For this collection, we didn’t just make slimes—we built a whole broken world to go with them.

Each slime in the Dystopian Future collection is paired with its own original short story: gritty, emotional, and just a little unhinged. Some are satirical. Some are rebellious. All are designed to deepen the vibe, build the lore, and make you feel something—besides how good the slime smells.

Every slime also includes a small bonus tied to its corresponding story—a mysterious slip of paper, a faux-government document, a cryptic AI transcript, or something else smuggled out of the world it came from. Think of it as a collectible artifact from a collapsing society.

During the first wave of the drop, these stories will be unlocked in different ways: social media platforms, in-purchase bonuses, etc. But don’t worry—after the initial marketing period, every story (and its extras) will be made easily accessible here, collected in one place like suppressed records finally released.

Read them. Feel them. Then squish something.

Chapter One

The hum of the Regulation Blanket, usually left at home, was a constant, low thrum against Brennan’s skin, a second heartbeat that wasn’t his own. Most citizens detached theirs upon leaving their living quarters, relying on the ambient, recycled warmth of the city’s upper sectors. But for Coals, especially those on runs that took them into the colder, less maintained zones, bringing their blanket was an unspoken, illegal necessity.

His own, a faded grey, often sputtered, the internal heating coils flickering like a dying ember. He’d learned the trick years ago, passed down through whispers in the grimy Coal sectors: a specific sequence of taps and holds on the worn fabric, a precise pressure point that would force the coils to surge, delivering a brief, illicit blast of heat. He was good at it, precise enough that the blanket’s internal monitors rarely flagged the activity, but one wrong move, one clumsy tap, and it could trigger a “misuse” alert, risking an immediate shutdown. A shutdown meant not only losing its meager warmth but also failing to check in by curfew, which carried severe legal repercussions and the loss of the blanket’s advertised “health-enhancing” effects.

The blankets were touted by Allocation as a generous government luxury, a gift of constant comfort and care, but anyone with a shred of intelligence knew they were instruments of control, monitoring every vital sign, every deviation. Still, after generations, many citizens had grown so accustomed to the surveillance that they treated it almost like a dark joke, a constant background hum of absurdity, much like the old stories of Americans finding out their phone calls were being spied on.

Brennan adjusted the strap of his delivery satchel, the worn canvas digging into his shoulder. His job as a runner was one of the few high-mobility roles available to Coals, a concession to the system’s need for cheap, expendable labor. He knew the labyrinthine corridors of the underground city better than most Steel technicians knew their own schematics. Every turn, every hidden ventilation shaft, every dimly lit shortcut was etched into his memory. It was a skill born of necessity, of navigating a world designed to keep his kind in their place.

He pushed through the heavy, insulated door into Allocation Hub 7. The air immediately thickened with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen and the faint, sterile scent of disinfectant. Allocation was the beating heart of their regulated existence, a vast, cavernous space where life assignments, tech, and even daily rations were doled out. It was a place of stark, undeniable class stratification.

Coals shuffled through designated, narrow lanes, their grey outfits blending into a uniform blur, though a few, like Brennan, carried the tell-tale bulge of a concealed blanket beneath their thin jackets. Steel workers, identifiable by the sharper lines of their tech, moved with an air of practiced efficiency, their paths intersecting but rarely mingling with the Coals. And then there were the Onyx.

They were rare in the main hubs, usually preferring their private, high-speed transports. But a few were always present, their black uniforms absorbing the ambient light, radiating an almost palpable aura of untouchable privilege. Their tech was sleek, seamless, their movements unhurried, as if the very air parted for them. Brennan watched one now, a woman with hair the color of polished obsidian, speaking in hushed tones to a Steel supervisor. Most Onyx were interchangeable, polished versions of the same cold ideal, but there were always whispers, faint and dangerous, of those who saw the cracks.

He felt the familiar prickle of resentment, a dull ache that had been with him since childhood. The system was a cage, and the Onyx held the key, or perhaps, they were the lock.

He approached the Coal assignment board, a flickering display that usually offered up the same mundane tasks: food deliveries to sector 9, parts transfers to the ventilation shafts, waste disposal runs. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping handlebars and hauling packages, hovered over the interface. He had a trick for this too, a digital ghost of an ID he’d cobbled together years ago from discarded Education files. It wasn’t much, just enough to fool the lower-tier Allocation terminals into thinking he was a low-level Steel technician, granting him access to slightly better, more interesting assignments. He’d even used it at Education sometimes, just to snag an extra dessert from the Steel line. He’d taken a few Steel jobs before, nothing dangerous, just simple transfers for a little extra money.

As he scanned the list on the main, Steel-level display, something unusual flashed. A priority tunnel assignment. His eyes snagged on the destination: Research Facility Delta-9. And then, the recipient’s name: Kyke.

Kyke from Education. He hadn’t seen them in three years, not since the last inter-class seminar where their paths had briefly, impossibly, crossed. Brennan had been a scrawny Coal kid, barely tolerated in the basic engineering track, while Kyke, even then, had moved with the quiet grace of someone destined for the highest regions of Onyx research. He’d barely spoken to them, just a few fleeting glances, a shared moment of silent observation during a particularly dull lecture on resource allocation. But something about Kyke had stuck, a quiet intensity in their eyes, a subtle difference that set them apart from the other entitled Onyx students. He remembered how Kyke would carry themselves differently, a subtle lean into conversations, a quick, almost imperceptible wave to more people in the hallway than any other Onyx dared. He’d nursed a secret, impossible crush ever since, a foolish, dangerous thing for a Coal to harbor.

One day, during a mandatory “Inter-Class Collaboration” session – mostly a farce designed to show the Coals their place – a Steel instructor had been droning on about optimal resource distribution and the culling of non-essential flora.

Suddenly, Kyke’s quiet voice had cut through the drone. “But what about the inherent value of the organism itself?”

The instructor had paused, visibly annoyed. “Value is determined by utility, student. We’ve been over this.”

“Even if it serves no immediate utility to us,” Kyke had pressed, their voice soft but firm, “does that negate its right to exist? Its inherent complexity, its unique genetic signature… is that not a form of value?”

A ripple of discomfort had gone through the Onyx students. The instructor had quickly dismissed Kyke’s question as “philosophical digression.” But Brennan had seen it. The way Kyke’s eyes had held a flicker of something defiant, something that questioned the very foundations of their utilitarian world. It was a tiny crack in the Onyx facade, and it had resonated deeply with Brennan, a Coal who felt his own inherent value constantly negated. Kyke wasn’t like the others.

Shaking his head back to reality, he thought, A Deep Tunnel assignment. For Kyke. His heart hammered against his ribs. These were rare, dangerous, and almost exclusively handled by specialized Steel teams with elite-grade equipment. Coals weren’t even supposed to know these assignments existed, let alone be able to claim them. He’d have to take his blanket, too, was an added layer of risk. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his gut, that he wouldn’t survive the journey without it.

His gaze darted around the hub. No Steel runners seemed to be paying attention to the priority board. A Steel supervisor was engrossed in a data pad, her back to him. It wasn’t about being noticed; he was sure Kyke wouldn’t remember him. It was about leaving an impression, a fleeting mark on a world that tried to erase him.

He quickly moved to an older, hackable terminal he knew, tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the hub. His fingers trembled slightly as he navigated its outdated interface, calling up his forged Education ID. The screen flickered, a momentary lag, and then the familiar green “ACCESS GRANTED” appeared. He quickly, almost frantically, mirrored the priority assignment from the Steel board, inputting the destination and recipient. The system, designed for efficiency over scrutiny at this low level, processed the request. A small, physical package chit printed out, warm against his palm.

“Runner Brennan, Assignment 7-Gamma-9,” a flat, synthesized voice announced from the terminal, confirming the pickup.

Brennan snatched the chit, shoving it deep into his satchel. He felt a surge of adrenaline, hot and exhilarating. He’d done it. He, a Coal runner, had just hijacked an Steel-level tunnel assignment, and he was taking his illegal blanket with him to do it. The audacity of it made him grin, a brief, genuine flash of rebellion in the sterile air of Allocation. He was going to see Kyke. And he was going to deliver something that was never meant for him to touch. The chill of the tunnels suddenly seemed a small price to pay.

Chapter Two

The package, a compact, unmarked cube, felt surprisingly light in Brennan’s satchel. It was a stark contrast to the heavy weight of the decision he’d just made. He stood at the entrance to the service tunnels, a massive, reinforced door marked with a stark red “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” warning. Beyond it lay the true cold, the kind that ate at your bones, not just your skin. The air here was already sharper, carrying the metallic tang of deep rock and the faint, acrid scent of ozone from distant energy conduits.

He double-checked the seals on his issued cold-weather gear: thin, insulated coveralls that felt more like a suggestion of warmth than actual protection, and worn gloves that offered little more than a barrier against direct contact with frozen surfaces. It was standard Coal-runner issue for the outer perimeter, not for the depths of the Tunnels. He patted the bulge beneath his jacket, the comforting, illegal presence of his Regulation Blanket. This was the real gamble. Getting caught with it was one thing—a fine, a loss of privileges, maybe even a re-assignment to waste disposal, the lowest rung. But deep in the Tunnels, a blanket malfunction, or worse, a system-triggered shutdown, meant certain death. The cold here was absolute, unforgiving.

He thought of Kyke again, the quiet intensity in their eyes, the subtle defiance that had burned so brightly in that long-ago classroom. It was a foolish, reckless act, this whole endeavor. He knew it. He knew the odds were stacked against him. But the idea of delivering something, anything, to Kyke, of making this impossible connection, felt like the only truly significant thing he could do in a life otherwise dictated by Allocation. It wasn’t just about the crush, not anymore. It was about proving, to himself, that he could break free, even for a moment, from the invisible chains of his class. It was about a small, defiant act of warmth in a cold, regulated world.

He swiped the package chit. The heavy door hissed open, revealing a maw of darkness. The temperature dropped instantly, a physical blow that stole his breath. He stepped inside, the door sealing behind him with a resonant thud that echoed the finality of his choice.

The Deep Tunnels were a world unto themselves. Unlike the city’s upper levels, which pulsed with the distant thrum of machinery and the muted sounds of life, this place was utterly, profoundly silent. The only sound was the faint crunch of his boots on the frost-dusted floor and the rapid, shallow breaths that plumed white in the frigid air. The emergency lights, spaced far apart, cast long, distorted shadows, turning the vast, echoing passages into a series of monstrous, shifting forms. Ice crystals clung to every surface, glittering faintly like scattered diamonds in the gloom.

His issued gear was already failing. A shiver, deep and uncontrollable, racked his body. The thin fabric of his coveralls felt like tissue paper against the biting cold. His fingers, despite the gloves, were growing numb. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he had maybe an hour, two at most, before hypothermia would set in, before his muscles would seize and his mind would cloud. This was the kind of cold that killed silently, efficiently.

He reached inside his jacket, his numb fingers fumbling for the familiar fabric of his blanket. He pulled it out, the grey material stiff with cold, and wrapped it tightly around his torso. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then began the precise sequence of taps and holds. One, two, three… a pause… then a firm, sustained pressure. He felt the familiar, almost imperceptible tremor as the internal coils activated, then a rush of heat, like a small sun igniting against his chest.

A sigh escaped him, a cloud of vapor in the frigid air. The warmth was immediate, blissful, spreading through his core, chasing away the bone-deep chill. He felt his muscles relax, his breathing deepen. But the relief was fleeting. He glanced at the small power indicator on the blanket’s wrist-cuff. It was already dropping, a steady, alarming descent. The manual override, while effective, was a brutal drain. This blanket, designed for minimal, regulated warmth in a controlled environment, was never meant to fight the raw, elemental cold of the Tunnels. He had maybe a few hours, if he was lucky. The fragility of the tech, his only real defense, felt terrifyingly apparent.

He pressed on, the warmth a fragile bubble around him, pushing deeper into the labyrinth. The passages grew narrower, the ice thicker. He passed abandoned equipment, hulking shapes covered in rime, remnants of earlier, perhaps failed, expeditions. The silence pressed in, amplifying the sound of his own beating heart.

Then, a flicker of movement.

He stopped, straining his eyes against the gloom. Something small, white, and utterly out of place. He took a cautious step forward, his breath catching in his throat. It was a rabbit. A small, white rabbit, huddled against a frost-covered pipe, its fur matted with ice, its tiny body trembling violently. Its eyes, wide and dark, stared up at him, glazed with cold and fear.

A rabbit. Here? It was impossible. No animal could survive this far down, in this cold. It must be a failed experiment, somehow escaped, or perhaps discarded. A wave of irrational compassion washed over Brennan, cutting through the fear and the cold. This creature, so small, so vulnerable, was just like him, trying to survive in a world that wasn’t meant for it.

Without thinking, Brennan knelt, wincing as the cold seeped through his thin kneepads. He gently reached for the rabbit, its body stiff and unresponsive. He carefully scooped it up, cradling it in his gloved hands. It was barely alive, its breath shallow, its tiny heart a faint flutter against his palm.

His eyes darted to his blanket. It was his only source of warmth, his only hope of survival. But he couldn’t just leave it. The thought was unbearable. He pulled the blanket away from his chest, unzipped his jacket, and carefully, tenderly, placed the rabbit in his jacket and zipped up. The small creature shuddered, then seemed to melt into the warmth, its trembling easing slightly. He then wrapped the blanket around both of them, pulling the rabbit close to his chest, trying to share the precious heat.

A sharp, piercing PING echoed in the silent tunnel.

Brennan flinched. The blanket’s power indicator, which had been steadily dropping, now flashed an angry, pulsing red. A synthesized voice, cold and devoid of emotion, emanated from the blanket’s internal speaker, barely audible above the sudden, overwhelming chill.

“WARNING. UNAUTHORIZED DUAL-USER DETECTION. REGULATION BLANKET PROTOCOL 12 INITIATED. SYSTEM SHUTDOWN COMMENCING.”

No. Not now. Not here. Brennan frantically fumbled with the blanket, trying to re-engage the manual override, but it was useless. The warmth vanished instantly, replaced by a brutal, bone-aching cold that seemed to suck the very air from his lungs. The blanket went limp, a useless piece of fabric, its power indicator dark.

His body reacted violently. A convulsion seized him, then another. The cold, which had been held at bay, now descended with crushing force. His vision blurred, the distant emergency lights blurring into streaks. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, then slumped against the icy wall, the impact jarring his already freezing body.

He clutched the rabbit to his chest, trying to shield its small form with his own rapidly chilling body. The bunny, nestled against his thumping chest, felt like the last spark of warmth in a world consumed by ice. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a painful scrape against his throat. He was going to die here.

A single thought, sharp and clear despite the encroaching fog, pierced through the cold. Kyke. He had to reach Kyke. He had to deliver the package. And then, a softer image, the small, trembling rabbit against his chest. He tried to pull it closer, to give it whatever meager warmth he had left. The cold was a heavy blanket, pulling him down, down into the silent, unforgiving darkness. He fought it, a desperate, fading struggle, but the world was shrinking, blurring at the edges. Kyke… the rabbit…

And then, nothing.

Chapter Three

Consciousness returned to Brennan in fragments. First, a sensation of profound, enveloping warmth, so alien after the Tunnels’ brutal chill that it felt like a hallucination. Then, the soft murmur of air, clean and filtered, without the metallic tang of recycled oxygen or the biting sting of frost. A distant, rhythmic hum, deeper and more resonant than any Coal-grade ventilation system, vibrated through the floor. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy, glued shut. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering haze. Where was he? Had he been found? Was this… detention?

He forced his eyes open. Light, soft and diffused, filled the space, unlike the harsh, flickering fluorescents of Allocation or the dim emergency lamps of the Tunnels. It emanated from panels set into a ceiling that curved gently, seamlessly, without the usual exposed conduits or patched repairs. The air smelled faintly of something green, something alive, a scent he hadn’t encountered since the rare, sterile botanical displays in Education. This was clearly an Onyx-grade dwelling, but whose?

He was lying on something incredibly soft, a mattress that seemed to cradle his body, wrapped in a blanket unlike anything he had ever felt. It was impossibly light, yet radiated a deep, consistent warmth that permeated his bones, chasing away the last vestiges of the Tunnels’ chill. This was Onyx-grade, a luxury he couldn’t even have imagined. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with a dull ache. His own tattered coveralls were gone, replaced by a simple, clean t-shirt and trousers. His bag, thankfully, rested on a sleek, minimalist table nearby.

And then he saw it. Huddled in a plush, circular bed in the corner, a small, white form stirred. The rabbit. It was alive. Its fur, now clean and fluffy, twitched as it blinked its dark, intelligent eyes at him. A small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaped Brennan.   The rabbit nudged its nose into the soft fabric of the small bed, then looked at him again, as if assessing him. Does he belong here? Brennan thought as he looked around to see a couple rabbit-sized toys and a little feeding bowl.

“Well, this is a step up from a frozen tunnel,” Brennan muttered, his voice raspy, a hint of his usual cynicism already asserting itself. “Though I’m not sure if being thawed out by the elite is better or worse than just freezing.”

The door to the room slid open silently, revealing Kyke. He stood framed in the doorway for a moment, a sweater draped loosely over one shoulder, his expression unreadable. Kyke’s hair, the color of a moonless night, fell softly around his face. He looked… tired, perhaps. But unharmed.

“You’re awake,” Kyke said, his voice quiet, almost a murmur, yet it filled the silent space. He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with another soft hiss. “And you brought the package.” Kyke nodded towards Brennan’s bag. “And the rabbit.”

Brennan’s mind raced, trying to formulate an explanation, an apology. He was a Coal, caught trespassing, caught with an illegal blanket, now taking Onyx resources. His cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and fear. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, the words catching in his throat. “I don’t know how I got here. The tunnel… the rabbit… I didn’t mean to—” He gestured vaguely, his hands trembling slightly. He was convinced Kyke had no idea who he was, just another Coal runner who’d gotten himself into trouble.

Kyke moved to a low, ergonomic chair near the rabbit’s bed and sat down, his movements fluid and unhurried. He looked at Brennan, his dark eyes surprisingly warm, a hint of something like amusement playing at the corners of his lips. “You passed out,” Kyke said simply. “I found you near the Gamma-9 access point. And you were holding onto this little one for dear life.” He gestured towards the rabbit, which now hopped out of its bed and nuzzled Kyke’s hand.

Brennan swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I saw him. He was freezing.”

Kyke nodded slowly. “He often wanders. He’s quite resourceful. But the Tunnels are no place for him. Or for you, without proper gear.” His gaze lingered on Brennan for a moment, then shifted. “You were in one of my Education classes, weren’t you? Brennan.”

The name, spoken so casually, so certainly, by Kyke, hit him with the force of a physical blow. His breath hitched. “You… you remember me?”

Kyke smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips. “Of course. You used to sit near the vents in the main lecture hall. Always in the back, but you always looked like you were listening to something no one else could hear. And you always had that same determined, slightly rebellious look in your eyes.”

Brennan felt a blush creep up his neck. He’d spent years cultivating invisibility, and yet Kyke, the unreachable Onyx, had seen him. Really seen him. The thought was both mortifying and exhilarating. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta listen to the hum of the universe, even if it’s just the hum of the ventilation system,” Brennan quipped, a flicker of his usual sardonic humor returning. “I… I just tried to stay warm,” he mumbled, gesturing to where his disabled blanket lay folded on a nearby surface, a pathetic grey lump next to the sleek one covering Brennan right now. “My blanket… the manual override. It drains the power, and if you make a mistake, it just… shuts down.” He didn’t need to explain the curfew or the legal repercussions; Kyke, as an Onyx, would know the system’s punitive nature better than anyone.

Kyke’s gaze softened as he looked at Brennan’s inert blanket. “The manual override. Yes, I know the trick. Crude, but effective, for a time.” He paused, then looked back at Brennan, a flicker of something conspiratorial in his eyes. “This blanket I’m wearing,” Kyke continued, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, “it doesn’t track me anymore. And it provides unrestricted warmth. Has for years.”

Brennan stared, dumbfounded. “You… you hacked it?” The idea was audacious, almost unbelievable. An Onyx, subverting his own elite tech?

Kyke nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible shrug. “The Onyx blankets have more complex systems, but also more backdoors, more vulnerabilities if you know where to look. They’re designed for control, yes, but also for customization, for our ‘comfort.’ It was a simple matter of re-routing the compliance protocols, disabling the remote kill switch, and boosting the thermal output.” He gestured to a workbench tucked into a recess of the room, cluttered with delicate tools, glowing data pads, and intricate components.

“Funny thing,” Kyke continued, picking up the package Brennan had delivered. “This was my replacement blanket. The system thinks I ‘innocently’ broke my old one. They’re very trusting of Onyxes, and some Steel, when it comes to their ‘luxury’ items. They just send a new one, no questions asked.” He gave a small, ironic smile. “So, I have a new one to hack later. And they’ll never replace your blanket, you know,” Kyke said, looking at Brennan’s inert grey blanket. “Once flagged for misuse and disabled, Allocation simply issues a new, basic one. And they don’t repair them, either. It’s a waste of resources, and a lesson.”

Kyke held out his hand with a smile.  “Hand me that blanket on the bed,” he said.  Brennan obliged, then watched, mesmerized, as Kyke brought it to the workbench. Kyke’s fingers, long and precise, moved with practiced ease over the fabric, connecting tiny wires to a small, glowing device. There was no grand gesture, no dramatic pronouncement, just the quiet focus of a skilled artisan. He worked for several minutes, the soft hum of his tools the only sound in the room. Brennan felt a strange mix of awe and vulnerability, watching this Onyx, whom he’d admired from afar, quietly dismantling the very system that defined their lives.

Finally, Kyke straightened, holding up the black blanket he had just been wearing. It looked the same, sleek and dark, but something about it felt different, lighter, almost expectant. Kyke reached into a small compartment on his workbench, pulling out a tiny, almost invisible chip, no bigger than a grain of sand. With a delicate click, he embedded it into the fabric. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer ran across the material.

“Here,” Kyke said, holding it out to Brennan. “I call it Regulation Blanket 451. They’ll never replace yours. Might as well have one that listens to you.”

Brennan reached out, his fingers brushing against Kyke’s as he took the blanket. It felt warm, already, a low, steady heat emanating from within. Not the frantic surge of his manual override, but a deep, consistent warmth. He looked at Kyke, a thousand unspoken questions in his eyes. The quiet understanding that passed between them, the shared secret of defiance, felt more profound than any words. Two people, from opposite ends of a rigid world, had just found a fragile, unexpected connection, forged in the cold and the quiet rebellion of a hacked blanket.

Chapter Four

The journey back to the Coal district was a blur of exhaustion and a strange, buzzing energy. Brennan’s body ached from the cold, from the fall, from the sheer audacity of what he’d done. But beneath the physical weariness, something new hummed within him. The Regulation Blanket 451, now tucked securely beneath his jacket, radiated a steady, comforting warmth. It was a warmth unlike any he’d ever known from his own blanket, a warmth that felt… free. Kyke had given him that. Kyke, who had remembered him, who saw something beyond his Coal designation, who had quietly subverted the very tools of their oppression. What it all meant, Brennan couldn’t say. He was just a delivery runner, not a philosopher, but the encounter had left an indelible mark, a quiet revolution in the sterile landscape of his life.

The next few days were a strange mixture of ordinary routine and growing unease. Brennan went on his usual runs, the 451 blanket a silent, warm secret against his skin. He noticed the subtle shifts first. Whispers in the communal kitchens: “Old Man Douglas didn’t show for rations.” “Heard the Edgecombes haven’t opened their door in two days.” Then, the cold spots. Not the deep, biting cold of the Tunnels, but pockets of unnatural chill in corridors that should have been reliably warm. A strange, pervasive silence began to settle over the Coal sectors, a quiet that felt less like peace and more like absence. The usual cacophony of children playing, arguments echoing from thin walls, the distant thrum of Coal-grade machinery all seemed muted and fading.

One morning, the silence was absolute. Brennan woke to an unnatural stillness, the kind that pricked at the back of his neck. His own blanket, 451, hummed steadily, its warmth a stark contrast to the creeping chill in the air. He pulled on his worn jacket, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach, and he noticed that the hum of his new blanket (a basic one that really only allowed him to check in for curfew) was strangely gone.  Stepping out into the communal corridor, the air was frigid, biting. The usual faint smell of recycled air and stale food was replaced by something else, something metallic and faintly sweet, like a broken cooling unit.

He saw Mrs. Walton’s door ajar. She was a quiet woman, always up before dawn. He pushed it open further. The small, cramped living space was bathed in the dim emergency lighting. And there she was, in her bed, still wrapped in her faded grey Regulation Blanket. Her eyes were open, glazed over, staring at the ceiling. Her skin was a waxy blue, and a thin layer of frost dusted her eyelashes. She was frozen solid. Her blanket, a standard Coal-issue unit, lay inert, a useless shroud.

Brennan stumbled back, a choked gasp escaping him. He looked down the corridor. Another door, slightly ajar. Then another. And another. All silent. All cold.

He pushed into his next-door neighbor’s unit, a young couple with a newborn. They lay together, tangled in their blankets, faces serene in the grip of death, a thin sheen of ice on the baby’s tiny forehead. Their blankets, too, were dark, lifeless.

The horror was a physical punch to the gut. This wasn’t a malfunction. This wasn’t an accident. This was… something catastrophic. A system-wide failure, perhaps. The sheer scale of it was incomprehensible.

Throughout the morning, a cold, synthesized voice echoed through the city’s public address system, devoid of any discernible emotion. “Attention, citizens. We regret to announce a widespread firmware update failure affecting older Coal-issued Regulation Blanket units. This unforeseen technical anomaly has resulted in isolated thermal regulation inconsistencies. Rest assured, Allocation is working diligently to assess and address the situation. New units will be distributed to affected sectors as resources become available. Your compliance is appreciated.”

Firmware update failure. Isolated thermal regulation inconsistencies. Brennan stood in the middle of the frozen corridor, the government’s sterile lies ringing in his ears. His hands clenched into fists, trembling not from cold, but from a simmering fear. They weren’t “inconsistencies.” They were deaths. Thousands of them, probably. A terrifying, unprecedented disaster.

He looked down at his own chest, at the subtle bulge of Regulation Blanket 451. It hummed, warm and alive. This was why he was breathing. This was why his heart still hammered in his chest. Kyke. Kyke had saved him. Kyke had known enough to give him a blanket that listened to him, not to the system.

A new, terrifying thought seized him. Kyke. If the system was experiencing such a widespread “failure,” what about Kyke? Kyke had received a replacement blanket, the one Brennan himself had delivered. A brand new Onyx unit, fresh from Allocation, designed to be tracked, designed to be controlled. Kyke hadn’t had time to hack it, not fully. He had given Brennan his old hacked blanket, the one that was truly free.

Panic, raw and visceral, clawed at Brennan’s throat. He had to get back to Kyke. He had to warn him. He had to know if he was safe from this catastrophic failure. He turned, ignoring the frozen bodies, ignoring the silent, dead apartments. His feet pounded on the icy floor, a desperate, frantic rhythm. He ran, faster than he’d ever run before, back towards the Deep Tunnels, back towards the forbidden depths, propelled by a terrifying mix of guilt, fear, and a desperate, burning need to find the one person who had seen him, and perhaps, truly understood.

He bypassed the Allocation Hub, taking a series of risky maintenance tunnels he knew, pushing past frost-covered pipes and dimly lit service conduits. The cold in these passages was intense, but 451 hummed its steady warmth, a defiant beacon against the encroaching chill. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but he pushed on, the image of Kyke’s quiet smile, of the small, white rabbit, driving him forward.

He reached the access point to Kyke’s quarters, the reinforced door still sealed. He fumbled with the panel, his fingers numb, inputting the code Kyke had briefly shown him. The door hissed open.

The air inside was cold. Not the absolute cold of the Deep Tunnels, but the unnatural chill of a space that should have been warm. The soft, diffused light panels were dark, replaced by the faint, flickering glow of emergency power. The scent of living green was gone, replaced by the sterile tang of stale air.

Brennan’s heart seized. “Kyke?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

He stumbled into the main living area, his eyes darting around the room, searching. The sleek, minimalist furniture was untouched, but the vibrant life had been sucked from the room. His gaze fell upon Kyke’s workbench, where several data pads lay scattered. One of them, still faintly glowing, projected a series of intricate graphs and text. Brennan snatched it up, his numb fingers fumbling with the interface.

The data scrolled across the screen: reports from other cities, other sectors. Not “firmware updates,” but “thermal regulation purges.” News articles, scrubbed from public access, detailing spikes in “cold-related deaths” in impoverished zones. Insurance payouts, mysteriously denied. Legal cases, abruptly disappearing from the public record. It wasn’t just a failure. It was a pattern. A deliberate, calculated culling. The “firmware update” was a lie. The system wasn’t malfunctioning; it was pruning. The horror, cold and absolute, finally settled in. They were killing the poor.

And then he saw him. Slumped against the low ergonomic chair near the rabbit’s bed, was Kyke. His Onyx blanket, the new, replacement one, lay inert around him, its black fabric dull and lifeless. Kyke’s skin was pale, his lips tinged blue, his breathing shallow, ragged gasps that barely disturbed the still air. The small rabbit was huddled against his chest, shivering violently, its tiny body a testament to the cold that had swept through this once-warm sanctuary.

Brennan dropped to his knees, his own hacked blanket still pulsing with life against his chest. Kyke was barely breathing.

Chapter Five

Brennan dropped to his knees beside Kyke, the data pad clattering forgotten to the floor. The horror of the research, the chilling clarity of the system’s true intent, solidified into a singular, desperate focus: Kyke. His own hacked blanket, Regulation Blanket 451, pulsed with a steady warmth against his chest, a stark, living contrast to the inert black fabric wrapped around Kyke.

“Kyke!” Brennan’s voice was raw, a desperate rasp. He fumbled with the new Onyx blanket, trying to pull it away, but it was heavy, lifeless. He tore at the clasps of his own jacket, pulling 451 free. It unfurled, a familiar grey, but radiating an almost defiant heat in the cold room. With trembling hands, he carefully, frantically, wrapped it around Kyke’s slumped form, covering him from shoulders to knees.

He watched, breath held, for any sign of a shutdown, a warning ping, a synthesized voice announcing “unauthorized dual-user detection” or “non-compliant thermal signature.” But there was nothing. Only the soft, steady hum of 451 as its internal coils whirred to life, pouring warmth into Kyke’s chilling body. The air around Kyke seemed to shimmer faintly as the heat began to fight the cold that had seeped into his bones.

Kyke stirred, a faint moan escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, then slowly, painfully, opened. His dark eyes, glazed with a film of cold, struggled to focus on Brennan. A shallow, rattling breath hitched in his chest. The rabbit, which had been huddled against Kyke, now cautiously moved, nudging its nose against the warming fabric of 451.

“Brennan?” Kyke’s voice was a whisper, thin and reedy, barely audible above the blanket’s gentle hum. “You… you came back.”

“Of course I came back,” Brennan choked out, a wave of relief so profound it almost buckled his knees. He reached out, his hand hovering, then gently resting on Kyke’s forehead. It was cold, but less so than a moment ago. “What happened? Your blanket… it just… shut down.”

Kyke coughed, a weak, dry sound. He shifted slightly, trying to gather his strength. “The new one,” he whispered, his gaze flickering to the inert black blanket on the floor. “It was… a trap. They knew. My old blanket… the tampering. They replaced it with a kill switch. Waited for me to activate it.” His words were fragmented, punctuated by gasps, but the meaning was chillingly clear. They had targeted him. Not a random “firmware update.” A deliberate assassination.

Brennan’s stomach churned. The images from the data pad flashed in his mind: the “purges,” the disappearing cases. Kyke hadn’t just been caught in a system-wide failure; he had been chosen. Because he was too close to the truth. Because he had subverted their control. And Brennan, by taking Kyke’s old blanket, by accepting 451, had inadvertently tied himself to Kyke’s fate.

Kyke’s hand, cold and weak, reached out, finding Brennan’s arm. His grip was surprisingly firm for a moment. “My research… the data pads. You saw?”

Brennan nodded, his throat tight. “I saw. All of it. The cities… the purges. They’re killing us.” He looked at Kyke, a shared, terrifying understanding passing between them. “And now… now they’ll know about you. About me. About 451.”

Kyke’s eyes, though still clouded, held a flicker of grim recognition. “Yes. My records… they’ll be flagged. Non-compliant. Deceased, probably. And yours… for unauthorized access, for theft, for… association.” He coughed again, a shiver running through him despite 451’s warmth. “We’re ghosts, Brennan. Outside the system. No ID. No protections.”

A wave of despair threatened to engulf Brennan, but then he looked at Kyke, at the faint color returning to his lips, at the steady rise and fall of his chest under the grey blanket. He was alive. And Brennan was alive. Because of this blanket. Because of Kyke.

“I’m sorry,” Kyke whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes held a profound weariness, a hint of guilt. “I put you in danger. This was my fight.”

Brennan shook his head, a fierce, protective instinct rising within him. He tightened his grip on Kyke’s arm. “No,” he said, his voice low, firm. “You saved me first. In the Deep Tunnels. With this blanket.” He patted 451, its warmth a tangible link between them. “We’re in this now. Both of us.”

Kyke looked at him, and in his eyes, Brennan saw not just exhaustion, but a flicker of something else: gratitude, and a quiet, desperate hope. Kyke didn’t need to say anything. His gaze drifted to the door, then back to Brennan, a silent question. What now?

Brennan understood. There was no going back. No appealing to Allocation, no hiding in the Coal sectors. The system had marked them. Their lives, as they knew them, were over. They had to disappear. Before the system finished what it started. Before the cold, silent erasure reached them both.

He squeezed Kyke’s arm. “We need to move,” he said, his voice steady, despite the tremor in his hands. “Before they send someone to check on their ‘firmware update failure’ here.”

Kyke nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering strength, the warmth of 451 a fragile shield against the world. The rabbit, sensing the shift, hopped onto Kyke’s chest, a small, white beacon of life. The silence in the room was heavy, charged with the unspoken dangers ahead, but also with the quiet, fierce bond that had just been forged in the heart of the system’s coldest betrayal.

Chapter Six

The city hummed with a false sense of normalcy, a thin veneer over the chilling silence that had fallen over the Coal sectors. They finally stopped playing the message over the loudspeaker.  Night had descended, cloaking the hub in deeper shadows, a blessing for Brennan’s desperate mission. He moved like a ghost through the deserted service tunnels, the steady, enjoying quiet warmth of Regulation Blanket 451 beneath his jacket. Kyke, still weak but recovering, was hidden safely in a forgotten maintenance closet near the Tunnels’ entrance, the rabbit nestled close. They had a plan, a desperate, half-formed escape route, but first, Brennan had one last, crucial delivery to make.

He reached the Allocation Hub, its vast interior dimly lit by automated security lamps. Surveillance was low at this hour, the Steel supervisors and Onyx officials long gone to their insulated quarters. Only automated drones patrolled, their soft whirring barely audible. Brennan slipped past a deactivated cleaning bot, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He headed directly for the old terminal, the one he’d used before, the one that hadn’t been updated in cycles.

His fingers, still calloused but now imbued with a new sense of purpose, flew over the interface. He called up his forged Education ID. The screen flickered, a momentary lag, and then, miraculously, the familiar green “ACCESS GRANTED” appeared. A surge of defiant triumph, small but potent, coursed through him. It still worked. For now.

He navigated to the long-distance shipping manifest, a section usually reserved for high-priority corporate transfers. He input the destination: his sister’s sector, far across the country. A place he hadn’t seen in years, a place that felt like another lifetime. He selected the largest available package size, paid the exorbitant fee with the last of his stolen credits, and then, with a deep breath, prepared the shipment.

He carefully pulled Regulation Blanket 451 off of his person. It felt heavier now, charged with the lives it had saved, with the secret it carried. He also retrieved the data chip Kyke had given him, a tiny, almost invisible sliver of memory. It contained everything: the chilling graphs of thermal regulation purges, the class-based firmware logic that differentiated units, the fragmented kill lists Kyke had managed to uncover. Proof. Undeniable, horrifying proof. Brennan carefully tucked the chip deep into the lining of the blanket, sewing it in with a loose thread he’d pulled from his sweater. It was a crude hiding spot, but effective enough, he hoped.

He placed the blanket, now a vessel of truth, into the designated shipping container. The drone hummed to life, ready to seal the package. Brennan hesitated, his hand hovering over the confirmation button. Would it make it? Would his sister even receive it? Would she understand what it meant, this luxury blanket, this tiny chip, this desperate warning from a brother she hadn’t seen in years, a brother the system now considered dead? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. But he had to try. It was all he could do.

He pressed the button. The drone whirred, sealing the container with a final, mechanical hiss. The package slid onto a conveyor belt, disappearing into the labyrinthine depths of the shipping network.

Brennan watched it go, a strange mix of emptiness and fierce resolve settling over him. He had sent it. A message in a bottle, cast into the vast, cold ocean of their regulated world. He slipped back into the shadows, moving silently through the hub, his forged ID still active, a temporary reprieve. He turned to make his way back to the Tunnels, back to Kyke.

In the distance, he suddenly heard someone in the distance shout, “Hey, you, stop!”  Brennan broke into a run, not looking back

They were fugitives now, hunted by a system that had just revealed its true, murderous face. Scared, yes. But alive. And armed with a truth that, if it reached the right hands, might just be enough to spark a different kind of warmth.

It wasn’t a revolution. Not yet. But it was on its way.