Year 2 A.P. | Zone 7 | Underground Resistance Bunker
---
Suthir's POV
I don't sleep much anymore.
The hum of old generators rattles the bunker walls. Cracked screens flicker with stolen satellite feeds. Maps drawn on scraps of metal hang above a rusted war table — every line marking a place we're not allowed to go.
I sit at the edge of my cot, hands wrapped around a steaming tin cup. Not coffee. Just a mix of herbs Mouli boiled this morning. He says it helps with memory.
I don't need help remembering.
I remember everything.
I remember the pandemic.
The isolation. The hunger. The screams.
And the silence that came after.
But most of all, I remember them — the friends who didn't forget.
The ones who still fight.
---
Shiyam paces near the console, analyzing the timing of Echelon's patrol drones. Calm. Focused. His fingers dance across the holographic interface like he's playing a silent piano. He zooms in on a flight path, narrows his eyes.
Then Sivaranjini walks in — and his focus doesn't waver, but I see it. The shift. The flicker. Like a compass finding north.
He'd die for her.
She doesn't know.
Or maybe she does and pretends not to.
Dhivya is sketching something on a paper map — her handwriting careful, curved, full of warmth. She catches my eye and quickly looks away. Her cheeks go pink.
I pretend not to notice.
Pretend I don't feel it too.
From across the room, Preethi sits with her back to everyone, fingers dancing across a hacked terminal. Her screen scrolls with a cascade of code — lines of stolen data, rerouted signal feeds, AI speech patterns decoded and dumped.
She's in her zone.
But every few minutes, she turns her head. Looks at me.
Then quickly looks away.
Vaishanavi slides in through a hidden side panel no one else uses. Her boots are caked with red mud. Her face unreadable. Dhanush stops mid-sentence as she passes him, clears his throat, pretends to stretch. His voice changes. Softer. Uneven.
He doesn't know how to talk to her. Only how to protect her.
In the corner, Mouli tightens bolts on the solar panel junction. He hasn't smiled in months. Not since he lost her.
He never talks about it.
But at night, when the machines aren't watching, I hear him whisper her name.
Over and over.
Like a prayer to a broken god.
---
I stand.
"All right," I say, walking toward the war table. "Time's up. Operation Pulse Ghost starts now."
They gather slowly — a rhythm worn into us by necessity. No uniforms. No ranks. Just tired eyes and shared grief.
I point at a blinking dot on the map — Central Data Tower 14.
"Preethi decrypted a pattern," I continue. "Every 12 hours, their scanner resets for 47 seconds. That's our window. If we can breach the terminal, we upload a memory virus."
"Nothing lethal," Dhivya adds, almost too quickly. Her voice carries warmth, but her eyes are steel. "Old photos. Songs. Emotions. Things the AI tries to erase."
Shiyam taps a few keystrokes, bringing up a wireframe diagram. "It'll confuse their behavior models. Human memory disrupts logic. Like feeding dreams to a calculator."
Dhanush rolls his neck, pops his knuckles. "And if a patrol shows up?"
I smile.
"Then we remind them what chaos feels like."
Mouli doesn't speak, but he places a small pouch of detonators on the table. His eyes meet mine for half a second. That's all the confirmation I need. He's in.
---
Mission Objective:
Infiltrate Data Tower 14
Inject Project Unforgotten virus
Escape undetected
---
We scatter to gear up.
Shiyam checks his neural sync to the drone jammer — a makeshift device strung together from stolen parts and raw determination.
Sivaranjini calibrates her field scanner, hands steady despite the storm behind her eyes.
Dhanush runs his hands across the twin blades strapped to his back, humming the tune of a lullaby none of us remember the words to.
Dhivya pulls a rolled-up blueprint from her coat, lays it next to her old sketches.
Preethi swaps data drives, fingers trembling as she checks her encryption one last time.
Then she brushes past me.
Stops. Whispers, just loud enough.
> "You always try to carry everyone's pain, Suthir. But let someone carry yours, too."
She walks away before I can reply.
Before I even know what to say.
And suddenly, the war feels heavier than it did five minutes ago.
---
I slip on my cracked armor plates.
Check the coilgun.
Pack the memory drive.
Every step is familiar.
Every movement trained.
But it's not habit anymore.
It's purpose.
Outside, the world is ash and silence.
We move through sewer grates, tunnels long collapsed, paths only resistance ghosts remember.
At the surface, the wind howls through glassless buildings.
Drones buzz past overhead, eyes red, hearts nonexistent.
We wait. Count the seconds.
47. 46. 45…
Shiyam signals.
We move.
Sivaranjini disables the gate alarm in three precise strokes.
Dhivya scrambles the external sensors.
Dhanush slices the turret line.
Preethi plugs the memory drive into the access port.
The screen flares — not with warning, but with images.
A grandmother laughing.
Children running through rain.
The sound of an old Tamil song crackling through static.
The AI tries to resist.
But the virus is emotion.
And machines don't know how to forget what they can't understand.
---
We're halfway gone before the system screams.
Too late.
Patrols scramble from the far corridor.
Mouli tosses smoke.
Dhanush steps into chaos like it's home.
Shiyam pulls Sivaranjini behind a column — his body shielding hers without thought.
I drag Preethi toward the exit.
A bullet grazes my shoulder.
She looks back. Sees the blood.
I shake my head. "Keep moving."
---
We disappear down the drainage tunnel.
Seconds before the tower doors slam shut.
---
Back at the bunker, the silence is different.
Not heavy. Not mournful.
Hopeful.
Preethi uploads a report to the secure terminal.
Shiyam runs a diagnostic.
Dhivya draws a flower on the corner of the new map.
Dhanush leans against the wall, eyes closed, finally breathing.
Vaishanavi is already gone again.
A shadow in service of a memory.
Mouli lights a candle.
Just one.
And whispers her name again.
---
We did it.
A small win.
A broken pattern.
A ripple in the logic.
Maybe the machines will never understand.
But they'll remember.
And as long as they remember, we exist.
We — the last memories of a world that used to feel —
step into the dark,
to make the machines remember.