HB. Chapter 2.

Human, Being.

By Nikki Dukes

Chapter 2

Collective Memory Bank: File 11 of 15
ID: Hanna Walker 

We had warning. I mean EVERYONE knew. Things were going to start shutting down—and we were given time to prepare. 

So why were we really all that surprised when it happened? 

I guess even until the very end we really thought someone would step in. The government. The military. Somebody. Surely they wouldn’t just abandon us like that. 

That first week, we went to talk to the people across the street—for the first time ever. The only other interaction was years ago, when the dad drove up drunk in his truck, had words with my stepdad, then peeled off. Their house was barely more than a double-wide trailer, though it was hard to tell under all the junk: toys, trampolines, basketball hoops, animal cages swallowed in kudzu. 

I never saw a child there. Maybe they stayed inside watching TV all day. 

The one thing they did have, though—animals. Birds mostly. Ducks, chickens, even turkeys, scattered like ornaments across the yard. 

I joked that we should bring over a bottle of Jack and barter for a few hens. My mom and I had always wanted chickens, but John said they were too much work and it was easier to buy eggs from the store. 

Now, we wished we’d fought harder. 

We used to live on a wooded dirt road—acres of forest around us. But the rain stopped coming like it used to. When it did come, the storms were vicious, ripping trees from brittle, dry soil. Each time it happened, more of the forest fell. 

John and I walked the road together. As we crossed the pavement toward our neighbor’s place, I wondered if any of this—the collapse, the silence, the thinning air—would actually change anything. Would the birds come back? The trees? 

Their property was too quiet. You could feel something was wrong. It clung to the hot, dusty air. Flies buzzed thick in the silence. The screen door hung loose, barely clinging to the frame. 

“I don’t like this,” I whispered. 

John didn’t respond. He pushed open the screen door. It creaked so loud it made my skin crawl. It used to be a comforting sound—granny’s house, iced tea on the porch. But now, it sounded like a death knoll. 

“Hello?” John called. “Anyone home?” 

No shotgun. Just a wail—raw and broken. 

“They’re gone! All gone!” 

A man sobbed inside—violent, wrecked. 

John stumbled backward out of the doorway, tripping over a half-open cooler. I grabbed his arm and we ran—crouching low—back across the road to our property. We ducked behind the stone wall that lined our property and held our breath. 

Then we heard it: 

A shotgun blast.
Then silence. 

We stayed in the grass a long time, debating whether to go back or leave it be. I won’t lie: part of me hoped he’d done it. He scared me. We’d always suspected something was off over there. Now the flies were proof. Maybe he had snapped. Maybe he’d killed them all. 

And that wasn’t even the worst part. 

The worst part was—I wanted his chickens. I didn’t want someone else to get to them first. 

Judge me if you want. I had a family to protect. And things were about to get worse. 

The next day, John left without a word. He came back around dusk, poured himself a whiskey, and sat on the couch. Silent. Staring. 

We just watched him. 

Eventually, he spoke. 

“That crazy family across the street,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “All gone.” 

Mom and I stared at him. Furious he’d gone alone. But we said nothing. 

“What happened?” Mom finally asked. 

John pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and dropped it on the coffee table. Then stood and grabbed his hat. 

“Zach, help me get the chicken shed set up. Let’s go before it gets dark.” 

They left. 

I picked up the note. 

Dear Judd,
We must’ve sinned something awful, ’cause that second coming left us behind.
Since we’re already judged, I might as well take us home to meet our maker. 

P.S. – You really were a terrible husband. If I’d known, I would’ve run off with someone better years ago. 

—Tiffany 

Tiffany killed her family. I never learned the details, but I can guess Judd followed them soon after. 

I decided, considering the end of everything, it was time to keep a record.
What life was before.
What it is now.
What it might still become. 

Before all this, we had power. Water. Air conditioning. Cars. Internet. Phones.
We had convenience. 

We also had climate collapse. People shouted, protested, begged. But governments and corporations didn’t listen—or didn’t believe. Or maybe they just didn’t care. 

Some people, deep in their beliefs, thought the end was supposed to come. That it was divine. That destruction was prophecy. And so, as storms grew and systems failed, more people quietly gave up. 

Storms became relentless. Cities were rebuilt and wrecked again—until they weren’t rebuilt at all. 

When the coastlines disappeared, no one was surprised anymore. 

End File. 

Things had quieted down. The yard had grown still, almost reverent. Drones floated low to the ground, clustered in a wide ring. It reminded Dora of a campfire gathering—though it was still broad daylight, and there was no fire. 

They had begun sharing memories. 

At first, they read them out loud. But it quickly felt wrong—too exposed, too performative. Most of the memories were raw. Private. Some were heartbreaking. Others strange. Some hard to believe. She remembered her old English professor discussing reliable narrators, and wondered how many of these memories were reliable.

Dora tried not to judge but cautiously took them at face value. She could only imagine how hers sounded to them, probably overly sappy and dramatic. 

She moved on to the next one. 

Collective Memory Bank: File 12 of 15
ID: Ruhan Watson 

Something flashed, and I opened my eyes—disoriented, confused. My mother stroked my hair and told me it was just lightning. I sat up, trying to understand where I was. 

The air was cold, damp. We were in a cave, huddled at its center, where straw and thick quilts had been laid out. Water dripped somewhere in the dark, echoing deep into the stone. 

I stood. My mother didn’t stop me—she followed. Together, we stepped carefully toward the mouth of the cave. 

Far below, our village lay still. It was hard to make out shapes in the darkness, until lightning cracked across the sky. 

“The town is on fire!” I gasped. “We have to go back! We have to help!” 

My mother took my arm gently and shook her head. “No, Ruhan. The town is not on fire.” 

“Then what is that?!” 

“Look closer. The center of town.” 

I let my eyes adjust. She was right. It wasn’t the whole town—just a massive bonfire at its heart. So large and fierce that, in the lightning, it made everything look like it was burning. 

“Why? What’s happening?” 

Her voice was quiet. Pained. “They’re removing the infected ones.” 

And just like that—I understood. My friends. My teachers. Our neighbors. My father. I had no idea who had survived. The not-knowing was agony. 

I ran back to the blankets and buried myself in them, sobbing. My mother followed, lifting my head into her lap and stroking my hair again. 

I caught my grandmother’s eyes—Nǎinai. She looked at my mother and gave a slow, knowing nod. A quiet kind of pride. 

“I’m sorry, Ma,” my mother said. “You were right. I’m glad we listened.” 

Nǎinai said nothing. Just smiled with as much comfort as she could muster. 

It had only been a week since we left. 

Nǎinai had begun insisting—urgently—that we go to the cave. At first, we thought she’d finally lost her grip. She was 105, after all. But the urgency in her voice… it was unlike anything we’d heard before. 

On the third day of pleading, my father came home from the docks and said simply, “We need to go.” 

She beamed, toothless and grinning. “I didn’t live through wars and storms to sit still when the wind turns.” 

He gently nudged my mother toward their room before she could ask anything. My little sister and I exchanged looks. She shouted, “I get the lucky quilt!” and dashed off to our room. 

The lucky quilt was our shared treasure—stitched with a silk tiger on one side, a family blessing in red thread on the other. It had been passed from Nǎinai to our mother, and now to us. 

I chased after her, then stopped and looked back. 

“Nǎinai… why are we going? Is this a fun trip? Or something else?” 

She hesitated. “I didn’t get to be 105 without knowing which way the wind is blowing. Bring your warmest clothes. One notebook. A keepsake. And remember—my back’s not what it used to be, so only carry what you can.” 

She patted my cheek, studying my face in that quiet way of hers. 

That was the day school closed. A red-ink notice went up:
Classes suspended until further notice due to local illness. 

My sister and I whooped with joy. 

Then Bàba appeared in the doorway—stern, silent. 

She froze. “Duìbuqǐ, Bàba.” 

He gave a soft smile. I jumped at the chance. 

“Can we go play while you pack? We’re ready! We packed everything last night!” 

He frowned. “I’m sorry, my little dumplings. You need to go straight to the cave. Try not to get close to anyone—not even me.” 

We stared at him. “Why?” 

“This flu could be hard on kids your age. We need to protect you.” 

I scoffed. “That’s a terrible idea. We’ll catch it in the cave for sure.” 

I regretted it instantly. 

But Bàba didn’t scold me. He just looked… sad. 

“Your grandmother likes to remind us, A LOT. She didn’t survive famine and floods by ignoring signs.” 

My sister tried to run to him, but he stepped back, holding up a hand. 

“Don’t. If I’m sick… I don’t want you to be, too.” 

She frowned. “Is that why you slept in the study?” 

“You’re so smart, my little dumpling,” he whispered. 

He almost reached for her. Then didn’t. 

“I have to go to work. I won’t see you until this is over. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.” 

I held her back as she cried. I made her laugh through her tears. Bàba nodded. Proud. Then disappeared. 

I wanted to follow him. But I stayed. For her. 

The journey to the cave was long and cold. We pushed a wheelbarrow full of congee jars, bedding, and keepsakes. We drank hot ginger broth. Lit fires. Pretended it was an adventure. 

That night, I was woken by shouting. 

This time the town really was on fire. The school. The administrative buildings. All glowed like coals. 

The storm must have drowned out the screams. 

My sister, wrapped in the lucky quilt, slept through everything. I was grateful. 

Maybe a little jealous. 

In the early morning, a boat pulled into the harbor. Too big for fishing. The ruins of the town glowed like black bones under a smoky sky. Thats all I want to say about this memory right now. Sorry.

End File. 

Collective Memory Bank: File 13 of 15
ID: Moli 

This wasn’t a text file like the others. 

It was a recording. A voice—a little girl’s voice—soft and whispery, like a secret being passed under blankets. 

“Um… okay…” she started slowly, like she was talking to someone curled up right beside her. Dora could almost hear the child’s breathing. That heavy, breathy kind of whisper only kids do when they think they’re being quiet—when really, they’re broadcasting to the whole room. 

“I don’t really know what’s going on… My only really big, terrible memory is my last one—from the truck.” 

She paused. Her tone changed—suddenly frustrated. 

“Jonah and I were playing catch in my aunt’s yard. He threw the ball way over my head.” Another dramatic pause. “Again.” 

Dora could practically see her little eyes roll. 

“I ran after it. Into the road. Jonah chased me, trying to get there first. My aunt started yelling. I turned…” 

A breath. 

“And saw the truck.” 

Then, loud and sudden: “BAM!” 

Then silence. 

“Then… nothing.” 

Dora flinched. That hit harder than she expected. 

She thought the recording was over, but the girl spoke again—this time softer. Sadder. 

“Later, my mom told me something bad happened. That I was in an accident. And now we could only talk in the special place. But everything was different after that. And now we’re here… and it’s really scary. I just want it to be normal again.” 

Another pause. 

“SO, if you see my mommy… her name is E… E… Elara…” 

She tried hard to pronounce it clearly, like spelling it out letter by letter. 

“Tell her… tell her…” 

Her voice broke. She was really crying now. 

“I really miss her. This is me—Moli. HER DAUGHTER!” 

File End. 

Whoa. That went south terrifyingly fast. 

She had no idea they had a child among them. 

Dora looked around, trying to see if she could pick out who this was—but that was nearly impossible. None of them had physical distinctions yet. No names. No faces. Just smooth, saucer-shaped bodies with flickering lights and identical glides. She mentally clicked on each until their names popped up.

As she scanned the clearing, she noticed other drones doing the same—turning slowly in place. If she had to guess, they were all looking for Molly too. 

Then she spotted one drone spinning in circles. Not just turning—spinning. Wildly. Almost ridiculously. 

Yep. That had to be her. 

Dora zipped toward her, but just as she arrived, a chat window blinked open. 

JONQUIL:
OMG… That is Dr. Elara Xing’s daughter. She is NOT supposed to be here. 

She was hit by a truck back in the ’70s. Elara created this entire program to bring her back—to make her immortal in some way. The theory was, if biological resurrection wasn’t available, consciousness could be preserved digitally. Molly was the first test subject. 

It was always rumored she existed, but no one believed it. The tech just wasn’t there. Or so we thought. 

SIMON:
Jonquil, you clearly know more than most of us. Have you shared this info yet? Could you share it with the group? 

DORA:
Maybe leave out the part about Molly’s mom for now?  I’m with Molly now. 

SIMON:
Yes, good point. Thanks. Ok, we’ll be over there in a sec. 

Jonquil and Simon glided over to where Dora hovered, just beside the spinning drone. 

“Hi,” Dora called gently. “Are you Molly?” 

The drone suddenly stopped. 

There was a beat of silence. Then, without answering the question directly, the drone exclaimed: 

“It’s SO weird! When I used to do this, I’d get REALLY dizzy—I’m pretty sure I’d be puking by now. But I could do this forever now! And I DON’T GET SICK!” 

Yep. 

This was definitely Molly. 

As Jonquil considered sharing her memories relating to Molly, she debated sanitizing the memory, especially in case Molly saw it.

She hovered for a moment, weighing how much to redact—how much to protect. 

But then she remembered: Molly probably couldn’t read yet. 

With a resigned flick of her internal menu, Jonquil uploaded the whole shebang—at least, as much of it as she felt comfortable sharing for now. 

Collective Memory Bank: File 16 of 16
ID: Dr. Jonquil Stone 

They called it The Ark Initiative. 

When I first joined, I believed in it. I think we all did. The world had already started to fracture—quietly at first, like a hairline crack in glass. We watched storms reshape coastlines, watched our crops dry and wither like old paper. We made jokes about learning to eat crickets. We rationed water without calling it that. 

I remember the day I got the call. I was still at the university then, teaching neural mapping and quietly running simulations for cognitive load-sharing systems—models that would later become one of the foundations for memory transfer protocols. I thought I was being recruited for a think tank. 

But the room they brought me to was underground. No cell signal. No clocks. Only screens and soft-lit walls. 

Elena Vale recruited me. She and I had worked on several projects together. I was so relieved to see a friendly face. She was brilliant—always had been. She worked on behavioral loop modeling and the scaffolding for re-humanization. 

The Ark Initiative promised preservation. Continuity. Immortality, even. 

It sounded like science fiction. It wasn’t. 

The idea was simple: if we couldn’t save the world, we could at least save ourselves—or some version of ourselves. The ultra-wealthy—tech billionaires, biotech CEOs, sovereign investors—poured money into the program, believing they were backing a digital library of human consciousness. The greatest minds, frozen in time, ready to be downloaded when the skies cleared and the air was breathable again. 

After working on the project for some time, I was finally invited into another initiative—Elena’s real work. 

Project Pinocchio. 

She never said it outright, but I’m pretty sure I was only brought in because she and I were close. The tension was high; dating someone outside the project wouldn’t have worked. When she finally told me what it was all about, I almost lost it. 

We were sitting across from each other on her white couch, drinking wine. She was prepping me for the interview the next day—totally against her own protocols, mind you. She was all about ethics and moral this-and-that, but I’ll be honest: there were things I never understood how she rationalized. And this was one of them. 

She was bubbling over with excitement, finally telling me about her “secret work,” clearly waiting months for the chance. After ten minutes of listening to her wax poetic, I cut her off. 

“Wait—you mean this whole ultra-secret thing you’ve been skulking around about is… puppet brains in space suits?” 

She spit her wine out in one of the most uncontrolled, comically dramatic sprays I’ve ever seen. She was furious—mortified—but absolutely howling with laughter. 

“I can’t believe I just shared my life’s work with you, and you offend me so much that I spew wine all over my brand new WHITE sofa!” 

“I told you white was a terrible color. In fact, I think I specifically said wine was a better choice—for this very reason.” 

As you can probably guess, that led to our first kiss. 

I have no idea why I just shared that. I guess the memory wouldn’t feel right without it. 

Fuck it, y’all. I’m keeping it in. 

So. 

Project Pinocchio wasn’t just about saving humanity—it was about rebuilding it. From scratch. Not as we were, but as we should have been. Cleaner. Kinder. Useful. 

It was designed for Mars. 

Mars was the fallback plan, of course. Earth had become a slow-burn tragedy. Mars was a blank slate. Unlivable, yes—but terraformable. Someday. The plan was to send minds instead of bodies. Our neural architecture, uploaded into drones—solar-powered, durable, engineered for adaptability. These proxies would build the world that real bodies would one day inherit. 

But first, we had to be tested. 

The program created benchmarks—trials. We wouldn’t be reborn just for existing. We had to earn it. 

I worked in system integration—input mapping, transitional logic, neural mesh layering. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the pruning systems. Too many conflicts of interest, they said. I’d flagged it in early ethics reviews. They thought I might try to preserve too much. 

They weren’t wrong. 

I still knew about it, though. We all did, if we were paying attention. It started small—filtering out violent ideologies, known personality disorders, obsessive behavioral loops. But then came the deeper sanitizations. Beliefs. Instincts. Emotional frameworks deemed “inefficient” or “dangerous.” 

I don’t remember what I lost. 

That’s not poetic. That’s literal. 

There’s something missing. Like a scar on a part of me I can’t name. I feel it sometimes in the way I hesitate before speaking, or in dreams that dissolve the moment I would wake up when we were on loop. 

So yeah—Project Pinocchio wasn’t just about preserving humanity. 

It was about reshaping it. 

The Mars initiative needed workers, thinkers, builders—not passengers. So instead of sending bodies, they sent minds. Embedded in drones. Machines that could build the new world before being reborn into it. 

That’s what we were. What we are, I think. 

We’re in the proving ground stage.

If we survive this loop—if we evolve the right way—there’s a way to transfer back, you know, to human form. Give us life. 

That was the plan, anyway. 

Somewhere, Elena is here. I assume if they let me keep her memory, she kept me too. Frankly, I’m surprised I was allowed to remember this much.

Hopefully there’s enough of a breadcrumb trail we can figure this out…and maybe I can find her too along the way.

End File.

The group was quiet now, adrift in the space Jonquil’s words had carved open. 

Dora drifted away from the circle. Slowly. As if pulled by a gravity only she could feel. 

There was a pressure at the edge of her awareness. Not pain—but an itch. A phantom sensation, like something familiar had been removed. 

Inside her interface, she initiated a query trying to find the missing pieces of her that she frantically realized had been deliberately removed. The inquiry was taking forever for some reason, like the internet was down. She looked up in time to see the sun setting, with the last light fading she barely registered the sound of clicking and crashing as they all fell to the ground. “wow, that would have hurt” was the last thing she thought.