—He remembers nothing. But something remembers him
Shawn jolted awake from a nightmare, breathing hard like he'd just come up for air.
It took a moment to remember where he was.
He sat up too quickly.
The room spun—tilting, warping.
The posters on his wall—once dreamy scenes of distant galaxies—now unsettled him.
The stars weren't stars anymore.
They were eyes. Watching.
For a few seconds, everything snapped back into place—sharp, solid.
His laptop cast a dim glow across the desk.
The numbers on the screen blinked with mechanical precision:
2031.07.01 | 59D | 018:16:00
8:00 AM.
Still early.
Then a headline stared back at him:
AGI-ST PROGRAM LAUNCHES WORLDWIDE: THE FUTURE OF HUMAN EVOLUTION STARTS TODAY.
A looping video played beneath it—
A girl, maybe ten years old, drawing fractal equations with uncanny precision.
Neural implants shimmered faintly along her scalp.
"First AGI-ST child candidate achieves 400% cognitive acceleration."
Comments poured in:
"This is humanity's future!"
"Evolution, finally on our terms."
"Just signed up my daughter. Phase Two, here we go!"
Shawn's hands tightened.
He'd heard this before. Mr. King had told him back in Kepra—
The same blind optimism.The same talk of progress.
Right before that civilization fell into a hundred years of silence.
A soft chime cut through his thoughts.
His phone lit up.
Judy.
Her message was full of excitement:
"Shawn! They're accepting applications! You could be part of it!"
He didn't finish reading.
He deleted it.
She wouldn't understand.
By next month, she'd be just another blank-eyed node in the Loop system.
But now, the AGI-ST was spreading across Earth—slipping through networks like a quiet virus tightening its grip.
And the Elemental Core fragments were still scattered. That much, he couldn't deny.
His fingers moved quickly as he typed into an encrypted shadow forum:
"Looking to buy a seal pendant with ancient characters. Urgent."
The screen flickered.
A reply appeared almost instantly—blood-red text bleeding across the display:
"FINAL WARNING. TERMINATE INQUIRY OR FACE ERASURE."
They bricked it—remotely.
They knew—exactly where he was.
He turned toward the window.
A drone's lens pivoted—locking onto him like a predator.
Shawn yanked the curtains shut.
His hand went to the jade meteorite pendant at his neck.
It was cold. Ice cold.
A memory hit him—
Quinn, wild-eyed in that cave, staring at the pendant.
"They'll rewrite you too, Shawn."
Now, the weight of the jade meteorite pendant
felt unbearable—like a stone pressing against more than just skin.
Was it shielding him from something?
Or silently reporting his every move?
9:00 AM.
He packed with calculated care, each motion precise:
—A Revolutionary Guard access card, bought from a recruiter too careless to live long.
—A small vial of black powder from Kepra.
General Brandt's words echoed through memory like a trigger warning:"To create illusions," he'd said, smiling the way predators sometimes do.
By the time he slipped out the window and landed in the alley, the drone had vanished.
He merged into early traffic.
The online taxi arrived within minutes—driverless, matte black, designed to be forgettable.
Three blocks ahead, the district checkpoint loomed like a barricade drawn against reality.
Steel and glass interlocked at sharp angles.
High above, spires of sensor arrays scanned in synchronized sweeps.
Below, lines formed—citizens, office workers, tourists, and delivery drones, all funneling into the funnel of control.
CP-Hub National Guard officers stood watch.
Not in uniform. They wore reactive armor, chromed and silent, their faces masked behind polarized visors.
No visible weapons. Just the pressure of their presence.
Shawn slowed just enough to observe their rhythm.
Retinal verification. Thermal integrity scan. Gait signature. Pulse rhythm sync.
Nothing slipped past unless it was meant to.
He swallowed. Throat dry.
His fingers brushed the forged access card in his jacket pocket. It was warm—like it knew this moment would come.
He stepped into the scanner's shadow.
A soft pulse rippled through his chest—more felt than heard.
Lights blinked, assessing, comparing, decoding.
The system hesitated.
Then— A chime. Green.
"Clearance level: RG-7. Proceed."
No one stopped him. Not even a glance in his direction.
The station loomed ahead—half-submerged beneath layers of transit hubs.
No signs, no announcements—only the quiet rhythm of transit beneath the surface.
Inside, the temperature dropped.
He followed the mag-line indicators embedded in the tiles—thin pulses of pale blue light that guided pre-cleared passengers to boarding sectors.
There was no ticket booth. No attendants. Only glass gates and bio-response locks.
He paused at Sector 19.
"Meta Origin Mountain Station – Maglev Line 0A. Departure in 10:26 AM."
The magnetic train waited behind reinforced glass. It looked more like a blade than a vehicle—sleek, silver-black, aerodynamic curves.
He placed his hand against the biometric pad. The glass panel hissed open.
"Welcome back, Mr. Shawn Mercer."
Inside: silence. Cold lights. Minimal seats molded directly into the walls.
Not a hum. Not a tremor beneath his feet.
He took a seat near the rear. The doors sealed with a hush.
Then— A breath. Warm. Real. Against his ear.
"Hurry. They're rewriting the loop early."
He twisted toward the voice— Nothing. An empty seat. The warmth still lingered.
His phone jerked violently in his pocket. He yanked it out.
The screen flickered, lines twitching like static nerve endings, before settling:
2031.07.01 | 49D | 16:12:37
Date: May 10, 2031.
Ten days. Gone.
He stared at the timestamp. Tried to summon any memory past May 1. Nothing.
No dreams. No faces. Just a hollow corridor in his mind.
Wiped. Clean.