The word lingers long after it's spoken.
Processed.
It doesn't sound cruel, but that somehow makes it worse. It's the kind of word used by systems that don't care about intent, only outcomes. Standing inside the sealed chamber beneath Virelis, I get the distinct sense that whatever happens next has been decided long before I arrived.
The room hums softly around us.
Glass panels line the walls, each etched with layered symbols that glow faintly as data flows through them. Brass conduits snake across the ceiling, pulsing with controlled bursts of steam that vanish into vents with mechanical precision. This place feels cleaner than the streets above, but no less watchful.
The people who escorted me spread out instinctively, taking up familiar positions. A few remove their respirators, though none fully relax. Whatever they deal with down here, it isn't routine.
The speaker steps closer. Up close, I notice the fine scars along their jawline and the faint ticking of a mechanism embedded near their collarbone. Their eyes flick briefly to the deck hovering at my side, then back to my face.
"You'll be registered," they say. "Assessed. Classified. If you're lucky, contained."
"And if I'm not?" I ask.
They don't answer immediately.
"Then the Crown decides you're more dangerous than useful."
That's… comforting.
A section of the far wall slides open, revealing a circular platform at the center of the chamber. Thin metal arms extend from its rim, each tipped with glass lenses and needle-like instruments that hum quietly as they calibrate themselves.
I take an involuntary step back.
The woman with the goggles notices and shakes her head. "Don't fight it," she says. "Resistance flags get escalated."
Of course they do.
I step onto the platform.
The metal is cold beneath my boots, vibrating faintly in sync with the city's deeper machinery. The arms adjust instantly, lenses swiveling toward me with unnerving precision. I feel a familiar pressure build behind my eyes as the deck shifts closer, reacting to the attention.
Text flickers at the edge of my vision.
[Foreign Record undergoing classification.]
So this is what passes for bureaucracy here.
The first lens focuses on my face, light sweeping across my eyes in careful patterns. Another hovers near my chest, its needles vibrating as if struggling to decide where to settle.
The pressure intensifies.
Not pain—evaluation.
Images surface unbidden in my mind: the gray sky, the Unresolved Record dissolving, the road forming beneath my feet. The platform hums louder with each fragment, as if feeding on the data.
"Origin unstable," someone mutters.
"Record integrity fluctuating," another replies.
Their voices blur together, clinical and detached, as if discussing a malfunctioning engine rather than a person. I clench my fists, forcing myself to stay still.
If observation fuels this world, then panic would only give it more to consume.
One of the arms pauses inches from my temple, its lens flickering rapidly. The deck hums in response, its presence pressing against my awareness like a warning.
Text flashes again.
[Unfinished Record detected.][Completion probability: Inconclusive.]
A sharp hiss escapes the machine.
"That's not normal," the woman with the goggles says.
The speaker swears under their breath. "Nothing about this is normal."
The platform powers down abruptly, the arms retracting with sharp mechanical clicks. The pressure eases enough for me to breathe properly again, though the headache lingers like an echo.
The speaker studies the readouts scrolling across the glass panels. Their expression tightens, jaw set.
"You're not just foreign," they say finally. "You're misaligned. Your record doesn't belong to any recognized layer."
I meet their gaze. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," they reply, "that if we try to force you into our systems, you might destabilize them."
That doesn't sound good for anyone.
A tense silence settles over the chamber. Somewhere above us, the city exhales steam, its rhythm steady and uncaring. I become acutely aware of how small this room is compared to the machinery it serves.
"So what happens now?" I ask again.
The speaker hesitates, then gestures toward a secondary door on the far side of the chamber. Unlike the others, it's marked with warning sigils layered so densely they almost obscure the metal beneath.
"Now," they say, "we involve people who understand anomalies better than we do."
The door opens with a low, reluctant groan.
Beyond it lies a dimly lit corridor, its walls lined with insulated cables and softly glowing runes. The air here feels different—quieter, heavier, as if sound itself has been dampened.
I step forward.
The deck follows.
As I cross the threshold, the pressure behind my eyes returns briefly, accompanied by a sensation I can only describe as being filed somewhere else. Text flickers one last time before vanishing.
[Foreign Record transferred.]
The door seals shut behind me.
For the first time since arriving in Virelis, I am completely out of public view.
Whatever waits ahead isn't part of the city's normal machinery.
It's something designed specifically for things that don't fit.
The corridor narrows as I move forward, the walls drawing closer with every step. Insulated cables run along the ceiling in dense bundles, their faint glow pulsing in irregular rhythms that don't match the city's steady machinery. Whatever powers this place isn't synced with Virelis.
That thought unsettles me more than the confinement.
The air here feels filtered differently, heavier, like it's been stripped of something essential. Even my footsteps sound muted, absorbed almost instantly by the floor. If the city above breathes smoke and steam, this place holds its breath entirely.
The deck drifts beside me, silent but alert. I don't know how, but I can tell it's aware that we've crossed into a different layer of authority. It's not resisting—just… adjusting.
The corridor opens into a chamber unlike the processing room.
This space is smaller, circular, and almost devoid of machinery. Thin lines of light trace geometric patterns across the walls and floor, intersecting in ways that make my eyes ache if I stare too long. At the center stands a simple metal chair, unadorned and unmistakably functional.
Someone is already there.
They lean against the far wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberately calculated. Their coat is dark and unmarked, lacking the reinforced plating and exposed devices worn by the Crown's operators. The only visible piece of machinery is a small, disk-shaped instrument at their wrist, its surface completely still.
Their gaze meets mine.
Sharp. Assessing. Unafraid.
"So," they say, their voice carrying easily through the muted air. "You're the misalignment."
I stop a few steps from the chair. "Is that a technical term?"
A faint smile flickers across their face. "Everything is a technical term if you put it in the right report."
They gesture toward the chair. Not a command—an expectation. I hesitate only briefly before sitting. The metal is cool, but not unpleasant, and unlike the processing platform, it doesn't hum or react to my presence.
That alone feels suspicious.
The person straightens and steps closer, their movements smooth and unhurried. They circle me once, eyes flicking to the deck hovering at my side and then back to my face.
"You stabilized an Unresolved Record inside Virelis," they say. "Without authorization. Without training. And without triggering a containment failure."
"That sounds like a compliment," I reply.
"It isn't," they say flatly. "It's a complication."
They stop in front of me. Up close, I notice faint lines beneath their eyes—not exhaustion, but strain, like someone who's spent too long looking at things that don't want to be understood.
"I work for the Aurelion Crown," they continue, "but not the part you saw above. My department handles anomalies that can't be categorized cleanly."
"And I'm one of those?" I ask.
"You're worse," they say. "You're inconsistent."
The word lands harder than any accusation.
They tap the disk at their wrist, and lines of light shift subtly around the room. I feel a familiar pressure build behind my eyes, but it doesn't escalate into pain. Instead, it settles into a steady, uncomfortable focus.
"Your record doesn't belong to this world," they say. "That much is obvious. But it also isn't rejecting integration the way most Foreign Records do."
"What happens to most of them?" I ask.
Their gaze sharpens. "They collapse. Or they get sealed. Sometimes both."
I swallow.
"And me?"
They study me for a long moment, then glance at the deck again. "You're… compatible. Not fully. Not safely. But enough to function."
Compatible.
With what?
"You've probably noticed by now that this world runs on observation," they continue. "Records. Completion. Acceptance. Most people live their entire lives without ever interacting with that layer directly."
"I'm not most people," I say quietly.
"No," they agree. "You're not."
They step back, giving me space, and for the first time I sense genuine caution in their movements. Not fear—respect for something unpredictable.
"You were recorded too early," they say. "Before your existence could settle into a single layer. That makes you dangerous, but it also makes you useful."
Useful again.
The room's light patterns shift, tightening slightly around the chair. I feel the deck respond, its presence growing more pronounced, as if bracing itself.
"We can't remove you," they say. "And we can't let you roam freely. Not after what you did in the city."
"So you're going to lock me up," I say.
Their expression doesn't change. "No. That would only delay the problem."
They pause, then add, "We're going to assign you."
The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication.
"Assign me… to what?" I ask.
"To observation," they reply. "Controlled. Directed. Supervised. You'll deal with Unresolved Records before they destabilize critical areas. In return, we'll shield you from excessive attention."
"From the Crown?" I ask.
"From things far above it," they say quietly.
A chill runs down my spine.
The light patterns dim slightly, and for a moment the room feels less oppressive. The person meets my gaze again, their expression unreadable.
"This isn't optional," they say. "If you refuse, your record will remain unstable. That will draw attention you can't survive."
I think of the pressure behind my eyes. The way the city tightened around me. The sense of something older shifting its focus.
"And if I accept?" I ask.
They hesitate.
"Then you get to keep existing," they say. "For now."
The deck hums softly, a vibration felt deep in my chest rather than heard. One card grows heavier than the rest, its significance impossible to ignore.
Text flickers into view.
[Conditional role established.][Designation: Witness.]
The words settle with uncomfortable finality.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, then open them again. There's no heroic resolve waiting for me—just the quiet understanding that this world doesn't care what I want.
It cares what I can do.
"I'll do it," I say.
The person nods once, as if they expected nothing else. "Good. Then we'll begin immediately."
The lights in the chamber shift, and the walls seem to pull back, revealing pathways I hadn't noticed before. Somewhere beyond this room, the city continues to breathe smoke and steam, unaware that its systems have just adapted to include me.
I stand slowly, the deck settling at my side.
As I step forward, a final thought settles into place, cold and undeniable.
Being processed was never the end.
It was the beginning of my assignment.