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Slurp, slurp, slurp as Atsumu, hair unkempt with a loose necktie, eats his sixth cup of the remaining instant noodles not enough to last two weeks. On both sides of the half-functioning keyboard are the cups he emptied earlier—three on the left and two on the right.
If not for the images being displayed on the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling “smart” monitor panels two rows away from his station of the COMMUNICATIONS sector, he wouldn’t even be able to see the slightest thing. Not even his own hands.
The gigantic screens show pictures of a dead world—his home.
Cities burned to the ground. Oceans, lakes, canals and ponds dried up. Thick, black volcanic ashes conquered the skies—covering the whole wide world.
In the lower corners are freeze frames of news reports, distorted and blurry. Those reporters all had the same look of fright and worry. Different languages, but conveying one, singular meaning: we are doomed.
During the fourth cup, an hour or two after the third one, a rather compelling notion knocked on his door. What if I turn off everything and just sit? That way, I wouldn’t have to see anything.
Atsumu shook his head, and carried on with finishing the so-called meal. But if he were to actually go forward with it, no one would raise their hands in objection.
Around him is the absence of them—of everyone.
Documents scattered all over the floor. Chairs knocked over. Picture frames of loved ones left behind. Some stations still have the mini displays on, albeit showing old data from hours ago. Atsumu turned his off two hours into “The Silence”.
The Silence is exactly what it is. In the midst of the initial chaos of evacuation (of which, according to the super-computers, can be labeled as a complete failure), Atsumu opted out of running away with others.
He wished them well, an au revoir. Just maybe, if luck existed, he would get to see them again. To shake their hands. To bring them into teary embraces. To laugh with them. To celebrate for surviving.
Maybe we can rebuild.
There is no place for a maybe.
The Earth turned quiet. Simple and quick.
He couldn’t reach anybody, despite having the rank of a communications officer. Dials after dials. Texts after texts. Nothing went through to the outside. Even with a direct line to the International Space Station, he could reach not a single soul.
His phone is dead. No use in trying to find power to revive it.
Yet, he can recall what is on his cell. The lock-screen is a picture of him and Hinata on their honeymoon trip to Atsumu’s hometown two years prior. There are three home-screens in total, each of them having a background picture of a logo of his favorite volleyball team—the MSBY Jackals. Or, to be specific, the team his husband is a part of.
There are 12,357 media files on it, ranging from screenshots to signed PDF files. Out of 512GB, he manages to stay below the halfway threshold of available storages.
An all-in-one-go gulp signals that he’s finished with this cup. He sets it on the right side. Now there's an equal amount of used plastic cups on the two sides.
Atsumu leans back, his hands acting as a makeshift pillow, with his eyes focusing on the screens before him.
Murmuring, he makes a small plan of what to do tomorrow. He’d start by going to the south side of this underground complex. Shouldn’t be too far off. Just a little trip to scavenge more power reserves.
Afterwards, he’d try to find more supplies. Those in the south wing often took pride in having much more intriguing variants of food and drinks. A possibility of them not being spoiled just yet lingers.
Oh, and he might just take a visit to the garden in the west wing too. Maybe I’ll eat lunch there.
The on-screen photographs switch from one picture to another in a slow interval. Atsumu watches them, one by one, in a continuous loop.
He’s got time. Plenty of it.