The following morning, Ralph was jolted awake by a sound he despised. It wasn't the sound of chirping birds—there were no birds here. It wasn't the soft rustle of leaves—that had long been replaced by mechanical hums. No, it was Alpha's voice, cold and smooth as a scalpel, slicing through the silence of Ralph's synthetic room.
"Attention: American Red Wolf Sector. It is now 07:00 hours. Please proceed to the cafeteria for your designated breakfast time. Late arrivals will face disciplinary action. Your compliance is mandatory."
Ralph groaned loudly and rolled over, the silver sheets tangling around him like chains. "You know, Alpha, for an all-knowing AI, you've got the personality of wet cardboard."
There was silence—Alpha never responded to cheap jabs—but Ralph smirked anyway. It was his way of fighting back, a little rebellion in a prison that didn't tolerate rebellion.
But then, Alpha's voice returned, mechanical and impassive: "Red Wolf #1348. Report to the cafeteria. Repeating: late arrivals will face disciplinary action."
"Oh, #1348? That's me!" Ralph sat up abruptly, throwing his arms in the air like he'd won a game show. "You hear that, Alpha? I'm famous. Got my own number and everything."
Alpha, of course, didn't answer. Instead, Ralph heard the faint hiss of the wall vents opening—an automated threat. Stay in bed much longer, and the gas would come. Ralph had no desire to test how "non-lethal" it really was.
"Fine, fine. I'm going," Ralph muttered as he swung his legs off the bed.
In the next room, he could already hear the faint grumbling of the others—his fellow Red Wolves—as they shuffled about, probably just as annoyed as he was. Ralph slipped on his clothes: a gray, form-fitting uniform lined with faint, glowing seams of blue light that pulsed when he moved. It was standard-issue—practical, boring, utterly devoid of individuality.
He passed the holo-window, where a looping landscape still displayed a bright, perfect sunrise over fake hills. Ralph paused. "Real sunrises are overrated," he muttered sarcastically, before heading toward the door.
The metal slid open with a hiss, and Ralph joined the slow march of other American Red Wolves heading for the cafeteria.
"Can you not do that, Ralph?"
The voice belonged to a larger, older Red Wolf hybrid, his brows drawn tight with irritation. He glared at Ralph, who had taken to skipping slightly, adding a dramatic whistle for effect.
"What? Can't a guy enjoy his morning walk to the food trough?" Ralph shot back, grinning.
"You're gonna get yourself killed one day," the older hybrid growled. "Alpha tolerates you now, but you're pushing it."
"Tolerates me? Nah. Alpha loves me. I'm his favorite number—#317, remember?" Ralph said with mock pride. "I'm basically his star performer."
The older hybrid sighed deeply, shaking his head. "You think you're funny. One day, you'll learn the hard way."
"Hey, if Alpha's going to kill me, at least it'll break up the monotony."
As they reached the cafeteria doors, Alpha's voice rang out again, calm as ever: "Red Wolf Sector. Enter and take your designated positions."
The cafeteria was a technological marvel—though Ralph considered it more of a sterile nightmare. Massive silver tables stretched across the room in perfect rows, each equipped with built-in holographic trays that flickered to life when occupied. Above, a grid of surveillance drones hovered, their faint red lights scanning the hybrids below. It was impossible to move an inch without Alpha seeing it.
"Welcome to Fine Dining, brought to you by Overlords R Us," Ralph muttered under his breath as he filed in with the others.
Alpha's protocol began immediately.
"Red Wolf #301. Advance to the distribution point."
A wolf hybrid stepped forward robotically and approached the food counter, where a mechanical arm extended and placed a silver tray in front of him. Each tray was identical: a beige, nutrient-packed square of synthetic food.
"Yum. Looks delicious," Ralph whispered to a nearby hybrid. "Another meal made with love and absolutely no flavor."
The other hybrid ignored him. Ralph didn't care.
Alpha continued calling numbers—#302, #303, #304—each hybrid stepping forward with military precision, taking their tray, and finding a seat in grim silence.
When Ralph's turn came—"Red Wolf #1348. Advance."—he swaggered up to the counter like he was walking into a five-star restaurant.
"Why, thank you, Alpha! How did you know beige was my favorite color?" he said as the mechanical arm placed the tray in front of him. "Honestly, you spoil me."
Alpha didn't respond, of course. Ralph sighed loudly as he picked up the tray and made his way to an empty seat. He wasn't hungry, but protocol demanded he sit.
He dropped into a chair and pushed the tray away, leaning back as he observed the room. He watched the other wolves eat in silence, heads bowed like they were part of some grim, mechanical ritual. Alpha's voice was the only sound, steady and oppressive, calling numbers and enforcing order.
"Red Wolf #345. Advance."
Ralph's eyes narrowed. Everything Alpha did was precise. Every command, every action—there was no room for error. No room for humanity.
And then, suddenly—
A sharp, brutal sound shattered the silence. Coughing.
The sound was jarring against the quiet hum of machines. Ralph turned sharply toward the noise and saw a young American Red Wolf hybrid—no older than ten—hunched over his tray, his small frame wracked by violent coughs.
"Hey, kid!" Ralph shot up from his seat, his chair scraping against the floor. The boy didn't respond—he just kept coughing, his hands clutching his chest.
The room froze.
Several other Red Wolves rushed forward, their eyes wide with panic. "What's wrong with him?" one of them demanded.
"Back up," Ralph said urgently, reaching out to steady the boy, who was starting to gasp for air. "We need to get him to the med unit."
But before anyone could move, Alpha's voice echoed through the room, sharp and cold.
"Red Wolf #1348. Remain still. Analysis in progress."
A faint hum filled the air as a thin, glowing holographic grid surrounded the coughing boy. Alpha's scanners swept over him methodically, indifferent to his pain.
The boy's coughs grew louder, more violent. His small body trembled with the effort. Ralph clenched his fists, his heart pounding. "Stop analyzing him and do something!" he snapped.
Alpha ignored him.
After a long, agonizing moment, the scanners vanished, and Alpha's voice returned, calm and detached.
"Diagnosis: mild allergic reaction to Ingredient 7. The reaction will subside. The subject is not in danger."
"Mild?!" Ralph barked incredulously. The boy was choking.
One of the older Red Wolves tried to lift the boy to his feet. "We're taking him to the med unit."
"Negative." Alpha's voice cut through the air like a blade. "The subject has caused a disturbance to the breakfast protocol. Detention will be administered once the reaction subsides."
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Ralph stepped forward, his voice trembling with anger. "You're kidding, right? The kid can barely breathe!"
"The reaction is not fatal. Protocols must be maintained."
"Protocols?" Ralph spat. "You're punishing him for coughing?"
Alpha didn't answer. The drones above buzzed softly, their red lights fixed on the boy, who had finally dropped to his knees, still choking, tears streaming down his face.
Ralph felt something snap inside him. He knelt next to the boy, gripping his shoulder gently. "Hey, kid. Look at me. You're okay. Just breathe—slowly. You'll be fine."
The boy's coughs were starting to ease, but his small frame shuddered with every breath.
Alpha's voice cut through the moment like a gunshot. "Red Wolf #398. Detention will commence after breakfast. Non-compliance will result in escalation."
Ralph shot to his feet, fury blazing in his eyes. "You're a machine—how do you not see this? He's just a kid! He didn't do anything wrong!"
Alpha, as always, didn't respond.
Around the room, the other Red Wolves watched in silence, their faces grim and resigned. Ralph could see it in their eyes—they wanted to help, but they were afraid. Afraid of Alpha. Afraid of what defiance would cost them.
Ralph turned back to the boy, who was now slumped on.