The silence in the apartment was no longer empty. It was filled with the ghost of a name. Project Chimera. The word echoed in Damian's skull, a mythical beast made of code and stolen memories. He paced, the plush carpet doing little to soften the frantic energy crackling through him. They're not preserving my consciousness. They're curating it.
V2.0's recorded voice had put words to the formless dread he'd felt since waking up. The lake memory wasn't just a comfort; it was a lie. A beautifully crafted set piece designed to keep him placid. And if that was a lie, what else was? Every memory of contentment, of peace… were they all implants? Was his grief for Elara even real, or just another tool to control him?
He stopped at the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The glittering Arcology stretched out below, a monument of perfect order. And he was a flaw in its system. A bug. Rourke and Ben weren't just security; they were exterminators, tasked with smoothing over the glitch before it spread.
He had to know what Chimera was. The public terminals were off-limits now; his every digital breath would be monitored. The data-chip was safe, buried in the wall, but it was useless if he couldn't access the network to research the name.
Then he remembered the old synth-keyboard. In the dusty apartment, alongside the photos of Elara. It wasn't just a nostalgic relic. V2.0 was a tech guy, from an era when people still understood the machines they used. What if the keyboard wasn't just for show?
An idea, desperate and crazy, took root. The keyboard was old, possibly pre-net. A standalone device. If it had any internal memory, any way to store data offline… it was a long shot. But it was the only shot he had.
He had to get back to The Aerie. Again. The thought made his skin crawl. Rourke's warning—decommissioned—was a polite word for erased. Going back was suicide. But staying here, waiting for them to decide he was a failed Version, was a slower, quieter version of the same thing.
He needed a distraction. A big one.
His eyes fell on the food dispenser. He'd used a coffee complaint before. He needed something larger. A malfunction. Something that would demand the Archivist's attention and, with luck, pull Aegis to a different part of the sector.
He walked over to the dispenser and opened the service panel. It was simple inside, a series of cartridges and heating elements. He didn't know much about engineering, but he understood cause and effect. He found the water intake line, a small, clear tube. Taking a deep breath, he pinched it shut, kinking it tightly. Then he selected a complicated beverage—a hot chocolate with extra froth.
The machine whirred. The heater kicked in. But with the water flow blocked, the pressure would have to go somewhere. He stepped back, his heart pounding.
A few seconds later, a loud pop was followed by a gush of steam and brown liquid spraying from the internal mechanism. An alarm chirped from the unit itself. The dispenser screen flashed: CRITICAL MALFUNCTION.
Perfect.
Almost instantly, the Archivist's voice filled the room, its calm tone slightly strained. "Mr. Grey, a level-two malfunction has been detected in your nutrition unit. Please stand clear. A maintenance ticket has been issued."
"It just exploded!" Damian said, putting a panicked edge in his voice. "There's hot liquid everywhere! Is it going to shut down the power?"
"The event is contained to the unit," the Archivist replied. "A technician is en route. Please remain calm."
Damian didn't plan on remaining anything. He knew the protocol. A level-two malfunction would send a ping to Aegis, but it was a low priority. They might send a single officer to log the incident, but their focus would be on the technician fixing the hazard. It was a small window, but it was all he had.
He waited, counting the seconds. A minute later, he heard the familiar sound of a maintenance cart whirring down the hall. Peeking through the door's viewer, he saw a woman in blue coveralls arrive with a toolbox. Right behind her was a single, bored-looking Aegis guard, who took up a post by the door.
This was it.
Damian moved to the back of his apartment, to the small hygiene unit. It had a ventilation grate. He'd already loosened it earlier. He pried it off, revealing a tight, dark space barely large enough to crawl through. It was part of the same internal maintenance system he'd used to escape the library.
The smell of dust and ozone hit him as he squeezed inside. He moved as quickly as he could, the metal walls scraping against his back. He tried to ignore the crushing sense of claustrophobia, focusing on the mental map he was building. Left, then right, then a long straight shot that should run parallel to the older sectors.
After what felt like an eternity, he saw a familiar junction box. He was near The Aerie. He found the hatch leading up and pushed it open slowly, emerging into the same dim, silent hallway as before.
Unit 734 was just as he'd left it, the door still slightly ajar. He slipped inside, the dust motes dancing in the sliver of light from the window. He went straight to the synth-keyboard, his fingers tracing the dusty keys.
He turned it over. On the back, amid the serial numbers, was a small, almost invisible port. An ancient data-port, not unlike the one on the library terminal. His heart leapt. This was it. But how to power it? The apartment had no active outlets.
He scanned the room and his eyes landed on a small, discarded personal tablet in a pile of junk in the corner. Its screen was cracked, but when he pressed the power button, a low-battery icon flickered. A few precious seconds of charge.
It was enough. He found a compatible cable in the same pile and frantically connected the tablet to the keyboard. The keyboard's power light glowed a faint, hopeful red.
He accessed the tablet's file manager. It recognized the keyboard as an external storage device. There was one file on it. Not a music file. A text file. Labeled: README.
He opened it.
The text was brief, a final message from the ghost in the machine.
Chimera isn't a project. It's a person.
The architect. Dr. Aris Thorne.
She doesn't help you remember. She decides what you forget.
Damian stared at the words, the world dropping out from under him. Dr. Thorne. The integration therapist. The woman who held his hand and looked at him with those concerned grey eyes. She wasn't just covering for the system.
She was the system.
The friendly face was the monster. And he had just led her straight to his deepest secret.
A shadow fell across the dusty floor from the hallway. The door creaked open slowly. Damian looked up, the cracked tablet slipping from his numb fingers.
Aris Thorne stood in the doorway, her expression not one of anger, but of profound, weary disappointment.
"Oh, Damian," she sighed, shaking her head. "I really thought you were going to be the one that worked."