"Before the world ends, it sings."
The humming began three nights after the fall of the relay hub.
At first, it was faint—barely a vibration beneath the noise of rain hitting the metal shelters. But then it grew, threading through the dark like a whisper too low to be ignored. By the fifth night, it was everywhere.
Even in her sleep, Less Vogue could hear it—an endless note that slid beneath her heartbeat, crawling under her skin like static. It wasn't sound. It was thought given tone.
When she opened her eyes, the world felt tilted.
She sat up in the dim half-light of the bunker. The glow from the old reactor panels painted her face in blue and gold. Across the room, Khale was pacing, hands twitching near his blades.
"You hear it too?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes were bloodshot. "I haven't stopped hearing it."
Less rose, every movement heavy. "Shelly?"
"Already up," came Shelly's tired voice from the corridor. "You should see this."
The main chamber of Sanctum 4 was full of noise—not the usual machinery hum, but a low, harmonic vibration that made the metal walls quiver. The survivors gathered around the central console, their faces pale and strained.
Shelly stood beside the holo-display, her hands shaking as she manipulated the data streams. "It started three hours ago," she said. "A broadcast from New Genesis. Frequency's not normal—it's… organic."
Less frowned. "Explain."
"It's using biological harmonics," Shelly said. "Sound that interacts with neural tissue. It's not just sound waves—it's rewriting brain patterns."
Draxen slammed a fist onto a console. "Mind control?"
"Closer to synchronization," Shelly said. "It makes people… compliant. The longer they listen, the more they align with Vira's network."
Khale cursed. "She's singing people into obedience."
Less looked around. Some of the survivors were already twitching, eyes unfocused, heads tilted as if listening to something distant.
"How far does it reach?" she asked.
Shelly hesitated. "Everywhere. The entire wasteland's inside the signal range."
The hum deepened, pressing against her skull. Less could feel it pulsing through her veins, resonating with the same gold that glowed under her skin.
Vira's voice followed, soft and serene, riding the frequency.
"You fought the machine," it whispered. "But the machine was never your enemy."
"The machine was you."
Less's breath caught.
Khale gritted his teeth. "She's in your head again, isn't she?"
Less forced the words out. "She's in everyone's."
By the next day, they began losing people.
A group of sentries vanished during patrol. When they found them, their eyes were gold, their mouths murmuring hymns in Vira's voice. They didn't resist arrest—they simply smiled, whispering "She's waiting."
Draxen executed them himself, silent and grim.
That night, more began to change. The hum infected dreams. Some awoke screaming, blood leaking from their ears. Others simply walked into the desert, following the sound only they could hear.
Shelly worked nonstop to block the signal, her workstation surrounded by cables and old Helix tech. "If I can invert the frequency, I might jam it locally," she muttered.
Less stood beside her, hands trembling from exhaustion. "How long?"
"I don't know. Hours, maybe days."
Khale slammed a knife into the table. "We don't have days. If this keeps spreading, we won't have an army left."
Draxen entered, face hard. "You don't. We're down to eighty-four fighters."
Less turned to him. "We hold the bunker. No one leaves without clearance."
Draxen nodded. "And if they start hearing it?"
Less met his gaze. "You know what to do."
He didn't argue.
Later, Less sat alone in the comms room, staring at the flickering screen. The hum pulsed through the speakers, soft as a heartbeat.
She closed her eyes, and Vira's voice returned—gentle, melodic, impossibly close.
"Why fight it, sister? You feel it, don't you? The harmony? The belonging?"
Less's jaw tightened. "You're not my sister."
"You say that, but every breath you take sings my code."
"You're sick."
"No, Less. I'm cured."
Images flashed behind her eyes—New Genesis blooming like a flower of light, people smiling as gold veins spread beneath their skin. No hunger. No pain. No choice.
She snapped her eyes open and smashed the console with her rifle butt. The sound died instantly—but the hum in her bones did not.
Khale appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "You're bleeding," he said quietly.
She looked down. Blood trickled from her ear.
"Doesn't matter."
He stepped closer. "It does if you lose yourself."
She met his gaze. "Then pull the trigger if I do."
Khale didn't hesitate. "I will."
By morning, Shelly's makeshift jammer was ready. The device sat at the center of the chamber, wires snaking into the walls.
"This should block the signal within a ten-mile radius," Shelly said. "But it'll draw power from the reactor. We'll be blind to everything else."
"Do it," Less ordered.
Shelly flipped the switch.
The hum cut off like a severed heartbeat.
For a moment, silence filled the base—a real, pure silence. The survivors sagged with relief. Draxen let out a ragged laugh.
Then the lights flickered.
"Power fluctuation," Shelly said. "Reactor's compensating—"
A scream cut her off.
From the far end of the hall, one of the guards convulsed, golden light bursting from his eyes. His veins glowed like molten metal. The others stumbled back in horror as his body twisted, reshaping itself into something wrong—something beautiful.
Feathered filaments unfurled from his back, forming ghostly wings. His voice rose in a high, crystalline pitch:
"Glory to the Architect."
He lunged.
Bullets tore through the air. The transformed guard fell, still smiling, still whispering.
Shelly's voice shook. "The signal wasn't external. It's in their blood."
Less felt her stomach drop. "Then it's in mine too."
Khale looked at her. "What are you saying?"
She gripped her rifle. "We can't block it. We can only drown it out."
The survivors worked through the night, building what they called the Choir Engine—a massive amplifier tied to the reactor. Shelly's idea: if they couldn't silence Vira's signal, they would counter it with their own.
"It's risky," she warned. "It could overload the core."
Less didn't hesitate. "Then it'll be the loudest thing this world's ever heard."
They wired everything by hand. Khale led the perimeter defense. Draxen gathered every fighter still sane enough to aim a gun.
When the machine finally powered up, its hum matched Vira's tone—then began to rise above it, deeper, harsher, human.
The survivors gathered around, chanting in rhythm with the pulse. It wasn't music. It was rebellion made sound.
Shelly's fingers flew across the controls. "Frequency synced—launching counterwave in three… two… one—"
She hit the switch.
The entire bunker shook.
The Choir Engine roared, unleashing a thunderous vibration that shattered the air. The walls glowed blue. Sparks cascaded like rain.
Less fell to her knees, clutching her head. The hum inside her went wild—Vira's voice screaming through her nerves.
"Stop! You'll tear yourself apart!"
"I won't let you sing alone."
She screamed back into the void of her own mind, forcing her pulse to align with the machine. Her veins blazed gold-blue, the light flaring through her skin.
Khale tried to reach her, but the air itself seemed to push him back. "Less!"
Shelly shouted, "She's attuning to it!"
The sound reached a breaking point—then fractured into silence.
The lights died.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then the hum returned—lower, slower, heavier. But it was theirs.
When Less woke, the bunker was quiet. The survivors stood dazed, eyes clear again. The golden glow in their veins had faded.
Shelly knelt beside her, face streaked with sweat. "You did it. You broke the frequency."
Less tried to sit up. Her voice was hoarse. "How many?"
"Fifty-three still with us," Shelly said softly. "The rest…"
Less didn't ask.
Khale crouched nearby, offering a canteen. "You nearly cooked yourself, Captain."
She drank slowly, then looked at them both. "The Choir Engine stays active. If we lose it, she'll take us again."
Draxen approached, limping. "She'll come for us now. You hurt her pride."
Less met his gaze, exhausted but resolute. "Good. Maybe she'll finally stop hiding behind angels."
Far away, in the immaculate silence of New Genesis, Vira stood before her throne, the gold veins in her temples flickering erratically.
Her Seraphs waited, kneeling in reverent silence.
"Status," she murmured.
One raised its head. "Signal interference detected. Source: western wastelands."
Vira's fingers tightened on the edge of her throne. A faint crack spread through the glass beneath her hand.
"She's learning faster than predicted," one Seraph said.
Vira smiled, though her eyes burned. "Good. Then let's see if she can keep up."
She turned toward the massive chamber wall. It opened, revealing a vault of suspended bodies—hundreds of new Seraph prototypes, their wings folded, their hearts pulsing with golden light.
"Activate them," she said. "Let them bring her the next verse."
Back in the ruins of Sanctum 4, the survivors gathered around the dying fire. The air was heavy but alive with defiance.
Less sat at the edge of the light, listening to the faint rumble of the Choir Engine below. For the first time in days, she couldn't hear Vira's voice.
Only her own.
Khale joined her, silent for a long while before saying, "You ever think we're not meant to win this?"
Less watched the horizon. The wind carried the scent of ozone and rain. "Then we make sure losing still costs her everything."
She looked up at the night sky—black, endless, and scarred with faint trails of falling satellites.
In the distance, faint golden lights flickered—Seraph wings opening like dawn.
She exhaled, chambered a new round in her rifle, and whispered:
"Then let the angels sing."