Chapter One – The Hundred
"What's going on? Am I dreaming, or what?"
These were the first words I muttered, my voice a dry rasp, as I stared at the scene before me, a spectacle that defied all logic.
I was currently sitting on a hard, plasti-steel bench, my body feeling unnervingly stiff, as if I'd been frozen in place for a century.
It seemed I was in the middle of a classroom.
I could see rows of other students, all wearing those distinct, utilitarian jumpsuits—faded grays and blues that screamed 'post-apocalyptic chic' or, more accurately, 'space station hand-me-downs.' They looked like costumes straight out of that weird American TV show.
All their eyes were glued to the teacher.
A woman with stern features and hair the color of old walnut sat at the front, poised before a large digital slate. She was scribbling a mathematical equation with precise, sharp strokes. The soft scritch-scratch of the stylus was the only sound in the pressurized silence.
I let out a breath slowly, a controlled exhale meant to steady the sudden, frantic hammering of my heart. I took several moments, each one stretching like taffy, to try and comprehend the absolute absurdity of my situation.
At the same time, something utterly bizarre began to happen.
A voice, cool and synthetic, echoed inside my skull, not through my ears. It was distant, yet unnervingly clear.
[Greetings, Host Number 66.]
The greeting hung in the mental air. The voice was… off. It sounded feminine, but in the way a highly advanced text-to-speech program might—smooth, cadenced, yet completely devoid of human warmth or imperfection. I couldn't find the words to describe it fully, but the simple, terrifying truth was: it was not human.
[Host Number 66, you are now within one of the American television series known as *The Hundred*.]
What? An American series called The 100?
A moment of fragmented memory… That was the show I'd binge-watched just a week ago! A thrilling series, seven seasons long. It started with a compelling premise but then, oh boy, it spiraled. It began with people surviving a nuclear war in space, then returning to Earth, facing primitive grounder tribes, then fighting genocidal maniacs trying to edit DNA to avoid radiation, and finally jumping to another planet and time-travel shenanigans!
Honestly, by the middle, I had started to lose track. What was even happening?
But why was this bizarre voice telling me I was inside that show? That was scientifically impossible! How could anyone be transported into a fictional, purely imaginary narrative?
The sheer illogic of it made my head spin.
But a minute later, I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. The touch was solid, real, anchoring me painfully to this insanity.
"What's going on with you, (Jordan)? Something wrong?"
The voice came from a young man sitting next to me. He had warm, dark skin that spoke of African-American heritage, and a head of dense, black hair, cropped close and sharply defined. I examined him in a frantic, split-second glance before my mouth opened and words tumbled out—words I hadn't even consciously formed.
"I'm fine, just… disoriented. You know, I feel like the stuff we're learning now will be really important. So I'm trying to focus," I heard myself say, my voice strangely calm compared to the storm inside.
The dark-skinned youth merely shrugged his shoulders, a simple, fluid motion. He offered a quiet, slightly confused look before turning back to gaze with dutiful attention at the teacher, who now seemed to be finishing her important notation.
She turned around with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a practiced, instructional smile.
"This simple mathematical equation," she said, tapping the slate, "is an easy guide on how to procure water efficiently. As long as a sufficient quantity of trees is available, this amount will suffice for several people to drink from."
As she finished speaking, the world before me glitched.
A screen, black as the void outside a viewport, materialized in the center of my vision. White text scrawled across it like old terminal code. It looked like a game HUD, but sterile, minimalist. Just a white-bordered square with black center, and then words formed.
[Host Number 66. Successfully transferred to the television series *The Hundred*. Primary Mission: Ensure the safe arrival of all travelers to the ground.]
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Perhaps the only way to describe my feelings in that moment was pure, unadulterated panic. I've been transported into a show. Literally. A show where people are about to be exposed to lethal radiation, and I'm stuck on a space station that kills people to conserve air!
Maybe I hadn't fully processed it until that exact second.
In the moment I tried to stand up—to flee, to scream, to do anything—my body moved of its own volition. My legs, still uncoordinated with shock, tangled with the bench.
THUMP-CLANG!
The sound was horrendously loud in the quiet classroom. My hip collided sharply with the unforgiving edge of the seat, and I let out an involuntary grunt of pain.
Everyone stopped moving.
All heads swiveled towards me, a wave of curious, amused, and annoyed stares. The teacher—the woman with the brown hair who looked to be at least in her early forties—pinned me with a gaze that could freeze reactor coolant.
"(Jordan Peterson)," she said, her voice deceptively quiet, dripping with formal authority. "Would you care to tell me why you are standing? The lesson is not concluded."
She said it with such immense, overwhelming officiousness that it stole the air from my lungs. I just stared at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on the Ark's deck. Inside, my mind was a screaming chorus: What do I say? What in the actual hell do I say? Am I in a TV show? Is this woman asking me what's wrong? Lady, I've been kidnapped and dropped into a teenage dystopian nightmare!
Contrary to my internal meltdown, I heard my own voice speak, while I desperately tried to swallow the fear coating my throat and scrambling my thoughts.
"Nothing, Ms. (Griffin). I just… feel a bit of dizziness. I need to go to the bathroom, if you please."
She looked at me for a long, scrutinizing minute. So did everyone else in the class. It felt like they were watching a bad performance, a pathetic attempt at a joke that wasn't funny. Not even a little bit.
On the other side of the room, Ms. (Griffin) let out a sigh heavy with exasperation. She gestured towards the door with her stylus.
"You have five minutes to return. No more. Otherwise, I will have the guards escort you back. Forcibly."
I nodded my head meekly, the motion feeling stiff and robotic.
I turned and fumbled for the door handle. The smooth metal was cool under my clammy palm. With a soft hiss-whirr, the door slid open. I stumbled out, and it sealed shut behind me with a definitive clunk.
There, in the corridor, I closed my eyes tightly.
This isn't real. This isn't happening.
I opened them.
The sight before me surpassed all human imagination—at least, the imagination I possessed just a few hours ago when I was in a completely different place.
I was looking at space.
A massive, reinforced viewport dominated the curved corridor wall. Beyond it was an endless, swallowing blackness, studded with the relentless, cold pinpricks of distant stars. And there, centered perfectly, hung Earth.
A majestic, swirling orb of blue, wrapped in delicate veils of white cloud, with swathes of green and brown landmasses peeking through. It was about 70% that brilliant, heartbreaking blue. It hung in the void, a beautiful, fragile marble against the infinite dark. Small, blinking lights—other station modules or satellites—drifted silently in the periphery.
If my earlier descriptions were lacking, I now needed to say it out loud, in a voice so low I was trying to contain the volcanic eruption of panic I had barely suppressed seconds ago.
"My God…" I whispered, my breath fogging the cool transparisteel. "I'm really in space."
The vast, silent, indifferent cosmos stared back, offering no answers.
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End of Chapter.
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A Note from the Narrative Consciousness:
Well,there it is. (Jordan) is having a day. Stuck on the Ark with a mission he didn't ask for, a voice in his head, and a serious case of existential whiplash. How do you think he'll handle his first crisis? Will he try to find (Bellamy) or (Clarke)? Or will he just hide in the bathroom until the dropships launch? Let me know your thoughts in a comment below!