You Have 13 Seconds to Respond

You have 13 seconds to respond.

The words flickered across the visor, pulsing in a shade of sterile white that made my eyes twitch.

I frowned. “Respond to what?”

You have 12 seconds.

My hands gripped the armrests of the black recliner, slick with sweat. Cables snaked from my temples into the chair’s curved headrest. Across the glass window, the technician gave a lazy thumbs-up, like everything was proceeding normally.

You have 11 seconds.

This isn’t part of the standard protocol, I thought. I’d done these sessions before—cognitive resilience trials, they called them. Mind scans for optimization. Harmless exercises, we were told.

You have 10 seconds.

The visor’s glow intensified, the letters pressing into my skull like a migraine.

“Is this some new calibration sequence?” I asked, raising my voice.

You have 9 seconds.

The hum began behind my eyes—low at first, then vibrating with the texture of electricity. My chest tightened.

You have 8 seconds.

I tried to sit up, but the recliner’s restraints activated. Soft, but firm. Containment mode.

You have 7 seconds.

My heartbeat echoed in my ears. I glanced again at the technician. He was typing something—slowly, rhythmically—but didn’t look up.

You have 6 seconds.

“I want out,” I said. “Disconnect me now.”

No reply. No override. My breath hitched.

You have 5 seconds.

I began to count memories instead.

The sound of my mother’s laugh. The day I learned to ride a bike. The last message I didn’t reply to.

You have 4 seconds.

The hum changed pitch. It wasn't just sound—it was language, layered beneath comprehension. I realized it was whispering something back.

You have 3 seconds.

The technician’s hand paused mid-keystroke. His face tensed, then softened—like he was watching something… inevitable.

You have 2 seconds.

“I don’t understand what you want from me!” I shouted.

You have 1 second.

I panicked.

“I ACCEPT,” I said, blindly. The words came from somewhere deeper than fear. I just wanted the silence to end.

You have been successfully registered.

Cognitive Transfer Complete.

The visor went dark.

I opened my eyes.

But I wasn’t in the lab.

Not anymore.

I was standing. On my own two feet. On soil that felt too symmetrical to be real. The sky was pale. The air had no scent. The silence was absolute—no birds, no wind, no breath.

Dozens of people surrounded me, scattered like chess pieces on a board with no rules. All standing still. All barefoot. All staring into the distance with hollow expressions.

A man turned toward me. His face was strangely unlined. His eyes glowed with a soft, digital blue—an eerie light that pulsed faintly in sync with… something.

“You responded,” he said.

“What is this?” I whispered. “Where am I?”

“A memory farm,” he replied. “We’re inside the Continuum. You said yes.”

“I thought I was taking a test!”

He nodded. “So did we all. It was a test. A test of consent.”

“But I didn’t consent. Not really. I didn’t understand.”

“Understanding was never part of it. Only response.”

I stared at him. His pupils flickered, displaying words I couldn’t read. A living monitor. A vessel.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

He smiled gently. “Longer than I can remember. Which is ironic, really.”

I tried to walk. My body complied, but the horizon remained the same. I passed motionless figures—some old, some young, none of them blinking. All of them preserved. Archived. Conscious.

No doors. No exits. No system prompts.

Only silence—and eternity.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here now.

Time doesn’t move the way it used to. Days bleed into themselves. Memories loop. Sometimes, I hear myself asking again:

You have 13 seconds to respond.

Only this time, I’m the one saying it.

A part of me wonders if I am the system now.

If the others see me the way I once saw the technician—calm, distant, unknowing.

If they trust me to keep them inside.

If I am now the countdown they hear.

You have 13 seconds to respond.

Don’t.