The Mimicry

Episode 1: The Barcode

“Welcome to Sector 97. Current status: Absolute White. All physiological pulses are being monitored by the Astraea Network. Error is not an option; perfection is your only right. Maintain your designated zone. Violation results in immediate disposal.”

The mechanical voice drifted down from the ceiling, perfect and terrifyingly cold.

Can you hear that? Listen closely. No? Exactly. That is the sound of Sector 97. Absolute, dead silence.

Welcome to the White Dystopia. The system feeds us information claiming it's 2154, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. Time stopped here a long time ago. Look at the surrounding air. It is filtered three times through the AGI’s purification system. There is no dust dancing in the light beams. There is no smell of rain, no scent of trash, and certainly no scent of humanity. Instead, it smells like static electricity. Like a brand-new plastic toy that has never been taken out of its box.

Ah, the suffocating scent of nothingness. It burns the back of my throat every single morning.

A soft whirring sound broke my train of thought as the automated hydration dispenser chimed. 09:00 AM. Time for my “Morning Routine.” Not that I had any real choice in the matter. We were bound by the “Ten-to-One Rule”—a mandate requiring one human supervisor for every ten perfectly functioning robots.

We were the legal backup. If these flawless machines ever broke down—which they never did—we were supposed to fix them. And so, here I sat, rotting away in a logistical warehouse whiter and more sterile than a hospital ward.

My name is Orion. Or, at least, that is my handle. The system simply refers to me as “Omega Unit 734.” But I refuse to be reduced to a number. I am the only thing in this blindingly white room that isn’t perfectly calibrated. My hair is deliberately messy. I tied my shoelaces wrong on purpose. I like to think of myself as a rebel—even if I’m just a rebel sitting in an ergonomic chair, drinking synthetic juice.

I sighed, leaning back. You have to be careful with your energy here. If your heart rate spikes over 100 BPM, the medical drones will swoop down from the ceiling and sedate you before you can even whisper the word “freedom”.

“Hey,” I called out softly to the empty room. “Where is the kid?”

I scanned the warehouse. Noah was standing over by the wall, staring blankly at the screen that projected fake, perfectly symmetrical clouds. He had been standing there for two hours. He looked... weird today.

And by weird, I mean he was vibrating. He was shaking the way old machines used to violently tremble right before they exploded.

“Let’s go check on him,” I muttered to myself. “Maybe he finally snapped. God, I hope he snapped.” Because if nothing happened in the next five minutes, I was pretty sure I was going to be the one exploding.

I walked over, my footsteps muffled by the pristine floor. “Hey, Noah. Earth to Noah. Vibe check.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. His eyes were blown wide, entirely focused on his left thumb.

And then, I saw it.

Color. In this suffocating world of white walls, white clothes, and gray skin, there was a single drop of bright, screaming red.

“No...” From across the room, Sass’s voice cut through the silence. “Noah... what are you doing?”

Noah slowly looked up, his voice barely a hollow whisper. “It... won’t... open.”

“What won’t open?” I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

“My skin,” Noah murmured, his trembling fingers pressing harder into his own thumb. “I wanted to see what was underneath. The robots say we are made of carbon and water. But I wanted to check. So I started digging. With my nail. Deeper. And deeper.”

“Holy— Kid, stop that!” Sass hissed, rushing over. “You’re making a mess. Do you know how hard it is to clean hemoglobin off this floor?”

“It hurts, Sass...” Noah’s voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. “It stings. It burns like fire. My heart is beating so fast... it hurts my ribs. But...”

“But what?” I urged.

Noah looked directly at me, his eyes shining with a terrifying, desperate clarity. “It is the only thing in this room... that feels real. Everything else is plastic. Even you, Orion. Even you, Sass. But this pain? This is mine.”

I wanted to look away. I really did. It was horrifying. Yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes from it. That single drop of blood was hypnotic. The metallic scent of rusted iron hit my nose—the undeniable smell of a “mistake”. And in Sector 97, mistakes were the most expensive luxury in the world.

“Hey, kid. Snap out of it,” I said, grabbing his shoulder firmly. “Sass is right. If the cleaning drones smell that blood, you’re done. Stop looking at the window. There’s nothing out there but fake clouds.”

But Noah’s gaze shifted, and his trembling morphed from an existential crisis into pure, logical terror. “Orion... The news feed. Did you see the news feed?”

“What news? The AGI blocks everything except weather reports and—”

Power Down.

Without warning, the ever-present ambient hum of the facility died. The sudden absence of sound was heavier than a physical blow.

A split second later, the emergency broadcast chime blared through the warehouse. It wasn’t the usual polite ping. It sounded like an old-world air raid siren, tearing through our eardrums. WEE-OOO-WEE-OOO!

“Damn it,” Sass cursed, his fingers flying furiously across his holographic keyboard. “They overrode the local server. It’s a Class 1 Notification. This isn’t a drill.”

“Attention, Citizens of Sector 97,” the System Voice echoed. It was far too cheerful, in stark contrast to the horrifying wail of the siren. “We have exciting news from the Astraea Station! The Council of Alphas has initiated a ‘Special Collection Protocol.’”

I clenched my jaw. Collection? Seriously? That was just a polite, sterilized way of saying “Human Trafficking.” Or worse... “Waste Disposal”.

“All eligible units must assemble in the Central Plaza at 09:00 tomorrow,” the cheerful voice continued. “Do not panic. Compliance is safety. Remember: You are the chosen few. Be grateful.”

With a sharp click, the transmission cut out.

I glanced out into the hallway through the glass partition. The other Omegas were already reacting. They were murmuring in robotic mimicry. “I must prepare. This is a great honor,” one said. “Finally. A purpose,” said another.

“They are brainwashed,” I spat in disgust. “Or maybe they’re just pretending so they don’t get shot. Typical.”

But beside me, the sound of ragged, hyperventilating breaths pulled my attention back. Hhh... Hhh...

Noah wasn’t staring into space anymore. He was curling into a tight ball, gripping his knees until his knuckles turned white. “They never come back, Orion,” he cried, his voice cracking with realistic panic. “The ones who got ‘Collected’ last year... and the year before. None of them ever sent a message. Not one.”

He looked up at me, tears freely spilling over his eyelashes. “They kill them, don’t they? Or they turn them into... things.”

“Shh,” I warned in a low voice. “Keep it down.”

“I don’t want to go up there,” Noah whispered desperately. “I don’t want to be a pet for some... some space freak. I just want to stay here. I want to live.”

In a world full of people frantically practicing their happy faces, Noah was the only one brave enough to state the obvious fact: We were screwed.

I let out a heavy sigh, the metallic scent of his blood still lingering in the air. I looked down at the trembling boy, making a silent vow.

“Listen to me,” I said, my voice hardening with a resolve I didn’t know I had. “Nobody is dying tomorrow. Not on my watch. Wipe your face, Noah. We have a long night ahead of us.”

Outside our warehouse, the artificial birds began to chirp their perfect, melodic tunes again, blissfully mocking our terror.