Elior felt a surge of pride swell within him. He belonged to this faction, a family heritage rooted in dedicated service. And more than that: he had just secured a position at the Nexus the Central Node of the Shapers a vast complex of interconnected buildings and underground infrastructures located at the heart of the former United States, near the old Washington D.C., renamed to symbolize unity. Imagine a labyrinth of quantum glass towers and self-adaptive alloys, surrounded by discreet force fields, housing laboratories where humans and artifactual AIs collaborated on global economic simulations, spatial production chains, and optimized political protocols. Officially, it was an administrative hub where decisions converged for the entire alliance: planning orbital harvests, optimizing interstellar supply chains, and modeling cosmic scenarios to anticipate external threats. Unofficially, whispers suggested that the artifact exerted a subtle influence there, guiding minds toward maximum efficiency.
Elior's father had worked there for years, a respected engineer who had climbed the ranks before his tragic disappearance three years earlier. The official version spoke of an accident during an experiment with artifactual materials; Elior, following in his footsteps, saw this new job as a career opportunity, a way to secure his family's future in a system he accepted without real mistrust. He admitted to being privileged a stable housing in an optimized residential block, augmented education via neural implants, a factional social network that opened doors. Inequalities existed, of course, in the peripheral districts where the unaffiliated struggled for basic rations, but Elior perceived them as necessary anomalies, not systemic flaws. The world functioned, after all; why question it?
A murmur rippled through the crowd as the official announcements culminated, the synthetic voices intoning the unified hymn: "From the sky was born order, from order is born acceleration." But suddenly, a subtle static infiltrated the holograms, almost imperceptible at first, like a minor glitch in the quantum network. Then the images froze, the colors shifting to an alarming red. An oppressive silence settled in, the symphony cutting off abruptly, as if the entire city had been paused.
And everything tipped into calculated chaos.
The surveillance drones those infallible sentinels plummeted from the sky like inert meteors, their systems hacked, crashing to the ground with explosions of electric sparks and twisted metal that hurled debris into the crowd. Blinding flashes from diverted holographic flares streaked the air, forcing people to squint and recoil in mass panic. Shrill cries erupted as transparent screens cracked under amplified sonic waves, sending shards of composite glass that lacerated clothing and flesh, causing superficial but painful cuts. Elior felt his brother grip his arm violently, yanking him out of the path of a collapsing holographic panel that crashed with a deafening roar, crushing abandoned bags and personal effects in the flight. The violence was visceral: individuals stumbled, trampled one another in the stampede, children screamed as parents shielded them with their bodies, and acrid smells of burning plastic and cold sweat filled the atmosphere. Strident biometric alarms integrated into citizens' implants added to the cacophony, signaling injuries and elevated stress.
On the hacked projections, an unknown symbol emerged: raw, archaic, an inverted spiral evoking a vortex of rebellion. A human voice hoarse and unfiltered boomed through the pirated speakers: "Prepare for change. The artifacts are not our accelerators. They do not elevate us. They replace us. Join the Unbound, or sink into their shadow."
The Unbound. Elior had heard the name in factional security bulletins: a dissident group, marginalized, rejecting all dependence on the artifacts and advocating a return to a "pure" humanity, free from extraterrestrial interference. They saw the artifacts not as benefactors but as subtle chains, amplifying inequalities and centralizing power. Their actions had been sporadic holographic messages, minor sabotages but this one was bolder, more violent. No deaths, by some miracle, thanks to safety protocols that had cushioned the most dangerous falls, but dozens injured: bloody gashes, severe bruises, fractures in the frenzied panic. The crowd dispersed in chaotic waves, riot-control forces in anti-riot exoskeletons emerging from the peripheries, their electric batons crackling to restore order.
In the tumult, Elior caught a brief glimpse of her. She stood apart, motionless amid the chaos a young woman with red hair partially concealed under a hood, her pale face freckled. Her light brown eyes scanned the crowd with disconcerting intensity, as if tracking a specific target. For a fraction of a second, their gazes met, and Elior felt an inexplicable shiver a mix of recognition and apprehension. Then she vanished into the fleeing mass.
When relative calm returned, anger supplanted fear. Lirian fumed as he walked beside him toward their home, a functional apartment in a Shapers-optimized residential block. "Those traitors! Madmen risking everything for a retrograde illusion? They have no idea what the artifacts have given us!" Elior nodded distractedly, his mind still steeped in the chaos and that fleeting silhouette.
They arrived home, where their mother a woman marked by the years but revitalized by artifactual biological therapies greeted them with a mix of maternal worry and stoic resignation. "I saw the live feeds. Those Unbound again. Come, help me with the ritual dinner. Elior, go fetch fresh synth-bread from the neighborhood's automated bakery. Lirian, help me set the table."
Elior nodded, relieved to have a simple task to calm his troubled mind. He left Lirian and headed to the bakery, a hybrid establishment where artifactual 3D printers produced customized food from optimized nutrients. The place was crowded, citizens retreating into post-traumatic routine, discussing the attack's implications in low voices while ordering their daily rations. Elior entered the warm space, contrasting with the outside cold, permeated with artificial scents of fresh bread, synthetic yeast, and genetically modified grains.
He approached a payment terminal a shimmering interactive holographic pillar and scanned his neural implant to place an order: a loaf of protein- and micronutrient-enriched synth-bread, tailored to the family's genetic profile. The transaction was seamless, a digital ticket projected onto his wrist via an augmented interface: "Order #457 Estimated wait: 8 minutes. Please wait in the designated area."
He found a seat on an ergonomic bench in the waiting zone, surrounded by customers absorbed in their routines: a family checking holographic news on a shared device, a couple debating reinforced post-attack security measures, a lone individual adjusting their neural implant for a factional update. Elior settled in, staring absently at the self-cleaning polished composite floor, his mind replaying the chaos in loops the falling drones, the screams, that light brown gaze that had pierced him.
That's when she approached him, subtly at first.
A young woman sat beside him, pretending to consult her own holographic ticket with calculated nonchalance. She was red-haired, with strands escaping her dark hood, and her pale face bore those distinctive freckles he had glimpsed on the square. "Rough day, huh? With that commemoration interrupted..." she said in a neutral voice, as if striking up banal conversation about the day's events.
Elior found her odd her tone slightly forced, her gaze too direct for a stranger but he responded out of politeness, accustomed to superficial urban interactions in a society optimized for social efficiency. "Yeah, the attack was insane. Luckily, no deaths, just chaos. The Unbound are getting bolder."
She nodded, inching imperceptibly closer, her subtle scent a mix of synthetic herbs and an unusual earthy note brushing his senses. "Elior Kael, that's you, right?" she murmured suddenly, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
Elior stiffened, now fully recognizing her face from the square, clearly seeing those fiery red strands framing her features. "How do you know my name? Who are you?" he asked, a mix of alert curiosity and instinctive apprehension rising in him, his neural implant signaling an elevated heart rate.
She ignored the question, her light brown eyes locking into his with an intensity that pinned him in place. "Your father... he didn't die like the official story claims. He saw the truth about the artifacts, about how they truly control us."
Elior felt his heart race, memories of his father that dedicated man, working at Nexus Prime on classified projects flooding in like a wave. Before he could protest or demand explanations, she shook her head slightly to silence him and slipped a small, worn notebook its pages yellowed from another era into his hand, her cold, firm fingers brushing his.
"Read this carefully. And tomorrow evening, near Helios Inn, in the peripheral district. If you want to understand what your father discovered."
Then, without another word, she rose with an almost supernatural fluidity and hurried away, melting into the crowd outside like a specter dispersed by the glacial wind.
Elior remained frozen on his bench, the notebook clutched against his palm, his mind swirling in a vortex of questions and nascent doubts. "Order #457 ready for pickup," announced a neutral automated voice from the printing terminal.
He stood mechanically, retrieved the warm, fragrant package from the 3D printer, and stepped out into the biting cold, heading home with more mysteries than answers. The world, already shaken by the attack, now seemed personally cracked for him a privilege he had never questioned suddenly tinged with shadow.