The transport moved without sound.
No engine hum, no vibration through the seats — just the faint, bone-deep pressure of motion that made Kahn's stomach roll. The windows were polarized to black, reflecting only ghost images of the recruits inside. Grey uniforms. Pale faces. The dull gleam of the containment cuffs wrapped around their forearms. The cuffs pulsed faintly, whispering a static lullaby that smelled faintly of ozone and antiseptic. The air was cool, almost too dry, and carried a faint bite of recycled metal.
Voss sat at the front, shoulders slouched, cigarette still unlit between two fingers. The unburned tobacco gave off a dry, papery scent that mingled with the cold sterility of the cabin. Every so often he'd exhale like a man who wanted to smoke just for the sound of it.
"Outpost Theta," he muttered. "Residential sector. Ten blocks quarantined after a localized distortion event. Minimal civilian contact. You observe, not engage. Got it?"
No one answered. They all felt it — the vibration under the silence, the faint metallic taste that came whenever the Kernel's touch lingered too close. It was in the air, in the recycled breath, in the hum of the suppressor field around the transport. The seats were slick beneath their palms, faintly oily, as though the material itself sweated.
Kahn's fragment stirred, restless. It didn't like the stillness. It wanted edges. Cracks. Noise. He pressed his palm to the cool metal of the cuff until the itch dulled. The chill bit into his skin, grounding him, anchoring his thoughts against the pulse inside.
When the transport slowed, the pressure vanished. The silence deepened until Kahn could hear his own pulse in his ears. The door hissed open, releasing a rush of air that smelled of rain-soaked dust, burnt insulation, and something faintly sweet — like fruit left too long in the heat. The sudden humidity crawled across his skin, coating his arms in a thin film of damp warmth.
The city beyond was wrong.
Theta District had been evacuated weeks ago, but it didn't feel empty. The streets glistened with a sheen that wasn't water. The lamps overhead flickered in unison, their light pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as Kahn's cuffs. Buildings leaned in subtle ways — vertical lines bending a degree too far inward, windows reflecting light that didn't match their angles. Somewhere distant, metal clinked rhythmically, though there was no wind. The air carried the faint musk of mold beneath the sweetness, the scent of decay softened by rain.
Selene led the line, her boots clicking sharp on wet pavement. The sound carried too far, echoing once, then twice — the second echo a beat late, as if the street itself were hesitating before remembering what to do. Each step sent faint tremors through puddles that shimmered with colors oil-like and wrong.
"Keep your suppressors calibrated," she said without looking back. "This sector's contamination is old, but that makes it unpredictable. Fragments like to nest in residual thought."
Residual thought.The phrase sat heavy in Kahn's mind.He looked up — and froze.
There were handprints on the walls. Dozens of them. Some smeared, some perfect. Most were gray-white, dust pressed into paint, but a few glistened faintly as though wet. They formed patterns that repeated at strange intervals — left, right, right, left — almost rhythmic, almost deliberate. The walls themselves seemed damp to the eye, paint blistered and swollen like skin left too long in water.
The smell grew stronger as they advanced — copper and rot, but beneath it something almost floral, faint and sickly-sweet. The sweetness clung to the roof of his mouth until it felt like syrup. The air was damp enough to taste. Each inhale left grit on his tongue.
"Visual distortion, two o'clock," the buzz-cut woman whispered. Her voice was hoarse, too loud against the quiet, the sound scraping against the wet stillness like a blade dragged through cloth.
They turned the corner.There, at the end of the street, the air itself was folding — not visibly, not fully, but the space seemed thicker. The buildings bent toward each other slightly, as if pressed inward by an invisible hand. Shadows at the base of the alley didn't match the light — they jittered, half a second out of sync. Every time Kahn blinked, the shapes rearranged. His stomach lurched with the wrongness, a slow roll that made him feel half weightless.
Selene stopped. "Echo imprint," she said softly. "Fracture class. Low-level but active."
Voss spat the ghost of a laugh. "And here I was hoping for something friendly."He gestured for the recruits to form a semicircle. The air pressure shifted as their suppressors synced, a faint vibration thrumming through the concrete. The smell of ozone thickened until it was almost electric, raising goosebumps along Kahn's arms. His fingers tingled, hairs on his skin standing like static before a storm.
A sound rolled through the alley — faint, like someone dragging glass across asphalt. Then a whisper.Not words. Just breath.Old breath. It brushed cold against their cheeks, thin and brittle as cobweb.
The distortion rippled. From the corner of his eye, Kahn saw something peel itself out of the wall — a figure made of dust and colorless light, its edges trembling like a mirage. Its mouth opened, and the air filled with the taste of chalk. The faint smell of stone dust filled his sinuses, dry enough to sting.
Selene's voice was calm, almost reverent."This is what's left when an Aberrant dies. A residual echo, trapped in conceptual feedback. Harmless—if you don't touch it."
The thing tilted its head toward her voice.Its features were blurred, but Kahn could make out where its eyes should be — two dim hollows filled with static. When it moved, the temperature dropped so fast his breath fogged white. The moisture in the air froze to prickles against his lips.
Behind him, one of the recruits gasped. The sound cracked the stillness.The echo turned.
It didn't move fast, but every step it took made the world around it stutter. The air bent. A lamp flickered out. Its feet left no marks, only faint rings of moisture where it passed. When it opened its mouth again, the whisper turned to a tone — soft, harmonic, perfectly even. The sound vibrated inside Kahn's chest, tickling his ribs like the hum of machinery buried in flesh.
And then Kahn's fragment answered.
The cuff burned cold. His veins hummed. Static filled his skull, and he could smell it — sharp ozone, hot metal, and something organic beneath, something like skin just before it blisters. The echo's voice vibrated through him, and for a moment, Kahn wasn't in the street anymore — he was somewhere else, surrounded by dust and mirrors, hearing his own voice whisper from a thousand empty mouths. The air there was dry, cutting, each breath like inhaling powdered glass.
Selene's command snapped him back."Do not respond. Suppress and observe."
But the echo was already looking at him.Not the others. Just him.
Its head tilted.The harmonic tone cracked into something human."...fracture... incomplete..."
Kahn's pulse spiked. His cuffs flickered once—twice—then stabilized. The air pressure shifted violently, and the sweetness vanished from the street, replaced by the stink of rust and hot iron. His skin itched as if tiny sparks crawled beneath it.
Selene stepped forward, hand raised, fragment flaring faintly crimson around her like heat mirage. "That's enough."
The echo's shape blurred, collapsing inward like smoke pulled through a vacuum. A sound like a sigh filled the air — quiet, final. The sweetness returned, faint, almost floral again. Then nothing.
Silence.Even the light felt tired.
Selene turned to the recruits. "Observation complete. Theta will be sealed and cleansed. You will file sensory logs within the hour."
Voss grunted. "Translation—try to sleep after that."
As the others moved back toward the transport, Kahn lingered. He looked down at the damp pavement where the echo had stood. The moisture there shimmered faintly, reflecting his face in warped angles. For a second, his reflection didn't blink when he did.
The smell of copper drifted past him, soft as a breath.And a whisper — faint, but his name this time:Kahn.
He froze.Then it was gone.