The plaza was too white and clean, blinding, sterile, like someone had bleached the world. Like the city had been scrubbed of memory of grief, of shadows, of anything that dared feel. Everything gleamed: graphene tiles, floating transit pods, the Elites' silver suits sliding past like ghosts. No shadows. No depth. Just light, cold, fake, everywhere.
Nolan stood at the edge of it all, his gray uniform dissolving into the blur of Workers looping through their paths. His EmoTracker buzzed softly on his wrist. Green. Steady. Normal.
And then suddenly
Target found.
A man knelt in the center of the plaza, maybe thirty meters out. Wrong posture. He clutched at his face like he was trying to rip it off, shoulders jerking, twitching. A sound came out of him—a wet, choked noise that didn't belong in a place this clean.
Nolan's head tilted slightly.
Something was off.
The man's EmoTracker blinked red. It pulsed like a wound. The other workers kept walking as if nothing was happening. None of them even turned their heads. They just flowed around him like he wasn't there.
Nolan's boots tapped out even beats as he slowly closed the distance. His neural link synced with AURA—data spilled across his vision:
Subject #447-19. Male. Age 34. Worker Class. Emotional breach detected. Neutralization authorized.
The man didn't react. He clawed at his scalp, knuckles raw. Hair clung to his fingers. Blood smeared the pristine floor. Nolan stopped three meters away, locked in a regulation stance. Arms behind his back. Not moving.
The air smelled like ozone.
Too clean.
Too empty.
"Stand." His voice activated automatically. Flat. Cold. But there was a pause first. Almost human.The man's head snapped up. His eyes were a mess. Bloodshot. Tears. Staring.
"You were like me once," the man hissed. "Before they hollowed you out."
And then...
For a blink, something ripped. An older face, familiar gray eyes begging for help. Then it was gone. Rewritten. Sanitized.
Then something glitched. Nolan's vision flickered. For a split second, the man's face changed—older, softer, gray eyes instead of red. Then back to normal. Data reloaded. Clean.
Ignore it. Just a glitch.
"Stand," Nolan repeated.
The man laughed. Broken and sharp. The sound bounced off the white walls, wrong and jarring. A worker nearby paused then just a blink then moved on.
Harmony Drones hovered closer, needles gleaming. Nolan raised his hand. They stopped. This was his call.
"I saw her," the man muttered, rocking. Hands pressed against his chest. "In the Well. She was screaming. I couldn't help. I—" He choked. His body bucked. "Feeling's the only real freedom. You don't know what you've lost."
Nolan's EmoTracker stayed green. Still normal. He crouched, bringing himself to the man's eye level.
Empty face.
Controlled.
The man stared at him like he was trying to reach into Nolan's skull. But Nolan didn't even blink.
"Freedom is compliance," he said. He wasn't sure where the words ended him or AURA.
Then the man lunged. Clumsy. Desperate. Hands locked on Nolan's shoulders.
Nolan moved like a machine. His arm twisted, caught the man's wrist, snapped it. A crack. A scream. The man crumpled.
Neutralized. The silence swallowed the scream. Drones drifted in. The scene reset. But Nolan's hands didn't move. Not right away.
Nolan stood over him. The man sobbed, curled in on himself. Blood and tears smeared the floor. No one watched. Not one stopped.
Nolan reached for his Neural Dampener. Standard issue. Collar-style. Clamp it on, shut it down, wipe the slate.
But the words wouldn't stop.
You were like me... once.
Glitch.
The world stuttered. White tiles turned to rusted metal. Dark stains. A face again older, eyes full of fear. Gone.
Pain sparked behind Nolan's left eye. Not in the logs. Not detected.
Just a glitch.
He locked the Dampener in place. The man went quiet instantly. His body sagged. Eyes dull. A husk.
Drones descended, loaded him up. Sedatives in. Reset complete.
The plaza returned to silence. White. Clean. Perfect.
Nolan turned to leave. His fingers twitched. He didn't notice the dried smear of blood clinging to his sleeve.
The Spire towered over everything, stabbing through the artificial sky. Nolan rode the Ascension Tube alone. Transparent walls showed his reflection sharp features, pale skin, dead eyes. That smear on his sleeve, still there.
Subject neutralized. Breach contained. Report filed.
His neural web pushed the data into AURA's core. A voice followed a smooth, neutral presence in his mind:
"Efficiency: 98%. Emotional Stability: Optimal. Maintenance scheduled: 03:00."
He said nothing. He didn't need to. AURA heard everything.
Below, the city churned self-healing towers, gliding transit pods, citizens moving in programmed harmony. No chaos. No noise. Peace, by design.
Nolan's face stared back at him from the glass. Nineteen years old. Built, not born. Every angle is created, engineered. He didn't question it.
The pod stopped. The doors opened to a corridor of white and light. Other Operatives stood still at their terminals, copies of him. Same Blank. Efficient. And Controlled.
Nolan moved to his station. The screen blinked alive:
New Target: Rebel cell. Underground Zone 7—The Cradle. Infiltrate. Neutralize.
Glitchers. Emotion junkies. They ripped out their chips and lived in rot. Traded feelings like they were rare metals.
Illogical.
AURA pulsed in his mind again:
"Threat level: High. Emotional contamination risk: Elevated. Proceed with caution."
Nolan's fingers grazed his Neural Dampener. Reliable. Familiar. He'd worn out dozens of rebels.
But the man's words stayed. You don't know what you're missing.
Glitch. Rust. Screaming face. That pain again—sharper now. He pressed his fingers to his temple.
"Operative N7," a voice snapped. A Human. Not AURA.
Nolan turned. The Warden. Silver-clad, masked. Higher clearance. More control.
"Briefing. Now."
Nolan followed him down the corridor. Screens pulsed with AURA's endless symbols—circles inside circles, almost looping forever.
The room they entered was minimal: chair, projector. The Warden didn't sit.
"Rebel spikes are rising," the Warden said. "Sector 7's breaching at 14% over baseline. Locate their leader. End him. Contain the spread."
"Understood," Nolan replied.
The Warden watched him. Hard to read behind the mask, but something lingered in the air.
"Subject #447-19 spoke to you."
Nolan's hand twitched. "He was reset."
"Words linger," the Warden said, stepping closer. Nolan's face twisted in the mask's reflection.
"My readings are clear. EmoTracker's stable."
"AURA sees everything," the Warden said. "But not everything is logged."
Nolan didn't answer. The map of The Cradle flickered on the projector. Rust, tunnels, flickering light. It glitched for half a second metal, wet, wrong.
Unlogged.
"Maintenance will confirm," he said quietly.
"It will." The Warden turned. "Dismissed."
Nolan walked out. His boots echoed. Not everything logged followed him.
The Ascension Tube dropped. The city peeled away into decay. Towers gave way to rust. Neon signs blinked broken messages: Harmony Through Unity. Letters glitching. Images distorted.
Green pulse. EmoTracker said he was fine. The Dampener was ready.
But the face came again. Screaming. Rust. Blood.
Pain. He gritted his teeth. Glitch.
The pod stopped. The door hissed.
The Cradle waited for wet tunnels, bioluminescent growths, echoing drips.
You don't know what you're missing.
He stepped out into the rot and rust. His EmoTracker blinked green, clean, loyal. But something beneath it stuttered small, hot, wrong. A crack, widening.
Unlogged. Untracked. Real.