INSOMNIAC
EPISODE 01 | SCENE 04
36 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347
Chaos again. Relentless, recurring chaos. The screams come, familiar yet still gutting. Wick stands amid a crowd of the same faces. From his height, he can tell he’s just a boy. When he looks up, he sees the same black symbol tattooed on bottom of most wrists—a teardrop encircled in ink.
He’s pushed up a narrow staircase that twists sharply, emerging into a dim passage. His hands stay close to his chest as the press of bodies drives him forward. One after another, people fall. Blood pools around them.
Wick’s pulse thrums. The men ahead lift their rifles and fire. A shot cracks beside his ear. He trips over corpses, over warm puddles, over faces frozen mid-fear. His hand drags along the rough wall, the world tilting as dizziness sets in. Then gunfire flares again. He’s behind several men exchanging rounds with a lone figure at the far end of the hall. That man kills them all—some fall in blood, others collapse with exposed wires sparking from their wounds.
Before Wick can react, the man’s gun turns on him.
He wakes.
His eyes open to a dark room, its shapes faintly lit by the city outside his wide window. His fingers clutch the soft bedding as he steadies his breath. Safe again.
He reaches across the bed. Only a cold pillow meets his hand. Alexa isn’t there. Sitting up, he stares at the skyline still wrapped in night, then at the clock—barely past midnight. Sleep won’t come again.
He slips from the sheets and moves across the cool floor, careful as if not to wake someone. The purring of the fridge drifts faintly from down the hall, but he turns the other way. His palm presses to a wall pad; a thin light scans and flashes green. The door slides open.
Inside is a cube of white. Every wall, the ceiling, and the floor gleam with mirror polish. His own reflection meets him wherever he stands.
“Good evening, Wick,” a woman’s voice murmurs through the ceiling speakers. “It’s late, you know.”
“I can’t sleep,” he answers.
“Have you tried?”
“Tried? Yes.”
“Have you tried going back to sleep?”
He shakes his head.
“Would you like me to sing a lullaby to encourage drowsiness?”
“No. That’s okay.”
“Then perhaps a bedtime story?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“That’s all right,” she says gently. “We’re never too old for a good story.”
He exhales, sits cross-legged on the floor, and rocks slightly. “Which one?”
“How about the story of the woman and the clay?”
“Sure.”
The Pod’s pristine surfaces fade as a holographic world forms around him, full and real from every side, as though he’s been drawn straight into the tale itself.
The forest unfolds around him, rich with bright hues of green. Sunbeams cut through the canopy, striping his face in gold. Wick sits among tall trees, the air thick with birdsong and the whisper of branches. Then comes another sound.
“There once lived a woman in the wood,” says the voice, deeper now—resonant and low, yet strangely calm.
The scene reshapes itself to match the story. “One day, this woman was gathering wildflowers when she heard something unusual.”
Beside him, a middle-aged woman kneels by a fallen log, plucking blossoms. She doesn’t see Wick; he’s only a ghost in her world. A noise drifts from the distance—grunts, rough and human. She freezes, head turning sharply, alert as prey. Her name echoes through the trees, carried on the wind.
“The sound of burly men filled the forest,” the voice rumbles. “They had found her.”
Wick rises to his feet, knowing what comes next. “These men were cruel, and they were after her. So the woman fled—back to her small home in the woods.”
She starts walking, and Wick follows. The Pod’s floor shifts beneath his steps, adjusting to every motion, every turn. It feels real—the weight of pursuit, the forest closing in. The woman breaks into a run. Wick matches her pace, pushing through holographic brush that passes through him like mist.
Through the trees, a wooden shack emerges. The woman races for the door, fumbling with the lock as she glances over her shoulder. The shouts behind her grow nearer. Heavy boots crush twigs. But the men remain unseen.
The door bursts open, and both she and Wick dart inside. She slams it shut, bolts it fast, then falls to her knees and claws at the floor. Wood splinters as she pries up the boards. A hole yawns beneath her feet. She grabs a shovel and digs frantically. Time accelerates—the hole deepens—and she vanishes below just as the door crashes open. The men’s voices thunder through the cabin, but Wick never sees their faces.
The image shifts. Now he’s in the pit with her. Darkness presses close. Only thin lines of light cut through the cracks above. The woman trembles, her breath uneven.
“The woman waited,” the voice goes on. “Hours. Days. But they never left. Alone with her shovel, she decided to dig again.”
She lifts the tool and drives it into the earth. “Deeper and deeper she went, until no dirt remained to dig. With one last stroke, the ground gave way.”
The soil beneath her collapses, and she plunges downward. Wick follows the fall, sliding down a slick bank into a cavern below. The floor is wet and uneven, clinging to her hands as she steadies herself in the dark.
“The next events grew stranger still. Her eyes began to adjust beyond what was natural, and soon she could see through the dark for miles. The cavern shimmered faintly, as if lit by hidden torches.
“She noticed the clay beneath her feet pulsing softly, like the beat of a heart. Could the earth itself be alive? The thought sparked something within her. Trapped and alone, she gathered the living clay in her hands and began to shape it. At first, her sculptures were crude and shapeless. But as her fingers pressed and carved, faces began to form. The woman was fashioning children—offspring born of earth and solitude, made to bring her comfort.
“With each final touch of her finger, life stirred in them. Eyes opened. Mouths smiled. Voices rose. Though molded from clay, their minds were bound to hers. They shared her thoughts, her desires, her very will.
“For a time, the woman’s heart was weightless. Her children played and laughed, filling the cavern with echoes of joy. Yet soon she grew restless. She had created more than companions—she had birthed something capable of more than hiding in the earth. They were meant to ascend. So she formed a plan.
“She didn’t speak aloud. She didn’t need to. Through their shared mind, her will became theirs. As one, the clay children gathered, climbed the slope, and pushed through the hole above. Together, they burst through the floorboards of the woman’s cabin.
“The men who had long sought her now met their end at the hands of her creation. But before their final breath, they looked upon her face.
“‘You have hunted me since I was young,’ she said, ‘and you have not grown weary. Yet today, at the height of your strength, you will seek me no more.’ Then she closed their eyes.
“Afterward, she swept her home clean. The children had a place now—a home of their own, and a mother who ruled with care. Each day they did her will, gladly and without question. And so the woman and her children remained together, bound by mind and purpose. The end.”
The scene dissolves in an instant, returning to the bleached, seamless cube of the Pod. Wick stands motionless, his breath slow, trying to reorient himself.
“I love that story,” the voice says again, gentle now, the same soft femininity as before.
“They used to tell us that story growing up,” Wick answers.
“Yes, it’s a favorite among many. Well, Wick, are you feeling drowsy yet?”
“Not really.” His heart still thuds, though it tries to settle into rhythm.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He exhales. “How about a memory?”
“A memory?”
“Yeah. I want you to show me one.”
“Of course. Please place your hand on the pad and tell me which memory you’d like to revisit.”
A narrow slot opens on the wall, revealing a glowing biometric scanner. Wick steps closer and sets his hand on it. His gaze drifts upward, searching through the haze of memory. “I’ve never relived the first time I met Alexa,” he says quietly. “I don’t even remember it.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” the voice murmurs.
He pictures her standing there beside him—her warmth, her presence—and a small smile cuts through his fatigue. “Yeah. But she’ll be back soon.”
“That sounds like a lovely memory. If this one doesn’t induce drowsiness, would you like me to recommend supplements—”
“Just play the memory, Pod.”
“I’ve retrieved the file,” she replies evenly. “Please stand in the center of the room before I activate it.”
Wick steps into place. The walls vanish around him. In their place rise four dull partitions lined with long metal tables. Children in silver uniforms chatter and eat beneath bright fluorescent light. The echo of clattering trays fills the air—it’s a mess hall.
Every face carries a shadow of familiarity, but one stands out. A boy with pale hair and green eyes. Himself, younger—five, maybe six.
The young Wick clutches his tray and walks toward a group of boys. “Can I sit here?” he asks.
They stare at him, sneering. “Who are you? Never seen you before.”
He forces a smile. “So that’s a yes?”
“Uh, no.”
“Yes,” comes another voice. The small group looks toward a girl with freckled cheeks and curls spilling over her forehead. “Yes,” she repeats firmly. “He can sit here.”
One boy scowls. “No, he can’t.”
“He needs to sit somewhere,” she argues.
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
“Look at him. He’s not even supposed to be here.”
The words hang heavy. The girl turns to Wick. “He’s right,” she says. “You’re new. We never get new faces.”
“I’m Wick,” he says, trying to sound sure.
“Where’d you come from?” another boy demands.
Wick shuts his eyes tightly, and the boys erupt in laughter. “What’s he doing? Trying to use the bathroom?” one mocks.
The girl frowns. “It’s okay, Wick,” she says gently. “Just sit down.”
“No!” the same boy barks.
“Fine!” she snaps back. Grabbing her tray, she storms to a nearby empty table and sits. “Well?” she says over her shoulder.
Wick hurries after her, setting his tray beside hers. “Thanks,” he says, relieved.
She leans close, voice low. “Don’t close your eyes like that again.”
“Oh?”
“It looks weird. They’ll laugh at you again.”
He starts to glance back toward the boys, but she grips his shoulder and pulls him gently forward.
“Anyway,” she sighs, the edge fading from her tone. “I’m Alexa.”
“Wick.”
“I know. You told us.” She nods toward a corner of the room and points. “Do you know that guy?”
Both the young Wick and his older self follow Alexa’s gesture to the corner of the mess hall. Two men stand near the door, speaking quietly. One looks out of place—his clothes grimy, his jacket frayed, his hair unwashed. Yet those details fade beside the ruin of his face. His skin is melted, almost gone, the flesh fused into dark folds. If not for the blinking of his eyes and the faint movement of his lips, it would be hard to call it a face at all.
“Yeah,” the younger Wick says softly. “He’s the one who brought me here.”
The scarred man extends a hand and shakes the one belonging to a worker in a neat silver uniform. Without a word, the stranger turns and walks through the doors.
The older Wick’s pulse spikes. Just before the man disappears, he catches sight of something—a black teardrop circled in ink, carved into the bottom of the man’s wrist. His heart jolts. He pushes through tables and children, moving toward the door, but when he reaches it, it won’t open. The holographic world holds him fast.
“Open up!” he demands, striking his palm against the frame.
“You’re inside your own memory, Wick,” the Pod reminds him. “You can only move within what you’ve stored.”
He faces the barrier, breathing hard. “Do you know anything about that man?”
The scene freezes. Every child, every plate, every sound stops. “I’m sorry, Wick,” says the voice after a pause. “I have no information on that man.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I do not have any information.”
“The teardrop then—the one on his wrist. Do you know what it means?”
Another pause, another flat reply. “I’m sorry, Wick, I have no record of that symbol.”
Wick stands alone among the still figures. His chest tightens. “Then take me to the memory,” he says quietly.
“Which one?”
“The one where he brought me here.”
“I’m sorry, Wick. That memory doesn’t exist in your archive.”
“It has to.”
“As you know, I can only replay what’s stored on your SentiaChip. After scanning your entire database, I can confirm this is one of your earliest memories.”
“This one?”
“Yes. The one you’re in now.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It appears you received the SentiaChip upon arrival here. That doesn’t mean you had no memories before then—only that they were never recorded. Implantation varies by individual, often delayed in children whose neural development is still incomplete.”
He clenches his fists. “There’s one I keep having. It’s chaos—people with the teardrop mark, like that man. It must’ve happened before this. Take me there.”
“I’m sorry, Wick. No such memory exists in your archive.”
“There has to be.”
“Can you describe it further?”
He closes his eyes. The images flood back—the screaming, the blood, the mark. “I don’t know. It’s a dream I keep having.”
“Well, there you go, Wick,” the Pod says calmly.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a dream. I cannot replay subconscious dreams. However, I can construct a simulation from the details you’ve described. Would you like me to create a daydream?”
“No,” he says sharply. “Take me to my first stored memory.”
A long silence follows. “I cannot go back any further than this scene.”
“You said there were earlier memories.”
“I’m sorry, Wick. That was not my intent. After full analysis, I can confirm this is your first recorded memory.”
Wick surveys the mess hall again. The children remain frozen, mid-motion. He meets the gaze of his younger self and Alexa, both of them facing him, both fixed as if watching him.
“Would you like me to reconsider a lullaby to promote drowsiness?” the Pod asks softly.
The silence thickens. Only Wick’s mind moves now, turning over everything he has just heard, the stillness pressing down like a weight.
