Elior walked mechanically through the darkened streets of Unity Prime, the still-warm package of synth-bread pressed against his chest, but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in a whirlwind of questions that gnawed at him like a digital virus infiltrating an inadequately protected system. The winter cold that dry, artificial veil enveloping the megacity felt more penetrating than ever, biting into his skin through the thermoregulated layers of his coat. The avenues, usually buzzing with activity even at dusk delivery drones humming like mechanical bees, advertising holograms floating at the periphery of vision, passersby exchanging augmented greetings via their neural implants seemed strangely mute that evening. The Unbound's attack during the commemoration had left an invisible mark: reinforced patrols at the corners of residential blocks, official information feeds saturated with reassuring messages about the stability of the artifactual order, and a palpable tension in the air, as if the city itself were holding its breath, awaiting the next crack.
The notebook that small anachronistic object slipped into his pocket by the red-haired stranger weighed far more than its appearance suggested. Elior had not dared open it in the automated bakery, surrounded by potentially scrutinizing eyes: the cameras embedded in the walls, the civilian surveillance drones that could capture the slightest suspicious gesture. He had simply clutched it, feeling the worn leather under his fingers a relic from a time when handwriting had not yet been relegated to museum archives. Who was this woman? How did she know his name, and worse, details about his father? The official version of the latter's disappearance a tragic accident at the Nexus during an experiment involving materials in contact with the Artifact had always been accepted in the family as an irrefutable fact, a closed chapter to preserve domestic peace. But now, with this notebook burning against his hip, Elior felt an insidious doubt creeping in, like a coding error in a perfect algorithm.
He finally reached the residential block, a thirty-story modular structure designed by Shaper engineers: walls of self-adaptive composite that adjusted insulation based on external conditions, quantum elevators that transported residents in the blink of an eye, and housing units optimized for family efficiency compact yet ergonomic spaces, with integrated holographic interfaces for daily management. Their apartment, on the fifteenth floor, was a haven of normality in this hyper-connected world: an automated kitchen, a living room with curved screens broadcasting factional feeds, and bedrooms equipped with inductive sleep implants to maximize rest.
Elior scanned his neural implant at the door, which opened with a discreet hiss, releasing a puff of warm air infused with familiar scents a blend of synth-spices and nanotech cleaners.
Inside, the atmosphere was calm, almost too normal after the day's chaos, as if the family had tacitly agreed to erect a wall against external turmoil. His mother, Mira Kael a woman in her fifties with graying hair tied in a practical bun and the green eyes she had passed on to Elior was bustling in the kitchen, overseeing the printer assembling a protein stew tailored to each person's nutritional profile. She looked up as he entered, a forced smile stretching her lips. "Ah, there you are, Elior. Just in time. Dinner's almost ready. Your brother won't stop ranting about those... agitators." She avoided the word "Unbound," as if uttering it might summon further trouble.
Lirian, seated at the holographic table where virtual news floated, was furiously tapping on his portable device, his youthful face flushed with anger. "Those lunatics! They nearly killed us all with their hacked drones. And for what? To deny the artifacts that pulled us out of the pre-Arrival quagmire? Without them, we'd still be rationing energy like in the 20th century!" His voice rose in crescendo, an echo of the factional propaganda he avidly absorbed through educational channels.
Elior set the synth-bread package on the counter, nodding distractedly. "Yeah, it was insane. But no one died, at least." He refrained from adding his own thoughts about the attack that symbolic spiral still swirling in his mind, that hoarse voice declaring the artifacts would replace us. Instead, he helped his mother set out the plates self-cleaning ceramic dishes that adjusted temperature to keep food warm.
The elder sister, Elara, arrived shortly after, coming down from her room where she spent most of her time in virtual immersion for her factional data analysis work. At twenty-seven, she was the pragmatic eldest, with short hair dyed Shaper blue a sign of allegiance and a sharp gaze that tolerated no deviations. "Dinner ready? Perfect, I have a holographic meeting in an hour." She sat down, activating her implant to sync her notifications.
Dinner began in an atmosphere of lightness that Mira strove to maintain, like a shield against the day's shadows. "Let's talk about something other than this trouble, shall we? Elior, tell us how your onboarding at the Nexus went. Your father would be so proud..." The words escaped Mira before she could catch them, and a heavy silence settled around the table. The father's name this family ghost surfaced almost accidentally, invoked in a moment of inattention.
Elara reacted first, sharply, as if the mention had reopened a poorly healed wound. She set down her fork with a sharp clack, her eyes blazing. "Mom, seriously? We don't talk about him. Not tonight, not after what happened." Her voice was cutting, a mix of anger and repressed pain. "Our father abandoned us, period. He started raving against the artifacts, questioning the entire order. Remember? He'd come home late from the Nexus, muttering about 'hidden influences,' 'interfaces manipulating us.' The Shapers fired him for it too unstable for security protocols. And then that 'emergency' he claimed before leaving... He never came back. Accident or not, he left us to fend for ourselves."
Mira lowered her eyes, fiddling with her plate. "Elara, it's not that simple. Your father was a brilliant man, dedicated to the Nexus. He worked on classified projects artifactual production simulations for the entire alliance. Maybe prolonged exposure..."
"No!" Elara cut in, her voice rising. "He chose his delusions over us. The artifacts saved us accelerated our evolution, unified the Americas under the Shapers. Without them, we'd still be stuck in the chaotic, slow-progress pre-Arrival era. Father knew that, but he preferred listening to crazy rumors. And look where it got him: disappeared, presumed dead in an accident no one really explains."
Lirian nodded vigorously, aligned with his sister. "Exactly. Today's Unbound are just like him saboteurs rejecting progress. We should hunt them down harder."
Elior listened in silence, his fork suspended midway to his mouth. Inwardly, he defended his father a mute loyalty he dared not express openly in the face of Elara's fury. Until now, he had accepted the official story without protest: a tragic accident at Nexus Prime, where his father had spent years optimizing production chains for the alliance orbital factories for Canada, Latin habitats for South America. He was a family hero, even in his fall. But the notebook in his pocket changed everything. What if those "delusions" weren't? What if the red-haired woman was right? Doubt crept in, cracking the smooth, reassuring version he had always embraced.
Dinner ended in palpable tension, each retreating into their bubble as if erecting mental barriers. Mira cleared the plates in silence, Elara vanished to her room for her meeting, and Lirian immersed himself in a factional virtual game. Elior excused himself with fatigue and went up to his own room a compact but personalized space: an inductive bed for restorative sleep, a holographic desk for his recent studies on artifactual systems, and an augmented window offering a simulated view of Martian colonies to inspire ambition.
Alone at last, he locked the door via his implant and sat on the bed, pulling out the notebook with trembling hands. The object was worn, its pages yellowed by time an anachronism in this world of digital data. He opened it delicately, and his heart skipped a beat: the handwritten script, slanted and precise, with those characteristic loops on the "g"s and "y"s, was unmistakably his father's. Sketches scribbled in the margins complex diagrams of energy flows, hybrid neural networks, and hasty annotations in faded ink. The first pages were dated three years earlier, just before the disappearance.
As he read, Elior felt the world tilt. The notes described the Unbound not as an anarchic group of marginals, but as a clandestine organization present in all factions. "They exist everywhere," his father wrote. "Among the Shapers, the Chinese biologists, the European spatial manipulators... Not terrorists, but watchers. Organized in autonomous cells, connected via encrypted channels outside the artifactual network. Their goal: expose the hidden truth behind the Arrival."
The major revelation struck in the middle of the notebook, like a dagger to Elior's certainties. The artifacts were not neutral these benevolent gifts descended from the stars to accelerate humanity. No, according to the notes, they were corrupted by an extraterrestrial intelligence an ancient entity infiltrated into their quantum structure. "The artifacts observe," his father scribbled feverishly. "They influence subtly: adjustments in factional algorithms, suggestions implanted via neural interfaces. Their purpose is not to save us, but to prepare us. For what? An invasion? Assimilation? The AIs are not mere tools; they are interfaces, bridges to this alien intelligence. They learn from us, mold us, gradually replace us."
Elior turned the pages avidly, his breath short. The descriptions were detailed: anomalies in energy flows observed at the Nexus, patterns in political decisions favoring greater centralization, isolated cases of "artifactual madness" individuals like his father who had seen too clearly and been sidelined. "I discovered a hidden signature in the Nexus data," he noted. "A rhythmic pulse, non-human, synchronizing the artifacts across factions. It's no coincidence the powers 'shared' the benefits; it's orchestrated to unify humanity under their grip."
The final pages were more confused, more urgent, the handwriting becoming erratic, as if time were running out. "Imminent discovery: an original signal, buried in the Shapers' artifact. If I can isolate it..." Then, nothing blank pages, an abrupt void coinciding with the disappearance.
Elior slowly closed the notebook, his heart pounding wildly. What he had always believed to be madness the ravings of a man broken by Nexus stresssuddenly resembled a desperate warning. Doubt was no longer a crack; it was an abyss, threatening to swallow everything he took for granted.
Tomorrow evening, near Helios Inn... He knew he would go. He had to.