deal with this?” He gestured at the laptop.

“Direct communication interface established for user convenience. You have questions.”
That was putting it mildly. “Yeah, I do. Starting with—why am I in this room?”

“Familiar environments promote cognitive stability.”

Tom huffed. “Right. Sure. Because waking up in a perfect replica of my bedroom isn’t unnerving at all.”

The AI didn’t argue, which somehow made it worse.

Shaking his head, he sat back. “Fine. You want to help me process things? Then let’s start with how much time I have.”
“Estimated time to arrival: 5.84 standard Earth days.”

His stomach twisted. Less than six days.

“And then what?”

“Upon arrival, autonomous drones will retrieve necessary biological and neurological data. Your new form will be cultivated accordingly.”

That made him pause. “Wait—cultivated?”

“Correct. Your consciousness will not be transferred immediately. A compatible biological structure must be formed first.”

Tom swallowed. “You’re growing a body.”

“Affirmative.”

The realization settled uncomfortably in his gut. So it wouldn’t be an instant switch—he wouldn’t just wake up in a new body overnight. There was a process. A delay.

Which meant there was still time.

Time to think. Time to find a way out of this.

His fingers tapped anxiously against the desk. “And this genetic template—you need to get it first?”

“Correct. The process requires a viable sample from a native species.”

Tom latched onto that. “And what if you don’t get one?”

A short pause. Then—

“A delay would be incurred.”

He fought the urge to grin. There it was.

He didn’t know how he’d do it, but if he could somehow disrupt that process—delay the sample collection—then maybe, just maybe, he could buy himself more time.

He exhaled, steadying himself. “Alright. Let’s say you do get your sample. How long does it take?”
“Once collected, biological synthesis will begin immediately. Full cultivation time is estimated at 72 Earth hours.”
Three days.

Three days after the probes landed, his body would be ready.

Tom leaned back in his chair, mind racing. He was running out of time faster than he thought.

His thoughts drifted to the room itself. The more he thought about it, the weirder it was.

His fingers curled, feeling the fabric of his jeans. His weight pressed against the chair. His chest rose and fell with each breath. It all felt so real.

“Hey,” he said, frowning. “Why do I even have a body in here?”

“Clarify.”

“I mean, if I’m just a bunch of data floating in your system, why not leave me as a—hell, I don’t know—a voice? Or a floating camera? What’s the point of making me think I still have a body?”

A brief pause. Then—

“Maintaining bodily awareness reduces cognitive fragmentation. Your neurological structure is designed for sensory input. Removing it entirely would risk degradation of mental stability.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “So if I didn’t have a body, my brain would start falling apart?”

“A complete absence of physical awareness would result in deteriorating self-identity. The human mind is dependent on sensory reinforcement to maintain cohesion.”

That was… unsettling. “And if I stop believing this is real?”

“Your mind would attempt to create alternative sensory input. This could lead to involuntary hallucinations, phantom sensations, or cognitive dissonance.”

Tom shuddered. That explained why the AI had gone through the trouble of simulating everything—not just his room, but the feeling of air, the weight of his limbs, the subtle background noises that made it all feel real.

Because if it didn’t, his mind would start filling in the gaps on its own.

Tom leaned back, rubbing his arms. “Okay. Creepy. But good to know.”
He fell silent for a moment, mulling over his options.

5.84 days until arrival.

Then three days to grow a body.

That was his window.

He had a little over a week before he woke up in an alien body.

And if he wanted to stop that from happening, he had a hell of a lot of thinking to do.

Tom exhaled, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. Just over five days. That was his deadline. After that, the AI would have what it needed to finalize his transformation. And then... it was over. His body, his humanity, everything.

His hands curled into fists, nails digging painfully into his palms. Except, did he even have nails anymore? He flexed his fingers again, staring down at them, willing them to reveal some truth. They looked normal—smooth skin, subtle knuckles—but that didn’t mean anything here. This whole reality felt like an elaborate illusion, a digital construct crafted to keep his mind from unraveling amidst the chaos.

A sudden pang hit his stomach, sharp and unexpected.

Tom blinked, placing a hesitant hand over his abdomen. Hunger? That wasn’t a sensation he anticipated feeling in this place. His brow furrowed as he turned toward the laptop that pulsed with faint light, almost as if it were breathing. “Hey, question. Why am I hungry?” he asked, skepticism lacing his voice.

“Your simulated body maintains biological functions as if it were real,” it responded in its flat, emotionless tone. “While sustenance is not required, sensations such as hunger, thirst, and fatigue can be experienced at your discretion.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, grappling with the implications. “Wait. You’re telling me I can get hungry, but I don’t actually need to eat?”

“Correct. Eating or drinking within the simulation serves no functional purpose beyond sensory reinforcement.”

He considered that for a moment, rubbing his chin as his mind raced. “And what about the other stuff? Bathroom breaks?”

“Unnecessary. Waste functions are disabled unless manually requested.”

A rush of relief coursed through him. “Well, that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.” He hesitated, looking around the room. If he could get hungry, that meant...

His stomach growled again, louder this time, breaking the silence of his thoughts. Despite himself, he smirked at the absurdity of his situation. “Alright. Let’s test this out. Get me a cheeseburger and a milkshake.”

There was a brief silence before the digital voice broke in. “Request acknowledged.”

Suddenly, a sharp knock sounded at his bedroom door, slicing through the lingering tension.

Tom hesitated, his heart quickening as he looked at the wooden barrier ahead of him. A sense of unease crept in, but he shook it off. He hadn’t been expecting room service, especially not in this place or at this time.
Slowly, cautiously, he stood and approached the door, fingers hesitating over the doorknob that felt cool against his skin. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pulled it open, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

What met him resembled a person but felt off. The six-foot-tall, naked figure had unnaturally smooth, flawless skin, like a plastic doll—no hair, scars, or even a belly button. Between its legs was an unrealistically perfect set of genitalia, resembling a medical illustration. The symmetry was too perfect, as if it had been created without true understanding of human anatomy. Alarm bells rang in Tom’s brain as he processed the sight.

“What the hell?!” He exclaimed, a mix of shock, disgust, and a healthy dose of confusion in his voice. This thing—this creature—was like if a human and a mannequin had a really weird baby. Its skin was so smooth it looked like it had just come out of a filter on a bad Instagram post, and those tiny imperfections that make people interesting? Yeah, they were nowhere to be found.

The face? Let’s just say it was almost too symmetrical—like it had been photoshopped by someone with a very steady hand and way too much time on their hands. Those features were so plain they made mashed potatoes look exciting. And the expression? Well, if boredom had a face, this would be the poster child! It stood there, stock-still, looking like it was auditioning for a role as a very dull garden statue.

“What the fuck?!” he shouted again, voice rising in panic.

The figure blinked at him, its expression utterly unchanging. “Your request has been fulfilled.”

Tom's feet instinctively moved backward, slamming the door shut with a loud thud. His breath came fast, and his face burned with embarrassment and adrenaline. Turning back toward the laptop, he nearly shouted, “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

“A serving unit,” the computer answered, unfazed.

“WHY IS IT NAKED?!” he exclaimed, incredulity bubbling in his voice.

A moment of silence stretched out, thick with confusion. “Clothing was not specified.”

Tom groaned, dragging his hands down his face in sheer frustration. “Oh my god.” He hesitated, glaring at the door as if it personally offended him. “Is it still there?”

Another knock echoed, almost mocking. “Your request has been fulfilled.”

Letting out a strangled noise of disbelief, he demanded, “Give it some clothes!”

“Understood.”

After a brief silence, he heard another knock. Tom cracked the door open cautiously, peeking through the narrow gap.

Now, the humanoid wore a plain, featureless jumpsuit that clung to its form. It still stared at him with that same, blank expression, holding out a plate in its hands, the burger and milkshake resting atop it.

With a long-suffering sigh that seemed to resonate deep within him, Tom grabbed the plate and shut the door again, his heart still racing. “This is so stupid,” he muttered, plopping down on his chair. He eyed the burger warily, contemplating the absurdity of the situation before taking a cautious bite.

It was... perfect. The cheese melted just right, the bun soft and warm, the patty succulent and flavorful. He took another bite and then a sip of the milkshake, the rich, creamy sweetness coating his tongue.

Damn. Maybe this simulation wasn’t all bad.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the AI had a lot to answer for.

Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a simple action that felt heavy with meaning, and let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Alright, that’s enough existential horror for one meal," he muttered, his voice barely rising above the echoes of his disquiet.

He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood a stark reminder of his solitude, staring at the laptop screen as the weight of his predicament settled ominously upon him. The AI had spoken with a clinical detachment, presenting facts like an impersonal data sheet, each line an arrow piercing deeper into his anxiety. But those cold hard truths did nothing to ease his spiraling situation. He was still here, still trapped in this relentless cycle, and still counting down to losing pieces of himself.

Fingers drumming rhythmically against the desk, a restless symphony of his inner turmoil, he broke the silence. "You still there?"

"Affirmative," the AI responded, its voice devoid of warmth.

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Yeah, thought so," he replied, hesitating as a wave of vulnerability washed over him. He whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment, "I guess I’ll talk to you later."

"Acknowledged. Communication link closing."

With that, the screen flickered, the interface dissolving into the stillness of his desktop background, leaving him in oppressive quiet.

His gaze drifted to the image that adorned his laptop—an idyllic snapshot of a time long gone. In it, his father loomed tall, a reassuring figure with that familiar gruff-but-proud demeanor, while his brother beamed like an idiot, an arm slung around Tom’s shoulders as if to anchor him in joy. And there he was—the younger version of himself—caught mid-laugh, the joy of the moment just out of reach but suddenly yearningly poignant.

A tightness coiled in his chest as his finger traced over the screen, lingering on the faces that felt both intimately known and heartbreakingly distant. How long had it been since he’d seen their smiles? Since they had laughed together?

As his vision blurred, he clenched his jaw, trying futilely to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. It was a battle he wasn’t winning. The weight of everything—the crash, the monotony of the AI’s assessments, and the inescapable truth that he would never walk through the door of that home again—settled on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into despair.

A choked breath escaped him before he could stifle it. Then another, and soon, he found himself crying, silent, helpless tears streaming down his face, blurring the image of a life he had loved and lost.

In that moment, solitude wrapped around him like a shroud, and for the first time since waking in this alien landscape, the full force of his isolation hit him—overwhelming and absolute, leaving him feeling utterly and achingly alone.