Page 4 of Pulse Zero
He moves toward the glass wall, hands in the pockets of his suit pants as he looks down into the atrium. People pass below us like data points—researchers, technicians, security. Orderly and routine.
“Sometimes…” he starts, his brows pulled down in contemplation. “Things go unmonitored that shouldn’t. It invites instability. Progress without restraint rarely ends well. It’s important to make sure people don’t hurt themselves chasing things they don’t understand.”
“You’re trying to protect people from themselves?”
Malcolm glances back at me, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Isn’t that what institutions are for?”
I think of my mom shoving memories away into boxes. Of my dad collapsing here at work after giving everything he had to this place. If Bellrose Institute was capable of miracles, my dad wouldn’t be dead and my mom wouldn’t still be grieving so hard years later.
“I guess. At least, I suppose theytry.”
“That’s the goal, Cason,” my uncle says, his smile returning. “To try as hard as we can to stop chaos before it happens.”
Chaos.
It’s that one word that has a strange, irrational thought creeping in. That this moment is one of those narrowing points.
A breath held too long.
The space between one pulse and the next.
Chaos.
The word sticks with me as Malcolm walks me to the door. He drops a hand on my shoulder that’s warm and familiar, and tells me to swing by later so we can talk logistics, like dinner sometime this week after he makes a copy of his house key so we can catch up properly. I promise I will.
Janet nods at me as I pass her desk, already back to her tablet, back to being absorbed into the quiet machinery of the Institute. The elevator doors slide shut behind me, sealing me inside with my reflection again.
On the way down, I replay the conversation with my uncle out of habit.
Being in IT support, I know at least a little about nearly every project going on in this place, but I get the feeling that whatever Malcolm was referring to was a personal one of his. But also as IT support, I’ve learned to mind my own business about some things.
I’ll admit, this time, my curiosity is piqued.
The elevator doors open into the atrium, and I step out.
It’s busier now. There’s a small tour group clustered near the kinetic installation, potential interns from some of the top universities in the state. A pair of researchers pass behind me, voices low but sharp enough to cut through the ambient hum.
“…post-resuscitation neural amplification—”
“…data set isn’t clean yet, but—”
I don’t catch the rest. They disappear into a restricted corridor, swallowed by glass and keycard locks.
I shake it off and head for the exit.
The air outside is cooler, but the light is warmer after the Institute’s fluorescent glow. I tug my hoodie tighter around myself and cut across the front plaza toward the parking garage. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out without slowing down.
Mom: I’ll pick up some takeout for dinner. Unless you want mushy oranges?
I snort and type back.
Me: Mushy oranges or pizza. Idk, that’s a pretty tough decision.
Mom: Pizza it is.
I grin as I start texting her back to tell her to get Hawaiian.
I don’t notice anything’s wrong until my phone loses signal. Not the typical dead zone flicker, but a clean, sudden drop. Then the screen goes dark in my hand.
