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There's a myth in the Verge:
**"If you walk far enough, the city forgets you ever existed."**
Problem is, the opposite is true.
You walk far enough, the city remembers everything—every sin, every secret, every system buried in concrete. Bastion was that kind of place.
And today, it remembered me.
---
We reached the outer ring of District 7 by sunrise.
Bastion rose like a fortress above the skyline. Massive steel walls layered with sensor towers, defense grids, and shimmering barrier fields that pulsed every few seconds—just enough to remind you that stepping closer without permission would fry your skin from your bones.
The entrance gate stood fifty meters tall, embedded in a choke point flanked by patrol squads, drones, and camera nests. Normal people didn't go in or out of Bastion without five clearances and a corporate sponsor.
I had none of those.
Rye glanced at the wall and let out a low whistle. "This makes the Verge look like a trash alley."
"That's because it is."
"You've got a plan, right?"
"Sort of."
He squinted at me. "Define 'sort of.'"
---
*Three hours later*, we were under a garbage transport truck, clinging to the axle frame as it rolled through Bastion's security tunnel.
Rye was cursing me in whispers.
"I swear, if we die like this, I'm haunting you."
"Shh," I whispered. "We're almost through."
---
The tunnel sensors were programmed to scan for heat and movement—above the chassis. But the undercarriage? Low priority.
We slipped past the first checkpoint, then the second.
It was at the third that everything went wrong.
---
The truck halted.
Heavy boots hit the ground.
Flashlights.
I heard one of the guards talking.
"System flagged abnormal weight."
Rye's eyes went wide. I clamped a hand over his mouth.
A scanner beam swept across the asphalt, a ripple of red light that passed just beneath us. I held my breath. So did Rye.
The beam passed.
"False flag," the guard muttered. "Move it out."
The truck rumbled back into motion.
I didn't breathe again until we reached the loading bay.
---
Bastion was clean. *Too* clean.
Polished streets. Metal trees. Advert drones hovering with smiles on digital faces, reminding you to stay hydrated and submit your weekly mood survey.
But it wasn't the cleanliness that unnerved me.
It was the quiet.
Even the people walked like machines—faces dull, eyes glazed. No laughter. No kids. Just bodies, moving between obligation and survival.
This was no city.
It was a system.
And I'd come to break it.
---
We ditched the truck and changed clothes in an alley restroom—Rye in a utility jumpsuit, me in a techie coat we lifted off a clothesline. I kept the bracelet hidden under a glove.
Rye adjusted his hood. "Where are we going again?"
I pulled up the decrypted data Celeste had given me.
> "Dr. Kesha Vane – Bastion Registry: Compound K12."
"Sounds like a medical facility."
"Or a prison."
"Or both."
---
Getting to K12 meant crossing three zones: Corporate Holdings, Security Sector, and the Inner Dome.
Each had facial recognition gates.
Each would light me up the moment I stepped in range.
So we took the only road they didn't expect:
**The old magline tunnels.**
---
Decades ago, Bastion had underground railways—magnetized bullet trains used to move cargo and military tech before the upper sectors were built.
Now, they were condemned.
Collapsed in some areas, unstable in others. But there were maps buried in the city archives, and I'd memorized enough to know there was a service hatch two blocks north of Sector 3.
That hatch was our door.
---
We reached it by dusk.
Metal grille. Keypad with rusted edges. I knelt down and brushed away the grime.
"Can you hack it?" Rye asked.
I didn't answer. My bracelet pulsed once.
A soft *click*.
The lock disengaged.
The keypad lights flashed green.
Rye blinked. "Okay. That's… not creepy at all."
We dropped into the darkness.
---
The tunnels smelled like copper and rot.
Old train cars sat like sleeping beasts in the dark, covered in dust and graffiti. Rats scattered as we passed. The floor vibrated faintly with echoes of the living city above.
I could feel something tugging in my chest. Not fear. Not even adrenaline.
Something older.
Like recognition.
---
After two hours of crawling through pipes and bypassing collapsed shafts, we reached a junction beneath Sector 6.
Rye slumped against a wall. "How far now?"
I checked the map. "K12's above us. Two more service ladders, then we breach from the subfloor."
He looked up. "What's our excuse if we get caught?"
"I'm a maintenance tech," I said. "You're my apprentice."
"Cool. And if they scan us?"
I didn't answer.
Because we wouldn't survive that.
---
We climbed.
Floor by floor, past rusted bulkheads and vent systems that screamed with pressure every time we moved too fast. Somewhere above, I could hear the hum of drone traffic and soft voices echoing through sterilized halls.
This place was alive.
But barely.
Like a dream on the verge of fading.
---
The door to K12 opened with a hiss.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Everything was white—walls, floors, uniforms. The people here walked like ghosts in lab coats.
We slipped into the side hallway and followed the signs:
**\[RESTRICTED – GENETIC RESEARCH – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY]**
Rye muttered, "You ever get the feeling you're about to open a door you can't close?"
I didn't respond.
Because I already had.
---
Room 42B was at the end of the hall.
I used a stolen keycard to override the lock.
Inside: sterile tiles. Cryotanks lining the walls. Floating specimens in viscous green fluid.
And in the center—an old woman in a long coat, reading from a tablet.
She looked up as we entered.
I froze.
She stared straight at me. Her eyes widened.
"…Noah."
---
I stepped forward. "You know me?"
She closed the tablet.
Walked slowly up to me.
Raised a hand—and touched my cheek.
"I *made* you."
---
Her name was Dr. Kesha Vane.
Biogeneticist. Systems engineer. Lead director of *Project Specter*—a classified military-human interface program terminated a decade ago after "ethics violations."
I was their prototype.
---
"You were born inside a lab, Noah," she said. "Your DNA was altered from inception—coded to interface with the bracelet you wear. It's not a weapon. It's a key."
"A key to what?"
She looked me dead in the eyes.
"To the city's soul."
---
She explained everything.
How Specter was meant to create agents who could interface directly with the city's infrastructure—*think* to open gates, shut down power grids, hijack drones.
But the prototype—you—developed faster than expected.
Too fast.
You began to question.
To remember.
To *feel*.
And that made you dangerous.
---
They tried to wipe you.
It failed.
So they shut the program down.
Erased every record.
Or so they thought.
---
Rye stood in stunned silence.
I leaned against the cryotank, barely breathing.
"I've been dreaming things," I whispered. "Code. Fire. A voice. Mine, but not."
Kesha nodded.
"The bracelet's syncing with your neural signature. As you get closer to full sync, you'll remember more. You'll see what the others saw."
"What others?"
"There were *five* before you."
She hesitated.
"But only one survived."
---
Her name was **Aurellin**.
Specter-03.
Presumed dead five years ago.
But the logs said she fled the city—and took something with her:
**The Kill Code.**
---
Rye whispered, "So this Aurellin… she's the only one who might know how to shut the system down?"
"Or destroy it entirely," Kesha said. "Which is why they're hunting her."
"And me," I added.
Kesha's eyes softened.
"No. They're not hunting you anymore."
She walked to a terminal and pulled up a data feed.
Onscreen: a report.
> **PRIORITY ASSET REACQUIRED**
> *Subject Noah-001 located near Verge District.*
> *Initiate Phase: Echo Cleanse.*
> *All units: authorization to engage at will.*
I stared at the screen.
And then I heard the sound.
Outside. Boots.
Drones.
Guards.
"They found us," I whispered.
Kesha turned. "You need to go. Now."
---
I grabbed Rye's hand.
We ran.
Back through the halls. Past the tanks. Through emergency corridors and access ladders.
Behind us: alarms. Shouts. The hiss of vented gas.
Kesha's voice echoed over the intercom:
> "This subject is volatile. Do not engage unless ordered. He remembers."
---
We reached the sub-level.
Flooded the tunnel behind us.
Escaped into the dark.
Again.
---
By the time we surfaced in the freight zone, Bastion was on lockdown.
But we were already gone.
Southbound. Toward the Fringe.
Toward answers.
Toward Aurellin.
---
Because I wasn't running anymore.
I was remembering.
And the city was about to remember *me*.
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