If darkness could speak, what would it say?

Zaharah had spent weeks in the dark after her accident and talking to it, at least on a subconscious level, had been her only way of keeping a shred of sanity. It never answered her, never talked back, but it listened—which was leagues better than talking—better than any person could. It listened to her directionless rambles, her morbid musings, her incessant questions.

Perhaps it listened too much. At some point close to her recovery, it felt as though she was melding with the darkness. Or it was swallowing her. 

And she had woken up, left the dark behind, and their meetings since had been fleeting. The little darkness that lied between virtual reality and reality reality faded away faster than a dream. Before she could even think to say hello, the sounds of the lab drifted in.

The steady beep of the heart monitor, muffled conversation. A pop, the hiss of air escaping, as though the metal coffin was exhaling a long breath. And she exhaled with it. A sliver of light slipped in through the crack, and the conversation swelled, offensive to her sensitive ears. After leaving Virtua everything was too bright, too loud.

Too real.

She'd asked them a million times to keep the noise down while she acclimated, but whatever they discussed was more important than her comfort. As the lid of the Virtua chamber slid away, she blinked until her vision adjusted. Her head felt as though someone replaced her brain with a cotton blob.

A Dwight shaped shadow fell over her, along with the scent of hibiscus. He fiddled with the panel on the wall, a steady stream of vapor curling from his mouth. The beeping stopped, and in its absence the noise in the other room grew. Not even the glass wall separating the chambers from the rest of the lab was enough to keep out the chatter.

Dwight whipped his head around so fast, his dreadlocks slapped him across the cheek. "Hey! Shut the fuck up!" The command was like a banger set off inside Zaharah's head, but silence followed, proving that he could be helpful and a pain in her ass at the same time.

"Up Zaharah. The Director called. She wants to see you. Now," he added when she didn't budge. "I don't have enough caffeine in me to deal with her and Cyan."

"Don't rush me. This ain't Junkanoo*." Zaharah unplugged the charging node from her right palm, and the panel along the top blinked to life with green light. From an inch below her elbow all the way to her fingers, all glossy metal and buttons that did nothing, a mimicry of a real arm with all the function and none of the warmth. Dwight said its components suggested it had more functionalities—whatever that meant—but she didn't have access to them. She closed her hand into a fist, each finger making a metallic click as it curled into her palm.

"Careful with that," Dwight said, eyeing her balled fist.

She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the chamber, the cold metal biting into her through her jeans. "You know, if I hit you with this, I could dislocate your jaw."

"If you hit me with that, you'd better kill me." He punctuated his point by blowing a cloud of vapour in her face. "Now get out of my lab."

"Yes, your Majesty," she said, but it sounded more like: eat shit and die.

The floor shocked her bare feet and blew away the grogginess clouding her mind. A row of chambers stretched out in a neat line to the other end of the room. Hers had a four—her lucky number—emblazoned on the side in the Google colours. She waltzed past the inferior numbers back to the main room, where the other engineers spoke in hushed whispers. They'd abandoned their swivel chairs in front of the monitors and stood around the projected TV on the opposite wall.

Except Jori. He still sat there, swinging his chair back and forth as he scrolled through some stills of Briland with one hand and took notes with the other. He stopped on an image of the beach, and his scribbling ceased and a smile tugged at his lips, as though he was looking at a photo from his childhood.

Zaharah almost felt bad for disturbing him. "Hey, the Director needs me so..."

He gave a wave, his smile not faltering. "Sure. We'll link up later."

But she didn't budge, and stood there over his shoulder, staring at the pink sand. To think a place that beautiful existed once, and would never exist again. Except in Virtua. Maybe she could convince them to let her go back in once the program was updated. If she was still around for that.

Begrudgingly, she gave the beach her back and went to grab her things from the break room. The place smelled as it always did, like coffee and sleep deprivation. Half tucked in chairs surrounded the round table at the center. Counters and shelves dominated the back wall, filled with jars of coffee beans, sugary snacks and energy drinks.

Zaharah bypassed the table and went to the lockers. Her longboard leaned against the wall, its colourful Kirby decal the only pop of colour in the grey and white room. She jumped into her trainers and threw on her jacket—not the best attire to meet with the woman in charge of Denden.

Her last meeting with the Director was a month ago, when she'd asked Zaharah for a painting. Nothing specific, she'd said, something "to add a little character" to her office—the worst kind of request. Zaharah had put something together, fretted over it for a week, before finally showing it to the Director. And she'd loved it, so much so she paid more than it was worth. Or more Zaharah thought it was worth.

Which was why she couldn't keep the Director waiting, not for too long. Getting across the arboretum to the administrative complex took around ten minutes. She grabbed her board with one hand, a cup of their gross coffee in the other and tucked a bag of plantain chips under her chin.

Back in the main lab, the engineers and programmers sat settled by their stations. No more chatter, just the occasional sip of coffee or grunt of frustration. Over by the couches the projected TV displayed a radar image of a hurricane slogging its way through the Atlantic at a break-neck three miles per hour.

Hurricane Jordan already a strong category four hurricane, the caption at the bottom read. The projected path stretched over the Greater Antilles before curving up towards the Atlantic. Towards her, and everything and everyone she cared about. No wonder everyone was so riled up earlier.

The 700 was well equipped to handle the storm, regardless of how much the wind roared or the rain beat down; it remained unshakable and stubborn as a mountain. No one had died to a hurricane in the last fifty years, but they always brought a sense of dread akin to an unknown and unexpected shadow felling over her back. The chill of it crept up her shoulders and raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Hurricane comes from the Taino word Hurakan, which means god of the storm," Jori said. He sat on a couch, legs crossed eyes on the storm. The storm's eye was one them too, sizing them up, like a predator stalking its prey.

"You know the Bahamas was nearly wiped out before the rise," he continued. "Two Cat 5 storms in one season."

A comforting thought. Zaharah acknowledged his words with a nod, though their macabre nature did nothing for her anxiety. "I'll see you later Jori."

She crossed the room to Dwight's station—shoved in the darkest corner, far away from everyone else, perfect for an edge lord like him. Screens surrounded him on three sides, like a shrine dedicated to technological advancement. He sketched a 3D model on the middle-most one with a stylus. It was still in the beginning stages, just a collection of shapes with no real form.

"Why are you still here?" he asked without looking at her.

Zaharah set her offering upon his altar. "You said you didn't have enough caffeine."

His stylus stilled, and he eyed the coffee as though it was a cup full of spiders. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing. This time."

He brought the cup to his nose, inhaled deep, took a sip, and turned his attention back to the sketch.

Zahara sneered. "You're welcome."

"Get out of my lab, Zaharah." He didn't see her saluting him with her middle finger as she walked out.

*Junkanoo is a cultural festival/parade that takes place in winter, and the act of participating in Junkanoo is known as rushing. Hopefully, Zaharah's sass makes sense after this explanation.