The gates of the rebel city groaned shut behind them, sealing the rebels off from the underground sanctuary and thrusting them into the ruins of the world above. The silence outside was heavier than stone, the kind that settled into bones and made every step echo too loud. Kieran's optics adjusted instantly to the dim light filtering through storm-torn skies. The others squinted, shielding their eyes against the ash-laden wind.
The group numbered twenty in all—seasoned fighters with scavenged armor and rifles patched together from Dominion scraps. They moved in tight formation, boots crunching over broken asphalt, every one of them tense at the idea of having Subject-09 in their ranks.
Lira kept her place just ahead of Kieran, rifle slung across her back, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. She didn't speak at first. She didn't need to—her whole posture screamed alert.
Kieran followed, servomotors purring softly with each step. His mechanical weight made the ground vibrate in a way he couldn't hide. The rebels flinched at the sound, some throwing him dark glances.
A whisper carried on the wind. "It doesn't belong with us."
Another voice answered, harsher. "Helen's gone mad. Bringing that thing into the field—she's handing the Dominion a weapon on a silver plate."
Kieran kept walking. The words should have slid off his steel frame, but instead they lodged in him like shards of glass.
They're right, the voice inside him said. It was colder now, closer. You don't belong with them. You never will.
"Quiet," Kieran muttered under his breath.
Lira glanced over her shoulder. "What?"
"Nothing."
She studied him for a heartbeat, suspicion flickering across her face, then turned back toward the ruins.
The march stretched on. They wound their way through hollowed buildings whose windows gaped like shattered teeth, past vehicles rusted into husks, past walls scorched black by fire. Overhead, clouds pulsed with veins of electricity, the storm that never ended.
At intervals, drones appeared in the distance, their crimson eyes glowing against the sky. Each time, the rebels froze, slipping into cover beneath collapsed highways or inside skeletal towers until the machines passed. Kieran could feel their scans brushing over him like cold static, as if they recognized him, but couldn't decide if he was prey or kin.
During one such pause, crouched in the shadow of a leaning skyscraper, Lira finally spoke.
"You're too loud."
Kieran turned his head. "My steps?"
"Everything. The way you move, the way you breathe even when you don't need to. You scream machine, and they hear it."
"I can't change what I am."
"Maybe not. But you could try harder to act like us."
The words cut sharper than she probably intended. For a moment, Kieran wondered if he should even bother. Why pretend? Why fight their war? Yet something about Lira's tone—not hostile, not quite—made him answer.
"I was human once."
She blinked. "And you think that makes a difference now?"
He didn't reply.
They pressed onward, deeper into Dominion territory. The ruins grew denser, riddled with twisted barricades and shattered drone parts from old battles. Every sign of resistance had been scrubbed away, except for scorched walls bearing faint graffiti: We end when we stop fighting.
Helen marched at the front, silent but commanding. Every few minutes she signaled halts, checked maps, adjusted course. Her presence steadied the group, though even she glanced back at Kieran more than once, her sharp eyes weighing him in ways she didn't speak aloud.
As dusk approached, the rebels reached an overgrown overpass. They climbed carefully, avoiding crumbling concrete, and emerged onto a vantage point overlooking the horizon.
And there it was.
The spire.
It rose like a needle into the storm-choked sky, its steel ribs glowing faintly with Dominion circuitry. Energy pulsed along its frame in steady rhythms, sending arcs of light racing skyward into the clouds. Around its base stretched a fortress of barricades, automated turrets, and patrol squads of drones pacing like wolves around a kill.
Even at this distance, the air vibrated with its hum.
The rebels stopped as one, the sight stealing their breath.
Kieran's optics zoomed in automatically, scanning details. His systems registered heavy artillery, encrypted comm signals, motion sensors embedded in the ground. A fortress within a fortress.
"This isn't a siege," one of the rebels muttered. "It's suicide."
Helen stood tall against the wind, her gaze fixed on the spire. "The Dominion thinks themselves untouchable. That's why we have to strike. Tonight, we bleed them where it hurts."
The rebels murmured uneasily, some clutching their weapons tighter.
Kieran didn't move. The spire's hum echoed in his chest, resonating with his core like it recognized him. His vision flickered—just for a moment—and he saw another image overlaid atop reality: the spire collapsing, flames engulfing the streets, rebels screaming. There was a chaotic situation.
He stammered.
Lira caught the movement. "What is it?"
"I…" He gritted his teeth, forcing the static back. "Nothing."
But the voice inside him laughed, low and cruel.
You saw it too. You're not their savior. You're their executioner. And when the tower falls, it won't be the Dominion you destroy.
Kieran shut down his optics briefly, fighting the whisper. When he opened them, the spire loomed, waiting.
Helen raised her hand, silencing the murmurs. Her eyes swept across her soldiers, landing finally on Kieran.
"Tonight," she said, her voice a blade, "we show the Dominion they can bleed. Rest now. When the storm breaks, we move."
The rebels nodded, though fear lingered in their faces. They began setting up a temporary camp among the ruins of the overpass, laying down gear, checking weapons.
Kieran didn't join them. He stood apart, staring at the spire.
It stared back.
And somewhere deep in his circuits, the Ninth Subject whispered: This is where it begins.
Kieran understood it's to do or die. He has to show that he is not subject 09 but Kieran Vale , a scientist who tried his best to build the Quantum Bridge Project....