(Perspective: Antagonist as a boy)
They laugh at me again.
Not loudly this time. Just that small kind of laugh. The one you feel more than hear. It scrapes the air like a chair leg dragged too far. I keep my face straight, like I didn't notice. Like I'm just "thinking" and not watching my notebook get passed around with a dozen scribbled comments and at least two crude drawings.
"It's not even real science," one of them mutters.
"More like storybook trash," another says. He smirks, and passes my notes to Mira.
She reads aloud with exaggerated drama: "'If emotion had density, and thought had shape, then memory could be molded…'" She snorts. "Who writes like this?"
Liam adds, "It sounds like he's auditioning for a sci-fi romance."
I press my pencil harder into my desk until the tip breaks.
Ms. Arul clears her throat at the front. "Let's keep our comments respectful, class. Creative thinking is encouraged."
Encouraged. Sure. As long as it's neat, explainable, and doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.
I bend over my bag to pretend I'm looking for something. I just need to not be here for a second.
---
After class, Mira and Liam keep whispering. I pass them. Liam says just loud enough, "Maybe he'll bottle our memories next."
"Maybe I'll bottle your neck," I mutter, but it doesn't come out with the same force. Just air. Words don't work on people who already think they're better.
The hallway smells like plastic and copper. They've been tearing down more sections for "deactivation" — what they call shutting down non-essential systems.
Everything's slowing down now. The Sleep Protocol is in motion. Massive pods being prepared. Time for Earth to reset. Humans have failed. Nature needs silence. That's the idea.
My parents are proud participants. "We're doing something selfless," my mother says. "We're making room for the planet."
Room. That's what they call extinction now.
---
I wander the city longer than I should. Lights already dimming. My ID chip gets scanned by two security drones before I reach home. "Curfew in four hours," they remind.
Yeah. I know.
At home, dinner is set. Steamed grains. Artificial greens. A protein disc. My parents sit with straight backs. Always neat. Always ideal.
"We heard from Ms. Arul," my father says. "She said you shared something… imaginative."
"She also said your tone was disrespectful," my mother adds.
I stare at my plate. "They laughed at me."
"You can't control how others react," Dad says. "You can only control the value of your input."
"What if no one sees value in it?"
"Then you keep improving. Or you accept the outcome."
That's their logic. Cause. Effect. Clean. Painless.
---
I leave the table early. Pretend to study. Instead, I stare out the window as the city slowly shuts down. One building at a time.
Then I grab my notepad and sneak out.
---
The school lab is dim. Most of the systems are powered off, but emergency access still works. I punch in my override code — the one I wasn't supposed to know — and step in.
Everything smells faintly of ethanol and metal.
I go to Station 4. The same table where they laughed at me. I sit.
That sketch… about memory in motion. I tear it out and flatten it.
It started as theory. But what if it's not?
I reach into the cabinet, pull out a glass capsule from an old chemistry set. It's smooth. Round. Light-reflective.
I sit with it. Breathe. I focus.
I think of my name. My face. My past week. My ideas. My voice. Every detail of myself I can hold.
I press my hand over the capsule.
And wait.
Nothing happens.
Then—
A warmth. A slow, curling heat in my palm. A shimmer.
The glass glows.
---
It fades quickly. But my chest feels… empty.
I try to remember something specific — the insult Liam used three days ago. And I can't. I remember that it happened. Not what he said.
I should be panicking.
But I'm not.
I feel like I just dropped a weight I've been dragging since birth.
---
I build a second capsule. Smaller. Sharper.
This one could hold someone else's memory. Not for safety. For control.
I sit there with both capsules. The first—mine. The second—theirs.
I don't touch the second.
Not yet.
---
Scene: Friend Conversation — Real World Messiness
The next day, I run into Ren on the transit tram. He used to be the only one who didn't laugh at my ideas.
"Hey," he says, sliding next to me. "Heard you're still sketching impossible machines."
"That's what they're calling it now?"
He shrugs. "You make it easy. Half the class thinks you want to upload your brain into glass."
I look out the tram window. "Would that be so bad?"
Ren is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, "You know… maybe you're just afraid of forgetting."
That stings more than I expect. I clench my jaw.
"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe I'm the only one not afraid to remember."
He gives me a long look. "You're not the only one who thinks differently, you know. You're just the only one who wants to be right more than understood."
I hate how that sounds true.
He gets off two stops early. Doesn't say goodbye.
---
Climax of Internal Conflict
That night, I sit on the floor of my room.
The Sleep Protocol starts tomorrow.
Mom's packing. Dad's updating our family file.
I hold my capsule. Mine.
It glows faintly.
My thoughts race.
If I store their memories, I'll be the last piece of the past.
When we wake, I can guide everything. I'll be the architect. No one will question me again.
But if I do that—
If I use their minds without consent—
What am I becoming?
A savior?
Or just another monster who thought he deserved more?
I look at the second capsule.
It's cool to the touch.
I raise it. Just enough to feel the weight.
And I hold it there.
Breathing.
Not deciding.
Just breathing.
Because this decision—
This will echo forever.
To be continued...