The corridor should've ended by now.
Not metaphorically. Literally. It felt... stretched. Too long for how short it looked.
He stopped walking—not out of fear. He just got tired of pretending his steps were accomplishing anything.
"Okay," he muttered, not loud.
He leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. Straightened. Regretted it instantly.
His spine gave a quiet pop. Not painful. Just the sound of something aligning out of spite.
Galieya hadn't buzzed in a while.
That wasn't comforting. It was suspicious. Like an old friend who suddenly stops texting back right after you send something weird.
He tapped the handle. Still warm.
Not weapon-warm.
Memory-warm.
He gripped tighter, just in case.
No Hero
No Slope.
No signal ping.
Which meant technically: lost.
But the trench wasn't big on letting you admit that out loud.
He didn't panic. He just… stood still for a minute. Tried to guess whether turning around would count as progress or surrender.
Then—
[PATHFINDER DISENGAGED]
[BURDEN THREAD: UNQUANTIFIED]
[FOLLOW YOURSELF]
Sure.
That's helpful.
He moved forward again. Because what else was there?
A flicker ahead—rectangle-shaped, like a memory trying to impersonate a doorway.
It wasn't locked.
Of course not.
The trench never locked doors. It made you want to go through them.
That was wors e
Inside: not much
A room, technically. No furniture. No slope. One plate on the floor with a name melted into it.
Averon
He blinked. Stared at it.
Felt something tug sideways in his chest. Recognition-shaped. Not quite there.
He knew the name.
Almost.
Which, honestly, felt worse than not knowing it at all.
He stepped closer.
The room exhaled.
Not loudly. Just enough for the air pressure to feel like a throat clearing.
The plate shhk'd into the floor and vanished.
Replaced by corridor.
He didn't comment this time.
Didn't mutter. Didn't curse.
Didn't give the trench the satisfaction of a reaction.
He stepped in.
And the HUD blinked.
White screen.
[LOCKED VIEW]
[THIS IS A MEMORY YOU DIDN'T CHOOSE]
[STAND STILL]
He tried to blink it away.
Too late.
He was already moving.
Running.
Not forward. Sideways?
Hsi footing was off. Left foot trailing. Vision skippnig.
It was happening again.
That run.
That mission.
A Core fell ahead
Reaching.
Begging? No. Just... looking.
He remembered this part.
He passed them.
Didn't stop.
Didn't speak.
Protocol said: reach the relay.
And sacrifice had a number.
It wasn't his.
The scene froze.
A voice asked—
"Would you do it again?"
He opened his mouth.
"Yeah."
Too fast.
Then, slower:
"No."
No one answered.
Because the trench didn't care about conflicted guilt.
Only pattern.
Back in the hall.
He staggered— righted himself.
Checked his vitals like it would help.
Didn't help.
Galieya buzzed. Just once.
He touched the hilt.
Still warm.
Still him.
Then—steps.
Not his.
Not copied.
Real.
One more pair.
Behind him.
He turned.
Another figure.
Him.
Helmet cracked. Chestplate dented. Same stride.
No glitches.
No glow.
Just... him.
No words.
They stared.
Then both moved.
same second.
Galieyas clashed.
No warning. No build-up.
They fought in mirrored bursts. Too even. Too familiar.
Every move was a rehearsal.
Strike. Block. Shift. Spiral. Elbow.
Than—nahr dropped lower. Twisted hard.
Other-him didn't adjust in time.
Rib-shot.
Not fatal.
But enough.
The double staggered back.
Paused.
Smiled.
AndAnd said:
"Try again."
Then vanished.
Not shattered. Not smoked.
Just...
unloaded.
Like memory got off early.
[SELF-CONFRONTATION: INCOMPLETE]
[NO ONE PASSES THEMSELVES CLEANLY]
Yeah.
No kidding.
He flexed his hand.
Galieya still buzzed.
He looked down the next hall.
Straight.
Clean.
Flat.
Too easy.
"…Right," he muttered. "Let's see how much worse this gets."
He walked.
Behind him, a panel hissed shut.
Too late to check.
Too early to care.
The hallway should've ended already.
That's not a metaphor. It just physically shouldn't be this long.
He paused—not tactical, just impatient. Like someone who's been walking through the same menu screen too many times.
"Right," he muttered. "Cool."
He leaned forward, hands on knees. Straightened up. Spine cracked.
Sharp. Relieving. Rude.
Galieya hadn't buzzed since the last—whatever that was.
That wasn't comfort.
That was tension dressed up like calm.
He tapped
the hilt. Warm. Memory-warm again. Familiar, but in the way a scar is familiar.
No Hero.
No alarms.
No slope.
Which meant: back in the trench's passive-aggressive phase.
He adjusted his grip, checked his vitals (pointless), kept walking.
A soft ping echoed in his head.
Internal.
HUD flickered once.
Three lines blinked into view—distorted, but readable:
[You went left. You said right.]
[They didn't wait.]
[Hero lied.]
He stared at the words.
Didn't react.
Didn't trust that it was meant for him.
He moved on.
The walls shimmered for a second. Layout shifted like it got bored and reshuffled the level mid-load.
New bend. Sharp angle. Looked rushed.
He followed it.
Found a bench. Basic metal, no restraints. Just..,there.
Like the trench wanted him to sit and reflect.
He didn't.
He circled it once. Saw a black scorch mark under the frame.
Looked again—saw the faint outline of a back, burned in.
Someone died here.
Maybe not recently.
Maybe not once.
His shoulder twitched. A low, mechanical beep somewhere in the plating. He ignored it.
Then—footsteps.
Not mimicked.
Not his.
New.
He turned, Galieya drawn halfway.
A figure was walking toward him.
Same pacing. Same stance. Helmeted.
Didn't speak.
Didn't pause.
Just approached.
"Hero?" he said—not loud, but clear enough.
No response.
The figure walked past the bench. Stopped a few feet away. Tilted its head slightly.
"You're ahead of schedule," it said.
The voice was wrong. Rough. Filtered. Like radio run through gravel.
He didn't answer right away. Let it hang.
"I didn't know I was on one," he finally said.
The figure nodded. Or maybe shrugged.
"That's why it worked."
Then it sat. Calmly. Like this was a normal thing.
Like it had a break scheduled here.
He stared.
Didn't move.
Didn't holster the weapon.
"Why show up now?"
The figure leaned forward. Rested elbows on knees.
"The trench is bored. Or testing your delusions. Either way, you're in the middle."
"I'm not ready for another mimic."
"You're not getting one."
Pause.
"You're not important enough for that twice."
That line hit weird.
Nahr blinked. "Okay."
The figure stood.
Unrushed.
"Next room's yours."
"What's in it?"
No reply. Just movement.
The figure stepped forward—and disappeared.
No static. No trick. Just gone.
He exhaled, steady but not deep.
Looked at the bench again. Didn't sit.
Walked past it.
The corridor stretched out—long, flat, dry.
Too clean.
He muttered something tuneless under his breath. A melody he couldn't remember. Hummed badly. On purpose.
Then the pressure snapped.
Like two thoughts hit each other in the ceiling.
He stopped.
A door blinked into existence ahead.
Wide.
Slick at the edges, like it wasn't fully convinced it belonged there.
He stepped up. Touched it.
It gave slightly under his palm.
Warm. Not hot. Not flesh.
Just something that remembered heat.
The door opened.
No sound. No hiss.
Just opened.
Inside: light. Too much.
His eyes adjusted instantly, but his brain didn't like it.
He stepped in anyway.
Room was big. Empty.
Except—
Hero.
Standing there. Back turned.
Galieya at his hip.
Stiff posture.
He didn't move closer.
"Hero?" he called out.
The figure turned halfway.
"You left the mimic," it said. "Didn't even look back."
His stomach twisted. A little.
"I was going to—"
"No. You weren't."
Nahr grit his teeth.
"If I wasn't, why am I still here?"
Hero faced him fully.
_ _
Because the trench thinks you still believe that's a valid question."
And then—he turned.
Walked out.
Left the room.
No closing door. No fadeout. Just… gone.
Nahr stood still.
Alone.
Then the lights dimmed.
Slightly.
Like the room was embarrassed.
He scratched the back of his helmet. Exhaled.
"So. We're doing guilt-trial theatre now."
Didn't laugh.
But he almost did.
And for now, that was enough.
The hallway should've ended already.
That's not a metaphor. It just physically shouldn't be this long.
He paused—not tactical, just impatient. Like someone who's been walking through the same menu screen too many times.
"Right," he muttered. "Cool."
He leaned forward, hands on knees. Straightened up. Spine cracked.
Sharp. Relieving. Rude.
Galieya hadn't buzzed since the last—whatever that was.
That wasn't comfort.
That was tension dressed up like calm.
He tapped the hilt. Warm. Memory-warm again. Familiar, but in the way a scar is familiar.
No Hero.
No alarms.
No slope.
Which meant: back in the trench's passive-aggressive phase.
He adjusted his grip, checked his vitals (pointless), kept walking.
A soft ping echoed in his head.
Internal.
HUD flickered once.
Three lines blinked into view—distorted, but readable:
[You went left. You said right.]
[They didn't wait.]
[Hero lied.]
He stared at the words.
Didn't react.
Didn't trust that it was meant for him.
He moved on.
The walls shimmered for a second. Layout shifted like it got bored and reshuffled the level mid-load.
New bend. Sharp angle. Looked rushed.
He followed it.
Found a bench. Basic metal, no restraints. Just... there.
Like the trench wanted him to sit and reflect.
He didn't.
He circled it once. Saw a black scorch mark under the frame.
Looked again—saw the faint outline of a back, burned in.
Someone died here.
Maybe not recently.
Maybe not once.
His shoulder twitched. A low, mechanical beep somewhere in the plating. He ignored it.
Then—footsteps.
Not mimicked.
Not his.
New.
He turned, Galieya drawn halfway.
A figure was walking toward him.
Same pacing. Same stance. Helmeted.
Didn't speak.
Didn't pause.
Just approached.
"Hero?" he said—not loud, but clear enough.
No response.
The figure walked past the bench. Stopped a few feet away. Tilted its head slightly.
"You're ahead of schedule," it said.
The voice was wrong. Rough. Filtered. Like radio run through gravel.
He didn't answer right away. Let it hang.
"I didn't know I was on one," he finally said.
The figure nodded. Or maybe shrugged.
"That's why it worked."
Then it sat. Calmly. Like this was a normal thing.
Like it had a break scheduled here.
He stared.
Didn't move.
Didn't holster the weapon.
"Why show up now?"
The figure leaned forward. Rested elbows on knees.
"The trench is bored. Or testing your delusions. Either way, you're in the middle."
"I'm not ready for another mimic."
"You're not getting one."
Pause.
"You're not important enough for that twice."
That line hit weird.
Nahr blinked. "Okay."
The figure stood.
Unrushed.
"Next room's yours."
"What's in it?"
No reply. Just movement.
The figure stepped forward—and disappeared.
No static. No trick. Just gone.
He exhaled, steady but not deep.
Looked at the bench again. Didn't sit.
Walked past it.
The corridor stretched out—long, flat, dry.
Too clean.
He muttered something tuneless under his breath. A melody he couldn't remember. Hummed badly. On purpose.
Then the pressure snapped.
Like two thoughts hit each other in the ceiling.
He stopped.
A door blinked into existence ahead.
Wide.
Slick at the edges, like it wasn't fully convinced it belonged there.
He stepped up. Touched it.
It gave slightly under his palm.
Warm. Not hot. Not flesh.
Just something that remembered heat.
The door opened.
No sound. No hiss.
Just opened.
Inside: light. To much.
His eyes adjusted instantly, but his brain didn't like it.
He stepped in anyway.
Room was big. Empty.
Except—
Hero.
Standing there. Back turned.
Galieya at his hip.
Stiff posture.
He didn't move closer.
"Hero?" he called out.
The figure turned halfway.
"You left the mimic," it said. "Didn't even look back."
His stomach twisted. A little.
"I was going to—"
"No. You weren't."
Nahr grit his teeth.
"If I wasn't, why am I still here?"
Hero faced him fully.
"Because the trench thinks you still believe that's a valid question."
And then—he turned.
Walked out.
Left the room.
No closing door. No fadeout. Just… gone.
Nahr stood still.
Alone.
Then the lights dimmed.
Slightly.
Like the room was embarrassed.
He scratched the back of his helmet. Exhaled.
"So. We're doing guilt-trial theatre now."
Didn't laugh.
But he almost did.
And for now, that was enough.
He didn't move right away.
Standing still fetl safer than walking into whatever was next.
But the trench didn't reward stillness. It just reclassified it as failure.
So—he moved.
The corridor was short this time.
Too short.
And the door at the end?
Already open.
Inside: dark. Not "power failure" dark.
Deliberate.
He stepped in.
No buzz.
No visual trigger.
The moment his boot touched the floor, something changed.
Weight.
Not on him.
In him.
Like his center of gravity got reassigned without warning.
He stumbled. Recovered. Didn't curse.
A screen lit up at the far wall.
Just a sentence.
One line.
[YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SEE THIS]
He stared.
Took a step closer.
The lights in the room flickered once—
And someone stepped out from behind the screen.
Not Hero.
Not a mimic.
Not anyone he remembered.
But they knew him.
Because they smiled and said:
"Oh. You finally made it."
And then drew his Galieya.