Lagos, 2079 – Makoko Grid Slums – 11:53 P.M.
The Makoko Grid floated like a wounded animal on the black water, neon veins of power lines weaving through stilted shanties and solar-paneled roofs. Drones buzzed overhead, some belonging to the state, others to the gangs. This was neutral ground for no one — only the desperate survived here.
Tunde and Alero weaved through the maze of planks and scaffolding, the digital humidity of a hundred illegal networks thick in the air. Their faces were obscured by holo-shadows — distortions projected from their collars, making them appear as anonymous blobs to casual surveillance.
"Why here?" Alero whispered, eyes scanning for threats.
"Because this is where the truth breathes," Tunde replied. "And where we'll find Octave."
Alero raised a brow. "The hacktivist? I thought she was a myth."
"She's real. Ex-NDLEC, Level 9 intelligence systems architect. Went dark six years ago after the Zaria Purge. Rumor is she hijacked an entire UN subgrid and vanished."
"And now she lives in a floating shanty?"
"She lives in twenty of them," Tunde said, stopping in front of a blinking stall disguised as a VR gambling den. "But this one listens."
He stepped inside.
Inside, the room shifted. Reality dissolved into a glowing cube of code — black walls flickering with cascading text, faces morphing across panels like ghosts. A low-pitched synth pulse thrummed in the floor.
"Identify," a synthetic voice said, echoing everywhere.
Tunde stepped forward. "Ghost Protocol 712. Intel Packet Gamma. Access request: priority red. Emergency relay: WhisperSpine."
The code slowed.
Then, a laugh. Glitchy, feminine.
"Now that's a name I haven't heard in a while."
A figure assembled in the corner, like smoke pulled into shape. She was tall, dark-skinned, draped in a shifting mesh cloak, face hidden by a skull-marked visor. Her voice was layered — human and machine intertwined.
"You brought a friend," she noted, glancing at Alero.
"She's not a friend," Alero said coolly. "She's the only reason we're not dead."
Octave nodded. "Fair enough."
Tunde held out the data shard. "This contains files from the Black Archive. WhisperSpine isn't just a relic — it's still operational. The Dust on the streets is a failed neural suppressant created by NDLEC and Interior Security. Bako is still running it. Warri blacksite's active."
Octave didn't speak.
Instead, she walked to the wall and slotted the shard into a receptacle. The room brightened with cascading intel — maps, logs, drone captures, shipment manifests, corrupted video files.
Then came the video feed.
A cold, flickering image.
Dozens of people — men, women, even children — strapped to gurneys in a dark, humming lab. Wires fed into their skulls. Their eyes blank. Their bodies twitching. Uniformed operatives moved between them, injecting vials marked with the NEON emblem.
Tunde's fists clenched. Alero turned away, jaw rigid.
"This was from a Warri underground site, two months ago," Octave said. "Some of these patients are still there. Some were dumped in Ajegunle when their minds broke. A few made it to the slums. Rambling about dreams and fire in their heads."
Tunde gritted his teeth. "We need to expose this."
Octave laughed bitterly. "To who? The press? They're owned. The UN? Complicit. Even your own NDLEC director's name is buried in these files. This goes all the way up."
"So what do we do?" Alero asked.
"We do what no one else dares," Tunde said, his voice low and steady. "We leak everything. Names. Faces. Footage. Code. On every public channel. Every net terminal. Let the country choke on the truth."
Octave tilted her head. "That'll start a war."
Tunde nodded. "Then it starts with us."
A pause.
Then Octave smiled — a cruel, hopeful thing.
"Let's start a fire, then."
She tapped a command. Data pulsed outward — slicing into hundreds of civilian feeds, hijacking corporate ads, news scrolls, even church livestreams. The truth began bleeding into Nigeria's neural network like a virus.
And far away, in a dark office in Abuja, Minister Kasim Bako looked up from his desk.
His face was expressionless.
But his fingers reached for a button beneath his desk — one labeled: Contingency: Operation Floodgate.