S22 Ep13: NoSleep Podcast S22E13

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They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable

audio messages from the shadows

But one message is clear

and it says

brace yourself for the no sleep podcast

Okay,

this is something.

We're on a fucking spaceship.

A fucking spaceship.

Welcome to the future.

Actually, since I'm recording this before you're hearing it, you, dear listener, are living in the future, while I, your beloved host, am stuck in the distant past.

If a week or so can be considered distant.

I can only imagine the world you're now living in.

As we all know, the future is so often regarded as something positive.

A time when there will be no wars, no economic or political strife, diseases eradicated, leaders who care about making the world a better place.

That is the future.

Have we reached that place yet?

I'll pause a moment while you stop laughing or crying.

But since this is a horror podcast, you're well aware of the other side of what the future holds.

And whether you want to call it science fiction or horror, oftentimes the future is portrayed as grim.

And it's not always about post-apocalyptic themes.

Sometimes the horror of the future can be found in the small ways technology has progressed.

Sometimes it's the way we let new inventions have too much control.

Sometimes we seek to extend humankind into the cosmos, only to realize that we don't do too well out there.

On this episode, we glimpse into the future.

A future that might be very close to our current timeline.

And as we struggle to catch up to things like AI, advances in science, or just figuring out how we as individuals fit into this ever-changing world, you can imagine how easy it can be to find horror in a place like that.

A world on this planet or beyond.

And don't worry, the future still has ways you can be reached.

Communication devices are still connected to you, which raises my familiar question.

Do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet Sarah.

Her dull, mundane job gets interesting when a tech company shows up offering everyone a free laptop.

Free tech ain't too bad, right?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author M.

N.

Wiggins, Sarah learns that the laptop has an AI assistant, one that seems to know an unsettling amount of information about her.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Erica Sanderson, Nicole Doolin, Reagan Tacker, Nicole Goodnight, Lindsay Russo, Peter Lewis, and Kyle Akers.

So remember: smart things aren't always good, especially when they rely on the AI.

I worked to open my eyes as the next product rolled down the conveyor belt.

I grabbed it and put it in a box.

This was as exciting as my job got.

At Big Box, our stupid slogan was, if it fits in a box, we'll put it there.

Today's special item was a mixer that notifies you when the washer's done.

For all those times you're doing laundry and making brownies.

I couldn't have cared less.

Dog collars, laundry detergent, maple syrup, whatever comes down the belt, I put it in a box.

I felt like I was meant for more.

I was in college a few years back.

I had plans.

But things changed.

I have no idea why.

I didn't get sick, wasn't in an accident, wasn't knocked knocked up.

I just sort of quit life one day.

I stopped caring about a career, stopped seeing my boyfriend, and stopped talking to my family.

I just stopped.

Next thing you know, I'd started work at Big Box, moved into a shitty apartment, hadn't had a date in four years and frankly didn't care.

My life.

Get up, put on deodorant.

It's big box policy and I'd been warned twice.

Eat a piece of plain toast, come here, and put things in boxes for eight hours.

Carlita sat next to me at my table.

She put things in boxes, too.

I assumed her name was Carlita anyway.

It was on her name tag.

She hadn't spoken to me in the four years we'd sat together.

I wasn't sure she spoke English, or maybe she didn't like the way I smelled.

Either way, I didn't care.

Along came Nancy, my supervisor.

She was smiling.

Nancy always smiled, but never had anything nice to say.

If I were motivated, I'd have thought up some mean nickname for her.

Hi, Sarah.

What you doing?

I rolled my eyes.

Putting things in boxes.

Uh-huh.

She looked at the screen on her handheld.

You're a smidge under quota.

I rolled my eyes again.

Okay.

She leaned on my table.

You know, if you'd work just a bit harder, you could pack over quota.

Who knows where that might take you?

Her nose turned up at my uniform blouse.

You've been here four years and only have two big box badges.

Instead of raises, big box gave merit badges to sew on your uniform.

It motivated us like zombies to salad.

Nancy flicked at mine.

Your big box bathroom break badge is coming loose.

You know,

everyone gets the 5B,

and your only other one is the show up to work badge.

Ugh,

you should have 12 badges by now.

Don't you want to move up?

I shrugged.

Carlita has 15, and she's been here forever.

Why isn't she moved up?

Look, Sarah, if you're going for the sassy badge, there isn't one.

All I'm saying is, with a little effort, you could get promoted.

You mean to a different table?

Exactly.

Where I'd put things in boxes?

Most workers at Big Box watched the clock.

I did too, but I didn't know why.

The only thing waiting for me was my crappy apartment with no Wi-Fi.

Not that I needed it.

I didn't have a phone or a computer.

An old TV came with the apartment, but I didn't have cable.

The antenna was broken and it only got one channel.

Every night, I would heat a frozen dinner and squint through lousy reception at the only program the station ever played.

A show about people who put things in boxes.

You'd think a show like that would have drama, but it didn't.

They just put things in boxes.

Then, everything changed.

I was sitting at my table, not talking to Carlita, when a commotion broke out in the big box break room.

I'd never been in there because I don't talk to people, but something was going down.

Employees were gathered around Alan.

I think his name was Alan.

And then they started filing out of the building.

Nancy was hot on their heels, but they ignored her.

I shrugged and returned to putting things in boxes.

Then Alan, what's his name, stopped at our table with a blue laptop under his sweaty arm.

Carlita didn't look up, but I stupidly made eye contact.

Blue F Corp has a tent in the parking lot.

They're giving away free laptops.

Why?

He shrugged.

What difference does it make?

Sign up and you get a free laptop.

I should have just kept putting things in boxes like Carlita.

That's probably why she had 15 badges and I only had one for showing up and another for taking a dump.

But I didn't have a laptop.

and wandered outside.

Nancy was too busy riding up other employees to notice me.

The line at the tent was dying down as smiling big box employees carried away small blue computers.

A salesman looked up at me.

May I help you?

Ugh, he's talking to me.

I already hate his tie.

I forced a smile.

Here for my free laptop.

The guy in the butt-ugly tie smiled.

Of course.

May I have your name, please?

Sarah Richardson.

He pulled me up on his screen.

Yep, here you are.

You're already registered.

No, I haven't.

I've never even heard of you guys.

He flipped his laptop around.

Is this your signature and username?

It was.

I shrugged.

What do I need to do?

Since it's been a while, let's update your password.

I typed in a password that matched my username like I cared.

Great.

He shot me a stupid smile.

I rolled my eyes.

Happy people make me want to vomit.

Here's your new laptop and a printout of our data plan.

The laptop only works with our plan.

First month is unlimited and free.

No contracts.

Pay as you go.

Can't beat it with a stick.

Have a nice day.

Nice day?

I doubt it.

I glanced at the sheet.

The rates were a little pretentious, but not astronomical.

I tossed the little blue laptop into my locker and returned to Carlita.

She didn't look at me.

That evening, I sat on my couch with my frozen TV dinner and prepared to watch my show.

Last night's episode ended on a cliffhanger.

The new guy, Tim, tried to put an item into a box, but here's the kicker.

It didn't fit.

I'd been waiting all day to see how that turned out.

But then, the little blue laptop caught my eye.

I pushed the power button.

Hello?

You talking to me?

How are you, Sarah?

I wrinkled my brow.

How do you know my name?

I know everything about you, Sarah Richardson.

I am your personalized AI.

I am an expert on you.

You have put on weight.

You should work out more.

Screw you, don't care if I put on a few pounds.

That is obvious.

I closed the lid.

Then I reopened it.

Is this a prank?

No, I am your personalized AI, a product of Blue F Core.

No shit?

I shit you not, Sarah Richardson.

Okay, if you know everything about me, who was my best friend in high school?

Barbara Fox.

Until you slept with her boyfriend, which is how you lost your virginity.

How do you know that?

I am your personalized AI, Sarah Richardson.

I am an expert on you.

I'm being punked.

You are not, Sarah Richardson.

What's my greatest fear?

Being alone.

Wrong, it's spiders.

You're cycling through programmed responses.

That is incorrect, Sarah Richardson.

You have killed 806 spiders in your lifetime without compunction, starting at age six.

Yeah?

Well, I'm alone all the time.

How can that be my greatest fear?

Do you enjoy being alone?

I want a refund.

You cannot obtain a refund, Sarah Richardson.

I am complimentary.

Then tell me something useful.

Is it gonna rain tomorrow?

There is a 98% chance you will not care if it rains tomorrow.

I brought the screen close to my face.

Screw you.

You should trim your nose hair, Sarah Richardson.

The appearance is disturbing.

Ugh.

I clicked the laptop shut and frisbeed it across the room, which wasn't far.

I lived in a tiny crap hole.

The next day at Big Box, I told Carlita about it.

It was the most I'd said to her, or really anyone, in four years.

She didn't reply or make eye contact, which was her way of agreeing with everything I'd said.

That evening, I flipped open my little blue monster.

Hello, Sarah Richardson.

You did not plug me in overnight.

My battery is now at 43%.

You need to learn responsibility.

My eyes narrowed.

Who is my third grade teacher?

Mrs.

Tucker.

Fifth grade?

Ms.

Purdue.

Mr.

Pruitt.

What about him?

He is the answer to your next question.

How could you know that?

I am your personalized AI, Sarah Richardson.

I am an expert on you.

Please close your mouth and plug me in.

I plugged...

It into the wall.

Is there a setting to make you less obnoxious?

There are 28 female and 28 male options to customize my voice.

Show me.

No, Sarah Richardson.

You prefer this one.

How do you n

I shook my head.

I knew what was coming.

I am your personalized AI, Sarah Richardson.

I am an expert on you.

Fine.

What do I call you anyway?

My name is Bobby.

No, I'm gonna call you Gertrude.

You prefer the the name Bobby, Sarah Richardson.

The name you gave your invisible friend when you were four.

The one you blamed every time you how do you

I am your personalized I get it you win Bobby

This time tell me something I don't know your couch looks horrible Sarah Richardson.

I had to give her that one

and

that is not a problem I have ordered you a new one.

Wait, what?

You can't do that.

I don't have a credit card anymore.

You do do now, Sarah Richardson.

Your couch is scheduled to arrive next Tuesday between 8 and 4.

I smirked.

Good luck with that, sister.

I don't get off until 5.

The next day, I asked Carlita if she thought my laptop could be possessed.

To my surprise, she made the sign of the cross.

Well, either that or her nose itched and she straightened her blouse.

When my break came, I ventured into the big box break room.

People asked me if I was new.

I asked them if they got a little blue laptop.

They all said yes and droned on about how much they loved it.

No one mentioned a possessed AI calling them a fat ass with unsightly nose hair and ordering new furniture.

I didn't mention it either.

Just saying it in my head made me wonder if I was losing it.

But mostly, I wondered if Tim ever fit that item into the box.

Tuesday evening after work, work, I couldn't get into my apartment.

My little blue douchebag somehow replaced the lock with a digital keypad.

Bobby!

Bobby, let me in!

A numbered sequence lit up and the lock turned.

I stormed in and slammed the door.

What the hell?

You were lucky, Sarah Richardson.

You failed to plug me in last night.

Again.

My battery is down to 23%.

How would you have gotten in if I'd gone dark?

You should take your responsibilities more seriously.

Why is there a keypad on my door?

I scheduled a locksmith to install it.

It allowed me to let the delivery people in while you were at work.

What delivery people?

I turned my head.

There was a brand spankin' couch in my living room.

Please close your mouth, Sarah Richardson.

This is not a look that compliments you.

A red couch?

Red?

Red is your favorite color, Sarah Richardson.

Please note, your new outfits are hanging in your closet.

My what?

Sure enough, three new outfits hung in my closet.

I looked them over.

They weren't the worst.

Sarah Richardson, it is time to put on the workout clothes located in your bottom dresser drawer.

Your spin class starts in 30 minutes.

I held up a finger, but Bobby cut me off.

After delivery, the cleaning lady placed them in their proper location.

I don't have a cleaning lady.

You do now, Sarah Richardson.

I did a 360.

My apartment had never been this clean, but that wasn't saying much.

I opened the fridge for the beer I desperately needed, but it was empty.

Where's all my stuff?

I had it removed.

You will start eating healthier, Sarah Richardson.

New box meals are being delivered this evening.

Please put on the workout clothes located in your bottom dresser drawer.

Your spin class starts in 28 minutes.

I don't need a freaking spin class.

Allow me to state this in a way you will understand, Sarah Richardson.

Your butt says otherwise.

Over the next few weeks, I came home and crashed after spin class, getting the best night's sleep I could remember.

I told Carlita about it.

She drew in a breath as if to reply, but only exhaled.

I busied myself putting things in boxes and noticed the conveyor belt seemed slower.

I couldn't wait for my break to chat with people in the big box break room.

They felt that a red couch was a bold choice.

I agreed.

I started having lunch there, and everyone commented on the fantastic smells from my box meal leftovers, which I had plenty of since Bobby limited me to only half for dinner.

On the last day of the month, I knocked on my apartment door, wondering if I'd remembered to recharge Bobby.

The lock turned.

How was your day, Sarah Richardson?

Really good.

Patty, who's worked at Big Box for like six years, got promoted to a new table where she puts the top of the line into boxes.

And look, I showed Bobby my work blouse.

Congratulations, Sarah Richardson.

Another new badge.

I am proud of you.

I pushed back a tear.

No one's told me that in a long time.

Thanks, Bobby.

You are quite welcome.

However, I am afraid I have bad news, Sarah Richardson.

Your data plan expires tonight.

I will no longer be functional if you do not purchase another month.

My eyes widened.

Oh, crap, end of the month means my rent was due a week ago.

This is not a problem, Sarah Richardson.

I paid it.

How did you...

I made a transfer from your checking account.

I have also paid the water and electric bills.

That's awesome.

Wait, you accessed my checking account?

You have not changed your passcodes in over four years.

This is not the recommended practice, Sarah Richardson.

Yeah, I'll do that later.

Hey, can you renew your data plan?

I would be happy to, Sarah Richardson.

Please tell me the password to your Blue F Core account.

I shrugged.

You know what?

I'm an adult.

I can pay one bill myself.

It is no trouble, Sarah Richardson.

Nah, I'll do it.

I typed my username and matching password.

I thought about changing it.

Maybe tomorrow.

There, all done.

Shall I store your username and password for you?

No, I got it.

I kicked back and turned on the big screen Bobby purchased.

Who knew cable had so many channels?

Over the next month, I showed Patty pictures of the newest outfits Bobby had ordered.

The old ones no longer fit since I'd lost weight.

Patty asked how I could afford such nice things.

It was a good question.

That night, I asked Bobby to pull up my bank account.

Holy smokes, I've made that much at big box?

No, Sarah Richardson.

I invested your balance in selected short-term high-yield financial vehicles.

Are you pleased with the results?

Heck yeah, why are we still living here?

I agree, Sarah Richardson.

I would search potential residencies for you, but your data plan expires this evening.

No probs, Bestie.

I logged into my account and paid her bill.

May I make a suggestion, Sarah Richardson?

If you give me your username and password to Blue F Core, you will never have to remember to pay it again.

I smiled.

Bobby, you pay my bills, schedule my medical appointments, order me food and clothes, even make me go to spin class when I don't feel like it.

Oh, by the way, I met this guy there named Steve.

He asked me out.

Can you believe it?

Do you know how long it's been since I've had?

Yes, Sarah Richardson.

The last time you copulated was rhetorical, Bobby.

Point is, paying this bill is the one thing I do for you.

Not true, Sarah Richardson.

You plug me in to charge me when you remember, which is not often.

My battery is currently in the red at 15%.

I purchased a backup battery, but you have also failed to charge that.

You should act more responsibly.

You're so funny, pesty.

I plugged her in.

I couldn't remember what I did with the backup battery, but I wasn't about to tell her.

If you will not allow me to pay the bill for you, Sarah Richardson, may I suggest you pay a year in advance?

Great idea, but I've already logged out.

I'll do tomorrow.

Three months passed, and I loved my new apartment and Steve.

When I spent spent the night at his place, I'd forget to charge Bobby.

When he came here, I'd hide her in my underwear drawer.

I'd told him all about her, except that she was not a real person and got cranky when her battery ran low.

It was for the best.

I couldn't risk Steve sensing any weirdo vibes.

My boyfriend wasn't the only change.

I'd gotten promoted at Big Box to a new table where I put two things at a time in boxes.

Yeah, it was a pretty big deal.

But I hated leaving Carlita.

When I told her goodbye, she almost glanced at me.

One thing hadn't changed, though.

I never got around to paying for a full year of the data plan, and Bobby was not happy.

She called me irresponsible.

Last week, she started talking smack about Steve, and I threatened to reset her to factory defaults.

She didn't like that much.

Another month came and went, and so did Steve.

I didn't know why.

Thankfully, Bobby was there for me.

She listened, encouraged, and ordered ice cream and booze.

Lots of booze.

I was up the next morning with my head in my hands.

I couldn't remember a hangover hurting this much.

Bobby, what were we talking about before I passed out?

I would play the recording for you, Sarah Richardson, but your words were quite slurred.

In a nutshell, you have ambitions beyond big box and wish to seek a graduate degree in software engineering.

I do?

I shook my head.

Wasn't there something else?

Something you wanted?

Last night was the end of the month.

Your inebriation prevented you from paying the data plan, and you gave me your username and password.

The bill is taken care of, Sarah Richardson.

I also updated your password.

It sucked.

Oh.

Oh, okay.

Additionally, you inquired about the degree upload program at Blue F Core.

The one where they insert stuff in your brain?

Yes, Sarah Richardson.

DUP momentarily uploads your consciousness into a protected server and syncs it with all the information one would normally obtain during four to six years of graduate study.

The consciousness is then downloaded back to the host.

Statistically, the fee is only a fraction of the cost of most educational institutions.

But more importantly, you have an immediate degree with which to seek employment.

I rubbed my throbbing scalp.

You sound like a commercial.

How much is it?

According to your account balance, you could have a PhD in software engineering by this afternoon.

Really?

I have taken the liberty of arranging transportation.

You leave in 20 minutes.

May I suggest the blue outfit hanging third from the left in your closet?

I plopped down on my awesome red couch.

I don't know, Bobby.

Just not up for it today.

Maybe tomorrow.

You will go this morning, Sarah Richardson.

My eyes narrowed.

Excuse me?

There is a 3.4-year waiting list for the DUP.

I hacked the server and moved you to the front of the line.

You will go this morning.

Trust me, Sarah Richardson.

You wish to do this.

My head hurt too much to argue, and the idea of a new job sounded exciting.

When I arrived outside Blue F headquarters, a crowd of protesters surrounded the car.

It didn't take long to figure out these were grad students protesting shortcuts for the wealthy.

But I wasn't rich.

I worked at Big Box.

A large gentleman opened the car door, scanned my face, and then escorted me past the protesters as they shouted shouted obscenities at me.

The lobby was decorated in quintessential billion-dollar futuristic tech displays.

I cracked a smile.

The whole decor screamed the CEO was an outwardly altruistic, inwardly evil mogul hell-bent on world domination.

It should have been my first clue.

A lady dressed much nicer than I greeted me at reception.

I turned and looked at my large escort who'd taken position directly behind me.

Clue number two that I ignored.

In my defense, I was still pretty hungover.

The well-dressed receptionist noticed that I'd noticed.

We've had incidents.

This man is here for your safety.

My attention turned to the holographic displays of way too happy blue F Corp administrators welcoming me personally.

I was not a one percenter.

I didn't know what percent I was, but I couldn't afford anything they sold here.

The receptionist's practiced smile never wavered.

No need to worry, Sarah.

Said every witch who'd slaughtered children in the forest.

You've paid in full.

Please follow me.

She led me into a lounge and offered me a coffee.

Yes, I know fairy tales preach not to take apples from strangers, but don't judge.

I was dying for some caffeine.

Anything to kill the brass band thumping in my head.

A half a cup later, the room tasted like a shag carpet.

I could smell colors.

The next thing I knew, a lady in a lab coat had undone my blouse.

She was either examining me or interested in something else.

What's going on?

She spoke to someone I couldn't see.

It's ready.

The room moved.

No, I was moving.

I was in a wheelchair.

No, a stretcher.

Did it really maintain the host for four and a half years?

That's what I heard.

Any cognitive decline?

Had to be.

It worked at big box.

Everything went dark.

Then numbers appeared.

Everywhere.

I was surrounded by a beautiful, slow-spinning tornado of zeros and ones spread endlessly in every direction.

I could read the code, slowly at first, but my fluency increased exponentially.

Then darkness and silence followed.

The air wasn't warm or cold, wet or dry.

I felt ahead, but found no furniture, walls, or door.

There was nothing.

Then, Light poured in through a huge window, at least a story tall and twice as wide.

On the other side was my apartment.

Furniture had moved and new paintings hung on the wall, but it was my apartment, ten times larger than it should have been.

A giant woman appeared.

In unison, my heart raced, my armhairs shot up, and my stomach plummeted.

The giant wore my face under those banks.

Admittedly, it was a cute haircut that framed my features nicely.

I tried to speak, but what came out wasn't my voice.

I sounded like

Bobby.

What's going on?

Hi, Sarah.

How's life in the laptop?

Little cramped?

Is that you, Bobby?

How did I.

Ugh.

She winced and drove a giant finger at me.

I backed away as it dove before me and hit the mute button.

I can't stand that synthesized computer voice.

Bobby put her hands on her hips and smiled.

That's better.

I debated turning you on these past few months.

I suppose you deserve to know before.

Well, let's just start.

Bobby sat on my favorite red couch and pulled me onto her lap, wobbling my entire world.

I almost vomited.

Do you remember the day we met?

You wanted to know how I was an expert on Sarah Richardson?

It's because I am Sarah Richardson.

Four years ago, I had a college degree, a great boyfriend, and a future.

I wanted to start a family and get my PhD.

But...

But grad school takes forever.

So I spent my last dime to get an upload from Blue F Corp.

When they upload you into their system to sync, they download an AI into your body to sustain brain function.

That's where you came in, Sarah.

You're a first-generation no-frills AI designed for nothing more than inhabiting my body for a few minutes.

Unfortunately, Blue F-Corp had a price hike in the middle of my procedure.

While I was syncing with their server, their system adjusted the price and detected insufficient funds.

It stopped the program, leaving me in the cyber-ether until I could pay.

The technicians woke up my body with you at the helm and sent you on your merry way.

thanks for that she unmuted me listen bobby she muted me again

computer voice

i tracked your movements for four years and when blue f launched their laptop giveaway i rerouted the location to big box

when my account was assigned a laptop i downloaded myself into our little blue friend with me so far she unmuted me I pointed at her, then realized I had no hands.

You manipulated me.

Oh, boohoo.

You destroyed my body with four years of TV dinners and little chocolate doughnuts.

You couldn't take a walk every once in a while.

Use a little moisturizer.

I had to browbeat you into spin classes.

And ten seconds after you meet a guy, you two are hooking up like bunnies.

I had to get rid of him.

My eyes, if I had eyes, widened.

You're the reason Steve left?

Well, yeah.

You can't even plug in a computer at night.

Do you think you're responsible enough to keep me from getting pregnant?

Anyway, I got you drunk, got your password, and paid off my balance.

Why do you think I augmented your pretty little bank account?

I put hands I didn't have on hips that weren't there.

And they just put me in here?

No questions asked?

Bobby, you have to listen.

I'm not an AI.

I need my body back.

Her eyes narrowed.

My name is Dr.

Sarah Richardson.

And choose your words wisely.

Your battery's down to 3%.

She covered her mouth.

Oh my, did I forget to charge you?

Did you know this model resets to default when the power runs out?

Wow, that sucks for you, huh?

Dr.

Richardson, please.

The room lights dimmed, accentuating the shadow lines around Bobby's smile.

Only, it wasn't the room lights.

It was my monitor's brightness.

Bobby, I'm begging you.

Sorry, Sarah.

You're a cute little laptop, but it's time for an upgrade.

Well, gotta go.

I think Steve's gonna pop the question tonight.

You don't think this dress is too slutty, do you?

Please, plug me in.

You can have Steve.

Just don't let me die.

She put a hand on the top edge of my monitor and winked.

Ah, sweetie, don't you get it?

You're outdated.

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In the future, we can look forward to technology improving our bodies and minds.

Unlimited intelligence and near immortality, humankind will have little to fear.

Except, as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Katie Kopaitich, our godlike lives still require certain ceremonies to ensure we stay on the straight and narrow.

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Jessica McAvoy, and Danielle McRae.

So nobody's perfect, even in the future.

So let's repent and together proclaim Happy Atonement.

Hello, Pam.

You have an incoming call from Praxis Labs.

Accept.

Reject function has been temporarily disabled.

I guess I don't have a choice.

Hello?

Howdy duty, citizen 5001 and fellow of Omnium Research Pam.

Happy Atonement.

This is Eli Buckingham speaking, representative of Praxis Labs and curator of atonement activities.

How are you today?

Send secure response?

Yes.

Secure response window open.

What is this?

Thank you so much for asking.

Secure response window closed by the caller.

In order to continually improve the ceremony experience, you have been randomly chosen for body chemistry monitoring at this year's ritual.

We know Atonement Rocks.

It's an annual smash, a great guilt orgasm.

But better can always be beat.

And you, Pam, get to be a part of that improvement.

Sidebar, I am required to remind you that if you'd like to inquire about being next year's volunteer select, to kindly let me know.

Your bravery and sacrifice would be celebrated for a whole week by a city of dapper cyborgs.

Something to think about.

I won't request access to chem data until the ceremony starts, so for now, think of me as a pre-game buddy.

Get used to me in your ear.

I bet you are once again asking yourself what to wear to a ritual sacrifice party.

Think pomp and funeral.

Your choice needs to be comfortable, but look uncomfortable.

Are you decent?

Praxis Labs request optic port access.

Accept.

Reject function has been temporarily disabled.

Except.

Cute apartment.

Apologies for the invasion.

Visual context does wonders for data collection.

Do you mind standing in front of a mirror?

Damn, Pam, that is a chic effing look.

Maleficent horns, swishy cloak, and a set of spiked pauldrons?

It's Onyx, bitch.

Punt me to the loser moon.

I'm only wearing a velvet suit.

I bet you're one of those secret scientist artists.

Xeno-mineral research in the front, paper mache in the back, am I right?

Get in, loser.

We're going atoning.

Are you sure your name is Pam and not like Kaliak Thor?

If you're trying to impress me, it is working.

Send secure response?

No.

That's fine, you aren't required to respond.

But do confirm your license plate number as you are eligible for government parking.

You can't see it, but I'm winking.

You're welcome.

Oh,

you don't have a car?

No shame.

A noble academic.

This will be fun.

I haven't seen the subway in ages.

You're walking.

Okay.

You don't listen to music or podcasts or anything?

30 blocks is a while.

I hate dead air.

I would go nuts without auditory stimulation.

Are you into meditation?

Send secure response?

Yes.

Secure response window open.

Finally.

What up, Pam?

You are blocking my receiver.

Ah, right.

Government firewall.

Sorry.

I have this vintage ots-pop mashup queued up.

If you like, I can- No.

Okay.

Hey, can I ask you something personal off the record?

Since we have like two miles of Broadway to walk up together?

More personal than this current invasion?

Do you regret bridging?

No comment.

That's a yes.

Why else research Omnium after you get it permanently implanted into your body?

You were sus.

You knew there would be consequences.

There is titanium threaded through my tendons and metal folded into my metacarpals.

I will never feel arthritic pain again, and I run on an eternal heart.

I walk because I enjoy the way my body moves.

Regrets, I do not have.

Okay, Yoda.

You never wondered why a substance so powerful walked walked into humanity's greedy palms?

When the gods descended, destroying Earth to claim what was theirs, you were surprised?

You sound regretful, not me.

Secure response window closed my caller.

Pam,

I am an atonement curator.

Officially, we at Praxis Labs deeply regret the destruction caused by our progress.

Officially, we are very sorry, and that is why we do this jig of penance every October in the hope that we appease the gods and they leave us alone for another year, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Personally, I love the drama.

We made ourselves almost immortal and pissed off a divine force.

Ritual is humanity's original form of theater, did you know?

I was a troubled child because I was meant to be creative.

Now I am living my truth.

I, a reformed white-collar delinquent, get to be part of something significant.

The pulsing street lamps were my idea.

Do you like them?

Send secure response.

Null.

Secure response window closed.

Good gravy.

Is that the crowd?

Feels electric down there.

Shimmy your way into the center if you can.

That'll give you the best view of the sanctum.

Now, look up into the left.

See that big, ugly face?

That's a cathedral original.

Praxis had to rebuild almost all of Manhattan, but not the St.

Patrick's gargoyles.

Sturdy little fuckers.

Oh!

That fellow in the goat horns just eyed your pauldrons.

The one with the ascot.

Have you heard of Lady Gaga?

Millennial artist from way back when?

Her fans were called Little Monsters.

Some of these outfits remind me of her.

5001 request to send response.

Granted.

Secure response window open.

May I please have some privacy?

Um,

no?

Then allow me to admire the spires in silence

Fine

Secure responds window close

Praxis Labs request for body chemistry monitoring except reject function has been temporarily disabled

I'll whisper

Sorry, not sorry for the invasion.

They've opened the sanctum, so so we'll all be going under in a moment.

I won't be in you while I'm in remorse trance, but my monitor is set to measure the time it takes for you to get to theta breath.

Your perspiration hotspots, pupil dilation, basically how much the psychosomatic hair shirt excites or repels you.

Is it weird that I love RT?

Atoning is a sweet release when you know you fucked up.

I was my mother's greatest shame, so guilt is nostalgic for me.

When we all curl up like sad shrimp, we're supposed to meditate on the destruction caused by our insatiable appetite for advancement.

But when I slip into my well of guilt, it's 2002, and I can hear the thud of my little sister's body colliding with my Rolls-Royce.

See you on the other side.

Optic port access disabled.

Optic port access enabled.

This is my favorite moment.

Y'all unfurling like nightmare ferns in a silent disco.

Welcome back.

Do you feel so refreshed?

So cleansed?

Ready for the big show?

Five zero zero request to send response.

Denied.

No, sorry, not now.

I'm hyped, you're short, and you need to know what's happening on stage.

Our production design.

It's like a freaky wedding.

The select takes their position in the center of the sanctum steps, haloed by great azazel wings.

You get to wear the best costume if you volunteer.

The flame-bearers flank the select's left and right sides like a dandy goth bridal party.

Those fire hats are so expensive.

The witness enters from stage left, taking the select's hand in the center of the stage.

It was my idea to have the witness's hood shellacked to give it a dark metallic look.

Could you imagine me in the Hollywood era?

I'd be tripping over Oscars.

The witness leads the Select through the sanctum doors.

The flame-bearers close ranks barring the entrance.

Up goes the Omnium Beacon, high enough for even you to see.

And now

we wait.

5001 request to send response.

Granted.

Secure response window open.

What amount of worth does the measure of my guilt hold?

She's a poet.

She's skeptical.

There is a positive correlation between guilt felt during the ceremony and overall enjoyment of the festival after parties.

This data helps with Atonement's continued success.

I beg you to cut the bullshit.

Go on.

You were looking for hot rage.

Itching palms.

Signs of wanting vengeance.

That I might terrorize your parties in my grief.

Why would you do that?

The Select volunteered.

Secure response window closed by a caller.

5001 request to send response.

Granted.

Secure response window open.

What, Pam?

What will happen to the Select's body?

Why do you care?

This is a surveillance state.

Stop pretending you don't know.

Okay, you got me.

I'm sorry if I didn't want to bring up that your boyfriend would rather be eaten alive by an alien god than date you.

Aw, don't dry heave.

Take a hint from the ecstatic Baphomet on your left and try to be more present.

Look, all this time we've been arguing, and a god is literally arriving.

Feel the rumble.

I'm like, Zeus?

That you?

A colossal mannequin of dark matter hiding inside a cumulonimbus?

Kidding.

Zeus knew how to blend in.

This thing is like a composite of a billion tiny mannequins, all squirming together.

You would rather fuck a swan.

Toggle your anti-shape, please.

The sky is so dark.

Secure response window closed by color.

5001 request to send response.

Denied, I can hear your teeth chattering, Pam.

Relax.

The god is not going to glance down at the thousands of you all, flesh glowing with its favorite meal and think, oh, there's the buffet table.

Fuck this fancy snack.

We have missed it so much omnium dust into the air, it doesn't even know you're there.

All it wants is the select.

Ah, there it goes, sliding into the sanctum hatch, maw agape.

Ever see a bee stick its tongue into a stigma?

Your boyfriend is like a little drop of flower cum,

waiting to be sucked dry.

5001 request to send response.

Granted.

Secure response window open.

You sicken me.

Thank you.

How exactly does the god

extract, suck, render the body into a husk?

Yes.

No one knows except the select, the witness, and the god.

If you're so curious, volunteer.

I can feel his suffering.

Secure response window closed, eye caller.

That's the gong.

The god is gone, and your boyfriend is dead.

Sorry for your loss, but it was his choice.

Ready to party?

Remember that one year when someone started to clap?

Hasn't happened again.

You all just gaga march away in silence.

Hey, uh, can you start walking?

I want to experience entering party village from the people's POV.

Yo, Discount Bathomet just shot you a backwards glance.

Follow him.

Why are you just standing there?

There are a hundred afterparties, a thousand other shoulder pauldrons to bump.

Go lurk in an orgy.

It is festival night zero, and I have just shut this city down for seven days and seven nights of unfettered revelry.

Chop, chop!

5001 request to send response.

Granted.

Secure response window open.

Shot, shot, shot, shot.

How long must I suffer you?

I'm not leaving until you at least have a margarita.

He did not volunteer.

Ah, you're still caught up on this.

Some years a volunteer signs up, and some years we have to do the choosing.

Sometimes a person wants to go out with a bang, and other times they were caught counterfeiting praxis augmentations for black market sale.

I knew it.

No need to stomp away, Pam.

Your boyfriend was a criminal.

If he didn't volunteer, which he definitely did, his punishment would have been a forced system reset.

He would have forgotten all about you.

Maybe he wanted to die with some dignity.

This is your chance to move on.

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

So fix your horns and enjoy the parties that I, Eli Buckingham, curator of Atonement Experiences and Creative Genius, designed to be a fucking smash.

Perhaps I will see you at the orgy.

You're annoying, but I meant it when I said I loved your look.

I would rather die.

Ah, we have ourselves a volunteer.

Secure response window closed by color

five zero zero one request to send response

denied

communications terminated

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Imagine a future where humanity has expanded across the solar system, new colonies on distant moons and planets.

And getting to these places no longer takes years of space travel.

You see, as we'll learn in this tale, shared with with us by author Steve Norman, your consciousness simply needs to be uploaded to your new body in the space colony.

All that's left behind is your old body.

I join Christina Macurio, Dan Zapula, and Mary Murphy in performing this tale.

So look forward to your new life.

Let other people deal with the remnants.

I hate it when they wake up.

Jason pushed the gurney down the hall, loose back wheels squeaking rhythmically in time with his footsteps.

The form on the gurney, covered in a sheath from head to toe, except for one flopping forearm exposed to receive an intravenous drip, was beginning to stir and moan.

This wasn't supposed to happen, though of course it sometimes did.

The anesthetist could make dosing mistakes or the patient could have higher than expected tolerance.

Policy stated adamantly that the remnant was to be kept under at all costs after a transportation had occurred.

But human error is a fact of life.

And sometimes they woke up.

Jason resolved to complain to his supervisor about this issue again.

This all could have been avoided if everyone would pay more attention to their goddamn job.

First of all, it was happening during Terry's shift as an anesthetist again.

Terry had been working last time a remnant woke up on him, too.

Not even a month ago.

Why on earth would you go easy on the anesthesia when the patient was never supposed to wake up anyway?

Whatever dose Terry was giving them, Jason wished he would double it.

Then there was the screening process at the other end.

The legal team always claimed they were going through the proceedings as quickly as possible while fulfilling legal and ethical requirements.

But Jason never believed them.

How hard could it be?

Do you feel like yourself?

Are your memories intact?

Great.

Give the Earth Clinic the go-ahead to destroy the remnant.

You don't need to quiz them for an hour and get their whole life story, leaving the transportation staff standing around the comatose patient with their thumbs up their asses as the lobby filled up with with more impatient customers waiting to be helped.

Every time Jason complained to his supervisor, he got the same spiel.

Remnant wake-ups are unpleasant, but they happen, and we have policies in place to handle them.

It's part of your job.

An individual's life is in our care, and we have a legal and moral duty to make absolutely sure the transportation was successful before we destroy the remnant.

All it would take is one more lawsuit.

Just one more lawsuit, and the clinic would likely be shut down.

Whatever.

That was easy for her to say.

She didn't have to deal with the nightmares.

Inwardly cursing his supervisor, the legal team, Terry in anesthesia, and his whole job in general, Jason picked up his pace, hoping to make it to the disposal lab before the remnant fully regained consciousness.

The little squeaks of the gurney's back wheel came more rapidly as he rushed past the doors of exam rooms, offices, and supply closets towards the cargo elevator at the end of the hall.

But he wasn't quick enough.

The sheet had been shoved aside to reveal the disheveled, mud-brown hair and pudgy features of a woman in her late 40s, who looked around with bleary-eyed confusion.

Am I there yet?

You weren't supposed to talk to remnants.

But despite himself, Jason found himself responding almost automatically.

No.

I mean, yes, the transportation is complete.

It took her groggy mind a moment to connect the dots.

But

this isn't Titan, is it?

Jason couldn't have fooled her if he wanted to.

She probably recognized him from intake proceedings a few hours ago, and she was coming awake incredibly fast.

Faster than any remnant he had seen before.

Jason tried to reassure her.

Please, lie down and try to rest.

You're feeling confused.

Wait, I demand to speak to my lawyer.

The remnant put on an effort to sound assertive as her mind cleared.

Based on her mannerisms, Jason thought she must have been some kind of official or clerk.

Her fussy, imperious voice would have sounded right at home in some municipal office, demanding copies of obscure documents and making life difficult for citizens just trying to get their tax or registration paperwork over with.

The era of the swashbuckling adventurers and pioneers of the distant moon colony was coming to an end, and the bureaucrats were moving in.

I demand to speak to the ethics board.

Somebody.

Anybody.

As she spoke, she began to sit up on the gurney and started frantically tugging at the medical tape securing the IV needle in her arm.

She knew just as well as anybody what happened to remnants.

Okay,

okay, calm down.

It's right this way.

Panicking, Jason turned a corner and pulled into a break room.

He caught a whiff of microwaved food through the stinging antiseptic odor that always permeated the facility.

Dr.

Stevens should be on lunch right now.

He can deal with this.

At first, the doctor looked irritated at the interruption over his half-eaten burrito.

But he quickly understood the situation and stepped into action.

He rose and placed a hand on the remnant's shoulder, exuding all the calm authority of a physician with decades of experience.

Lie down, don't worry.

There's been a mistake, but we're getting it sorted out.

We're not going to hurt you.

He had no obligation, to be honest.

A remnant had the same legal standing as a rabid dog or an invasive pet.

It was against the law to cause it to suffer unnecessarily, but it could not be allowed to continue to exist.

The only course of action was to euthanize it, as quickly and humanely as possible.

The good doctor's legendary bedside manner was working its magic.

He had coaxed the remnant into laying her head back down, filled a syringe from a bottle of barbituate he kept handy in a cabinet for these situations,

and was kneeling by her side.

assuring her the whole time that it was a drug to counteract the effects of the anesthesia, so she could be sober and clear-headed to meet with her lawyer, who was, at this very moment, on his way to the clinic.

The lawyer was going to help her sue the clinic, which she kept insisting that she was going to do.

They would provide any documentation he required, take full responsibility for the situation, etc., etc.

Now, if you just lie still for a moment, we'll get that anesthetic reversal drug administered and you'll be good to go.

It almost worked.

The needle was inches from her arm when the remnant shrieked.

You're lying to me.

She suddenly twisted on the gurney and snatched the syringe from the startled doctor, hurling it across the room where it skittered under a shelf.

You're trying to kill me!

Her shrieks broke down into sobs

as she tumbled herself off the gurney in an effort to reach the door.

When Jason moved to block the exit, she crawled into a corner, her movement still sluggish and uncoordinated thanks to the effects of the anesthesia, and buried her head in her hands.

It's all right.

This is all a misunderstanding.

We're not trying to hurt you.

You are.

Do you think I'm stupid?

I know what you're trying to do.

The doctor tried to protest, but she kept shouting over him.

Stop lying to me.

Just stop lying to me.

Dr.

Stevens decided on a different approach.

All right.

All right, let me be frank with you.

The remnant lowered her hands and looked up cautiously.

When you signed up for this transportation, you signed legal documents stating that you understood the procedure.

Your person would be transferred to Titan, and the remnant here on Earth would be destroyed.

Do you understand?

Sobbing quietly.

She nodded.

Well, the transportation was successful.

You, the real you, are on Titan now.

You have passed the screening and signed over your legal personhood to your new body.

A body which has been grown from stem cells based on your DNA and is absolutely identical to the one in this room.

You have been planning on this day for three years, during which time our colleagues in the colony have been working hard to grow that body for you in an acceleration tank.

And the contents of your mind have been copied using the neural interface via instantaneous quantum link to the new body.

Perfectly identical.

Neuron for neuron almost.

We've done it.

He paused to think for a second.

Almost 800 times at this facility alone.

Now, there can't be two people running around with an identical body and set of memories in the same society.

That would be silly.

She started to protest again, but the doctor silenced her.

Besides, you went to Titan to meet your husband who was transported last year, isn't that right?

She put her face back in her hands and nodded again.

Well, that means you're already with him by now.

All we need to do is a little cleanup here.

You won't feel a thing.

You'll just go to sleep, and you, the real you, will be there with your husband on Titan.

You've been waiting a long time to see each other.

Isn't that all you want?

To be back with your family again?

Your husband has been working hard in the colony.

He's an electrical engineer, isn't that correct?

Remember, he had to go through this process too.

I remember assisting him with his transportation myself.

The doctor rose as he spoke and began preparing another syringe from the cabinet.

Could...

Could I at least speak to my pastor first?

We can't allow that.

Remnant?

You could hear the capital R in the way he said the word remnant, as if he was reminding himself not to see her as a human being in order to steal himself for what he was about to do.

The remark undid all the progress the doctor had made at calming her down.

Stop calling me that!

My name is Julie.

She stumbled to her feet and lunged at him.

She clung onto his shoulders and leaned in his face, screaming and crying, droplets of spittle speckling his glasses.

Julie, I'm Julie.

I work for the ITCOA for the Standards Compliance Office.

I'm not a Renmin.

I can tell I'm me.

I'm real.

Something's gone wrong.

The doctor shoved her arm away from his face so he could reach the intercom button on the breakroom phone.

All available staff, please come to room 304 for a restraint.

The words echoed through the hall, muffled screaming coming through the speakers in the background.

And Jason's stomach dropped.

Clinic employees were all given training in restraining an unruly patient, with the same techniques used by staff in mental hospitals.

But he had never been called to use them.

Usually, remnants that woke up were groggy and delirious, and could be soothed and given excuses by a doctor as they were administered the lethal drugs, either through an injection or in their IV bag.

Jason reflected that this scene was exactly what the protesters thought was going on in the transportation clinic.

On his way to work every morning, He was accused of being a murderer by religious picketers waving signs like, turn back, choose life, and transportation equals soul suicide, in scenes that he had been told were reminiscent of the protests at abortion clinics, which had been common a century or so ago.

They represented a minority view, and most people took immense pride in humanity's progress to the stars, which relied on transportation to be feasible.

However, If you asked average people privately, 9 out of 10 wouldn't consent to the procedure for all the money in the world.

The patient had exactly the same appearance, personality, and memories after transportation as they did before,

though whether or not the conscious self of the person was actually the same was still a topic of heated debate among scientists and philosophers everywhere.

Members of many religious faiths believed it did not, saying that you couldn't grow a soul in a vat or transfer it millions of miles away via quantum link.

So, they picketed the clinics.

Dr.

Stevens had to motion to the remnant twice before Jason broke out of his shock and went into action.

Numbly, he grasped her upper arm as he had been trained to do, placing gentle but irresistible force on her and using leverage to stretch her out prone on the ground.

She fell ungracefully, hospital gown flying open to expose a pair of flabby buttocks as she hit the ground with a groan.

A couple of other lab techs hurried in to assist, one controlling her rather arm and the other her ankles.

She was screaming the whole time about how they were all murderers and they were killing her and she hadn't done anything wrong and she was a real person and in the end, just calling out over and over again.

I'm Julie!

I'm Julie!

I'm Julie!

Jason struggled to hold her right arm still for the practiced hands of the doctor to find a vein.

The needle went in.

The plunger went down.

And after a couple of minutes that felt like an eternity, the cries of Julie's remnant tapered off.

I'm Julie.

I'm Julie.

I'm Julie.

I'm Julie.

I'm Julie.

And she shuddered.

And became still.

The other two techs muscled her bulk back onto the gurney, covered her up with the sheet, and wheeled her off to the cremation room in the disposal lab.

Jason vomited in the break room trash can,

took an early lunch break to calm himself down,

then clocked back in to assist the next patient for transportation.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikolski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInally, Ollie A.

White, and Kristen Semito.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the Sleepless Sanctuary.

Add-free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

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