The Black Gates of Aerostar: Dax Bytepunk’s Elevator Nightmare

Dax Bytepunk carried a torch for Aerostar Morbid since high school, when his parents gifted him their first computer—a sleek black box that hummed with secrets. In 3045, that dream ignited: he’d cracked the 0.01% acceptance rate to join the tech titan, a company so advanced its circuits seemed to pulse with sentience. Aerostar was no mere firm; it was a myth, shrouded in whispers—NXIVM cult in silicon skin, Umbrella Corp brewing digital plagues. Dax brushed it off. The CEO, Vesper Sangrey, a Stanford MBA with a voice like moonlight and a presence that could charm a mainframe, was proof enough: this was legit. His life’s purpose was here, and he was all in.

Four weeks before his start, the strangeness began. Every Wednesday, 3:30 AM, a courier in a plague-era mask hammered on his door, relentless as a virus. The first knock jolted Dax awake, heart racing, but he laughed it off—Aerostar loved theatrics. Each envelope held no onboarding forms, just a sketch: an elevator, its iron gates twisted, buttons glowing like cursed relics, a vibe so unnerving it felt like it could ferry souls to oblivion. Above it, inked sharp: July 7, 3045, 7 AM. Four letters, four sketches, four sleepless nights. Dax called it hazing, clinging to his dream. On the fifth Wednesday—his start date—no knock came. He was up anyway, suit crisp, watch gleaming, ready to conquer.

The Aerostar campus rose like a dream of steel and neon, its spires piercing a synthetic sky. A mile-long escalator carried him up, past six statues of the executive team, their marble faces too perfect, too still. Odd, Dax thought, but his pulse thrummed with promise. He’d heard the lore: 95% of employees hit millionaire status in two years, stock options thicker than starfields, benefits that erased life’s thorns. Sign him up. At the top, a looseleaf scrap screamed in sharpie: New hires, follow black arrow. Cheap, sloppy for a trillion-credit empire, but Dax trailed the arrows through gleaming halls, each turn a step closer to glory.

Inside, five other new hires waited, their eyes wide with awe or dread. A robot greeter, all chrome and no soul, scanned their retinas and quizzed their pasts—first crush, old address, that time Dax broke his wrist skateboarding. “How do they know?” a hire muttered. Dax grinned. “It’s Aerostar.” He’d bleed for this place; doubt wasn’t in his code. The robot pointed to an elevator, and reality stuttered. There it was—the sketch in flesh. Black iron, carved with glyphs that stung the eyes, it radiated wrongness, like a machine built to chew hope. The group froze—they’d all gotten the letters, the courier, the 3:30 AM ritual.

They boarded, the robot beside them. “One stop first,” it said, flat as a dead signal. “A retiree’s headed to the special floor. This elevator only serves new hires and retirees.” A tall man, early fifties, joined them, his name tag reading Rex. “First day, eh?” he said, voice warm but frayed. Dax’s mind spun—retiring so young? The benefits were real. The elevator hummed, its fluorescent glow oddly calming, dropping one floor. A screen blinked: 33 floors below. Dax frowned—since when did this tower dig so deep? Rex smiled thinly. “You’ll see how far it goes.”

The doors parted at floor 16, revealing a chamber lit by crimson flickers, air heavy with ozone. Rex stepped out, and said “I remember when I used to smile at this place.” Hooded figures in Aerostar cloaks emerged, chanting in binary whispers, their hands trailing data streams. “His cycle ends,” the robot intoned. Rex’s face went ghostly, a flicker of sorrow—or was it release?—before the figures swallowed him. A wail echoed, sharp and final, as the doors snapped shut. The new hires stood mute, pulses racing. Dax’s excitement soured, a cold knot tightening in his gut.

The elevator lurched, then spiraled—up, down, sideways, a vortex shredding sense. Darkness swallowed them. Dax’s mind blanked; no adrenaline, no fight, just dread, pure and paralyzing. Screams—or laughter?—blurred into static. His body pressed against the wall, weightless yet crushed. Was this seconds? Hours? Then, silence. The lights snapped on, the elevator still, as if nothing had happened. The group stared, clothes pristine, faces hollow. No one spoke. The doors beeped open to a long, dim hallway, a floodlight bathing a statue of Vesper Sangrey, her marble smile too sharp. Another door loomed behind her. The robot turned. “Welcome to Aerostar’s new hire floor. Ready to change the world?”

Dax’s legs moved, mechanical, as he stepped out with the others. His dream felt distant, a signal lost in noise. Vesper’s eyes seemed to track him, her mythos—a brilliant CEO, a savior—now a question mark. The rumors—cult, virus, something worse—gnawed at him. That chamber, Rex’s face, the elevator’s plunge… Aerostar wasn’t just a company. It was a machine, hungry, and Dax was its newest cog. He could’ve run, burned his offer letter, lived small. But 3045 didn’t forgive quitters—debts loomed, dreams cost blood. So he walked on, silent, the hallway stretching like a throat.

Some might call it the horror of being known—every secret Aerostar pulled from Dax’s past, every hope it dangled, was a hook. The elevator wasn’t just a ride; it was a test, a gate to something deeper than floors. Dax wanted to change the world, but what if the world it built wasn’t his? He’d signed up for glory, but glory had teeth, and Aerostar Morbid was already biting.