Chapter Four: Flashback.exe (aka How I Almost Died in My Sleep)
The dreams started on Day 21.
Until then, I assumed my brain had politely decided not to remember whatever happened during the Great "Whoops, We Ended Civilization" Event. But on that night—while nestled in a blanket burrito on top of a pile of plush sloths—I dreamed.
No.
I remembered.
It began like all my most tragic memories: in sweatpants, with bad Wi-Fi.
I had just rage-quit a laggy multiplayer game and tossed my controller across the room (gently—it was expensive). Outside, the sky had that weird greenish tint it gets right before a thunderstorm or alien invasion. I thought nothing of it.
I microwaved some frozen nuggets, popped three melatonin gummies for flavor, and climbed into bed ready to clock out of reality.
Then… the sirens started.
Not the usual weather sirens or "Oops, someone escaped the zoo again" sirens. These were low, droning, ancient. Like the Earth itself was groaning. I rolled over, assumed it was just my neighbor playing bass at 3AM again, and buried my face in my pillow.
But it didn't stop.
Outside my window, a ripple spread through the sky—like someone had punched reality in the face. The moon flickered. Twice. Then it blinked off like someone forgot to pay the electric bill.
That's when the knocking began.
Not on my door.
On my walls.
Thump. Thump. Tap-tap. Scriiiiitch.
Like fingers made of glass were testing the boundaries of my apartment. Like something was… looking.
I remember sitting up, bleary-eyed, heart thudding like a caffeinated hamster, and checking the time: 2:38AM.
And then my power died.
The hum of my fridge stopped. My LED strip lights blinked once and surrendered. Even my smart speaker let out one final, pitiful "Goodni—" before going dark.
I should've run. Hid. Screamed.
Instead, I did what I do best.
I yawned, muttered "nope," and crawled back under the covers.
The scratching got louder. The air thinned, like the oxygen was being siphoned into another dimension. My phone buzzed violently beside me.
I turned it over, expecting a spam call or an Amber Alert.
Instead, the screen read:
UPDATING… DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR FATE
I blinked. "What?"
Then I passed out.
The next part of the dream—the memory?—gets hazy.
But I remember the city burning.
Skyscrapers folding in on themselves like origami. People running through the streets, pursued by shadows with too many teeth and not enough eyes. Giant cubes in the sky, rotating slowly, broadcasting psychic advertisements for something called "The Great Reset."
I floated above it all. Like a ghost. Watching my world die from a third-person perspective.
The oceans boiled. The air turned gold. I saw crows flock into the shape of a screaming face. A tree split open and bled Wi-Fi signals.
And at the center of it all—calm, serene, untouched—was me.
Asleep.
Drooling slightly on my pillow, totally oblivious to the chaos.
An alien spaceship crashed into the street outside my window. I didn't even stir.
A time rift opened in my bathroom and birthed five identical versions of Jeff Goldblum who all debated over who got to use the sink first. I kept snoring.
A celestial being appeared over the city, announcing the official End of Days™ like it was a keynote presentation.
"And now," it boomed, "we cleanse this plane and upload the worthy to version 2.0."
Someone in the crowd shouted, "What about that guy still asleep in 4B?"
The entity squinted—literally, the sky dimmed like it furrowed a brow.
"He opted out," it muttered, annoyed. "He downloaded the Destiny Router app at the last possible second. He… exists in a technicality."
A collective ugh rippled through the crowd of fleeing humans, androids, and confused time travelers.
One of the Goldblums whispered, "Lucky bastard."
I snapped awake in my bunker, gasping, drenched in sweat. My radio blared static. My phone was buzzing violently.
A new notification:
"System Memory Sync Complete. Flashback restored."
Under it:
"EtherNet™ Status: STABLE. You remain Unfated."
I staggered to my feet, heart pounding like it was trying to file a restraining order against my ribcage. The sky outside my bunker window was… normal-ish. Three moons. Slightly flickering clouds. Nothing too traumatic.
But the dream-memory left a sour taste in my mouth.
Not because of what happened.
But because of what didn't happen.
I should've died.
Ten times over. There were moments where time itself broke in half, where reality folded like a bad poker hand, and I just slept through it.
How?
Because I'd tapped that stupid pop-up. That pulsing, mocking little "ACCEPT" button.
I'd traded my fate for eternal Wi-Fi… and it shielded me. Put me in a pocket of protected signal while the rest of the world got nuked, fried, digitized, or rewritten by cosmic interns.
But it wasn't free.
Because when the world rebooted without me… it left some files behind.
That night, I found a mirror in the bunker.
At first, nothing weird. Just my extremely disheveled, apocalyptic glam look: bedhead, beard, and eyes that had seen things.
But then the reflection didn't blink when I did.
It stared back. A few seconds late.
Then it smiled.
I did not.
The reflection raised a hand—its hand—pressed its palm to the glass. I felt cold creep up my spine.
From the corner of the mirror, a little spinning icon appeared. Like a loading symbol.
Then a message scrolled across it:
"BUFFERING FATE… 3% Complete."
I backed away.
Hard.
"Nope," I whispered. "Nope, nope, no thank you, delete, unsubscribe."
The icon vanished.
The mirror went still.
But I knew—something had started.
And whatever it was… it remembered me.