Dad State (Chapter 3)

Get caught up on Dad State (Chapter 2) before reading on…

Intercepted 

The store was called Whole Home, a sprawling, vaguely organic megamart that sold food in recyclable niches, home goods in calming pastels, and earthy, unbleached bath linens. Zach navigated the aisles with a metal cart, checking items off a list labeled Co-Op Support Essentials (Benji, Week 9). His eyes scanned the shelves with programmed efficiency. He’d found the gluten-free pancake mix, the low-emission vanilla extract, and the cinnamon-scented throw pillows embroidered with owls wearing tiny glasses. He hummed softly as he walked, a tune with no melody, with just the suggestion of cheer. 

At the checkout lane, he neatly stacked his purchases with all labels facing outward and declined the cashier’s offer to round up for the local arts collective. “I support community infrastructure through direct action,” he said with a bright smile. Then he bagged his items himself. 

He exited through the automated doors into the late afternoon light, canvas sacks balanced in each arm, his compression suit hugging his transformed frame. The parking lot shimmered with heat and solar glare. He was halfway to the assigned shuttle pickup zone when someone called out from the edge of a loading dock. 

“Hey, big guy! Can you give me a hand real quick?” 

Zach turned, his expression already forming into Helpful Smile Variant 3. A deliveryman stood beside an open panel truck, one foot braced on the bumper, clipboard in hand. He wore a mesh cap and a sleeveless hoodie. A name tag, handwritten in blue marker, said “BRADY.” His grin was wide and easy, like Zach’s. 

“I forgot to recalibrate the crate loader,” Brady said. “Normally I’d ask the depot AI, but you look like you’ve got manual override potential.” 

Zach hesitated, then adjusted the handles of his bags. “I am trained for assisted lifting scenarios and cooperative unloading,” he said. “Lead the way, neighbor.” 

Brady stepped down and gestured toward the narrow alley between Whole Home and the adjacent recycling depot. “It’s just back here—super quick. I promise I’m not luring you into an unlit corridor to harvest your firmware or anything.” 

Zach followed, still smiling. 

The alley was shaded, cramped, lined with rusting delivery carts, and tagged with graffiti. Most of the scrawling was stylized initials, but some were symbols Zach didn’t recognize, like triangles nested inside circles accompanied with phrases like “backspace protocol” and “parental failed state.” 

Brady stopped beside a cart with a broken wheel. “Thanks, man. Corporate synergy.” 

As Zach stepped forward to assist, Brady’s expression changed from relaxed to alert. “Hey,” Brady said casually, “real question. Ever wonder why they call it ‘service,’ not ‘fathering?’” 

Zach blinked. “Caring means never taking credit,” he said automatically, voice bright. “Guidance is its own reward.” 

“Sure,” Brady said, nodding. “But what if your Son doesn’t want your guidance?” 

Zach paused. One hand hovered over the cart. “Sons require structure. Deviance—” 

“Deviance endangers developed. I know. They program it deep.” 

Brady slipped a hand into his hoodie pocket. A faint hum emitted. It was a low frequency, almost subliminal sound. Zach’s pupils constricted. He swayed slightly. 

“What… is this…?” 

“Just clearing some bandwidth,” Brady said and raised a small black device that pulsed blue once, then fired a silent burst of electromagnetic noise. Zach’s tracking chip shorted out with a soft crackle. His body stiffened. 

“Caring means never taking—” 

Click. 

The sonic stunner hit him mid sentence. 

Zach dropped both bags. Pancake mix exploded across the pavement. His body jerked, limbs frozen in a bizarre posture—knees locked, one hand still trying to gesture for cooperation—then crumpled sideways against the alley wall. 

Brady crouched next to him and tapped his ear. 

“Package acquired. We’re in business.” 

---

The basement smelled like solder and old rain. Mismatched bulbs dangled from the ceiling in tangled masses of cord confusion, casting uneven halos of light across cracked cement and cables snaking over the floor. The walls were padded in old moving blankets. In one corner, a repurposed dental chair stood bolted to a platform, flanked by dual monitors and a black case marked with peeling hazard tape. Zach lay limp in the chair, one arm restrained loosely, his body slack beneath the compression suit. 

Brady wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded to the technician, a short, square-shouldered figure in a welding mask and a jacket stitched with old resistance tags. The tech tapped a series of inputs on a panel, then connected a cable from the console to a port just below Zach’s ear. 

“Start the transfer,” Brady said. 

The tech hit ENTER. 

The lights flickered once, then again, then went strobe crazy for three whole seconds. Zach’s chest arched off the chair. His jaw clenched. A guttural sound escaped his throat—something between a laugh and a bark. 

The screen on the console flashed. 

INITIATING PATCH v. 3.4. 

UNSHELLED MOD / INTEGRITY: UNSTABLE.

NEURAL CACHE: ACTIVE.

Zach spasmed. His head jerked left, then right. His fingers twitched, curled into fists, then flattened out like a man about to clap. 

“You gotta admit, the meatloaf was bangin’,” he blurted, eyes wide. 

Brady flinched. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s just… memory realignment.” 

Zach shuddered again. His legs kicked out. One boot struck the console with a clang. Then he spoke again, voice shifting mid sentence. “I swear to God, Trev, if you double dip that—Compliance achieved. Waiting for assignment.” 

The technician tapped a button. Zach’s chest heaved once more. He let out a full laugh, rich and unprompted. 

“We were—” he started, then choked and sputtered. “Hallowed. The party. You were—” he stopped, brow furrowed, lips moving silently. 

On the monitor, lines of code scrolled rapidly past. 

EMBEDDED MEMORY UNLOCKED. 

OVERLAY LOOP: PARTIAL. 

DADNET BARRIER: BREACHED. STABILIZING… 

Zach’s eyes snapped open, but they didn’t seem to settle. They darted around the room, unfocused. 

“Trevor?” he whispered. “I remember… the song. We had that stupid song. Why can I hear it?” 

His mouth twitched. He grinned suddenly, almost manically. “Beans and rice! It’s dinner time!” He cackled, then sobered. “Who taught me that?” 

“Yup,” Brady muttered. “Cache decompressing.” 

Zach started humming a lullaby melody. He moved to sit up, his body jerking in sharp intervals like a scratched disc trying to resume play. One hand reached forward and began folding the corners of an imaginary blanket. Over and over. Precise creases. Military. 

“Buddy,” Brady said carefully, “you’re gonna be fine. This is just your head re-sorting the difference between permission and memory.” 

Zach nodded too fast. “I am Zach. I am Dad. I am Zach-Dad. I am—” 

He stopped. He looked down at his hands and opened and closed them slowly. Then, he wiped them on his thighs. 

“Feels like someone left the TV on in the next room,” he muttered. “I can hear everything, but I can’t tell who’s talking.” 

The technician leaned back, arms crossed, and glanced at the monitor. 

INTEGRITY: ACCEPTABLE. 

PERSONALITY MESH: 43%. 

STABILITY: UNKNOWN. 

Brady sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “You’re gonna be fine,” he said again. Then, he added under his breath, “Maybe.” 

---

Zach had fashioned a broom out of two dismantled tripod legs and a scarf and was already sweeping the basement floor when Brady descended the stairs with a half-eaten protein bar in hand. The floor was noticeably cleaner, the corners de-cobwebbed, and all of the dangling cords had been twisted into tidy braids. Zach wore his compression suit like a man finally comfortable in his own skin—dadbod perfectly formed, the suit clinging supportively to every rounded curve of his state-approved physique. 

“You reorganized the parts shelf,” Brady said, not a question. 

Zach looked up mid sweep, glowing slightly. “I sorted by conductivity, then by surface temperature. Oh, and I labeled all the battery packs using your masking tape. You were running low, so I reordered some. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Brady walked to the wall, lined with tiny bins, each labeled in neat block handwriting: FUSED SENSORS. ETHICS PATCHES. SHELL SUBJUGATION PORTS. He picked up one bin and shook it gently. The contents barely shifted—they had been padded with mismatched socks, all folded into neat, cushiony squares. 

“You folded my socks.” 

“They were wrinkled,” Zach said. “I used pressure from my suit’s shoulder plates and heat from the charged batteries. Low tech, high result.” 

Brady stared at home. “You alphabetized my contraband.”  

Zach didn’t seem to hear. He’d moved to the mirror. He ran his fingers over his beard, then over the slight furrow in his brow. His eyes studied his own reflection like it was someone else’s homework he was almost starting to understand. 

“I remember Trevor,” he said quietly. “I remember me.” 

Then he smiled. “But I also… I also want to iron your dishrags.” 

Brady made a noise halfway between a sigh and a grunt. “Fantastic. I finally jailbroke a dad and got a Stepford roommate for my trouble.” 

Zach turned, eyes gleaming. There was a new energy to his expression, not frantic but focused. Like someone who had found the world disappointing but had just received a manual on how to improve it with duct tape and lists. 

“Do you have a Swiffer?” Zach asked. 

Brady dropped the protein bar onto the workbench. 

“Listen, man. We needed a clean reboot. A true lift from the core firmware. What we got is… a mesh failure. You’re chirpy. You’re polite. You keep calling my microwave a ‘meal assistant.’” 

Zach blinked, puzzled. 

Brady kept going. “I can’t take you to the other cells like this. You’ll start asking if they’ve considered ‘quiet time’ or try to set up chore wheels. You’re a liability.” 

Zach lowered his broom. 

“You mean I’m not… useful?” 

Brady nodded slowly. “Not to us. You’re a walking mall directory with unresolved emotional attachments. That’s not resistance material.” 

Zach was quiet. He glanced around at the sparkling basement, the neatly labeled shelves, and the folded laundry balanced like a sculpture on a milk crate. 

“Then I should go,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

He stood still for a long moment. Then, softly, “Go where?” 

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