The noise was deafening: bullets whizzed nearby, explosions shook the ground, and a metallic stench mixed with ozone filled the air.
I ran at full speed, dodging projectiles and avoiding balls of corrosive bile that sizzled on impact with the ground. A lightning bolt passed so close that I felt its searing heat through my combat suit. Around me, there was nothing but chaos.
—504's Kailen, reporting!— I shouted as I reached the command post, my voice raspy from the effort. The commander, a man with a weathered face and scars that spoke of decades of campaigns, barely looked up to respond.
—What do you have?
I swallowed, trying to control the adrenaline.
—A class 7 confirmed, thirty-three kilometers away, sir. Officer Richter requests a Hellfire strike. Here’s the field marker.
The commander nodded, as if facing a class 7 monster was just another routine. He took the marker from my hands and handed it to his analysts.
But I knew what it meant. I remembered the faces of those who didn’t return after facing such a threat.
—Well done, soldier.
The guttural roar of the enemy echoed in the distance, making the ground tremble beneath my feet. Minutes later, the Hellfire missiles streaked through the sky, illuminating the horizon with an infernal glow. I didn’t have time to stop and watch; I was already on the move to my next objective.
Suddenly, the scene faded. I opened my eyes in my room, sweating and gasping for breath.
Nightmares have been frequent since I left the army. Even though years have passed since that day, the memories still haunt me: the horrors we faced, the comrades who didn’t return, the sacrifices made by those who allowed me to come back to the land of the living. I can’t forget, I mustn’t. Every step that brought me here was built on the decisions of others.
It all started when I was 15.
A general mobilization forced thousands to take up arms against an unknown threat that appeared at the borders of the city. One of the favored sons of the Neuvak family was drafted into military service. But the family, ever calculating, decided to protect their prized heir. Instead, they falsified records for me, the black sheep, to take his place.
They claimed that with the proper training and a "small incentive," I’d be enough to fulfill the duty without raising suspicion. That "incentive" was a state-of-the-art neotechnium skeleton, a valuable tool that symbolized the prestige of the Neuvak.
With that technology implanted in my body, they sent me to the front. To the recruitment officers, I was nothing more than another name on the list. Flesh for the meat grinder.
In the army, I found my mentor, a veteran whose initial indifference gave way to relentless training. Under her tutelage, I learned to survive and excel in combat. She taught me to shoot with deadly precision and to move like a true soldier. It was she who introduced me to Archotechnology and who, years later, would give me the weapon that I now treasure as my most valuable possession.
Now, after years of service, I’m trying to adapt to society. The dimensional rift closed, and the government called off the mobilization. Without ceremony, they sent us home. But the remnants of the horrors still roam the city, as reminders of what we faced.
My home is a wreck: piled-up trash, processed food scraps in the sink, laundry waiting to be done. The Neuvak mansion is behind me; their suffocating control became unbearable after what they did.
I played the messages on my locator:
"You’ll be 18 soon, leech. You won’t be able to keep sucking up resources. Get to work and contribute your weight." Viktor’s message was as venomous as always.
Another message caught my attention.
"Young Kailen, your thesis on 'Integration of Multi-Archeolayered Systems' is remarkable, but without a functional prototype, the council will hardly accept it. I suggest you come by my office to discuss your future." - Professor James.
Of course. Without a prototype, my research was worth nothing. But gaining access to the academy’s modules was impossible; the Neuvak family made sure of that. Keeping me under control was their priority.
Amid my frustration, I noticed the box my mentor had left me. Inside, it held trinkets, keepsakes from my grandparents, and, most importantly, the weapon she gave me: a 48 SCp, capable of firing hypermagnetic ammunition. My last link to the battlefield and, in some way, to a big part of my identity.
I powered up the interface and jotted down the tasks for the day:
1. Find Professor James.
2. Check the job board.
3. See Kan, I needed help.
4. Get a damn central processor.
I quickly dressed. I needed air. Outside, the smell of ozone, waste, and spoiled food hit me. The splendor of the Neuvak was far behind; now I lived on the margins, where no one could control me.
The air outside Nest always has that bitter edge, a mix of industrial waste and remnants of life that refuse to fade. My little shack, barely a concrete box with damp stains and windows that tremble with every strong wind, seems to shrink every time I walk out the door. The sun can't break through the gray veil that hangs over this part of the city. Here, the world feels tired.
But I have a motorcycle. It's nothing fancy to some, but to me, it’s the most prized possession. The Army gave it to me when I finished my service, a "thank you" for the years I gave them. It's old, the paint peeling, but its engine purrs like a living beast, loyal and ready to run.
I get on, adjust my gloves, and start the engine. The vibration feels in my chest, like a drum marking the start of something. It revs quickly, as if it wants to take me away from this place, and I don’t need much persuasion.
I leave behind the neglected alleys and head toward the road to Nest. At first, everything is dirty and flat, streets full of potholes, and walls marked with graffiti telling stories of hopelessness and resistance. The smells of recycled food, burned oils, and melted plastic blend as I pass a section of makeshift markets. Here, children run barefoot, and the elderly sit on broken chairs, watching the constant flow of people as if time didn't exist for them.
But as I move forward, everything changes. The edges begin to soften. The streets widen, the potholes disappear, and suddenly, trees appear. In Nest, the contrast is so overwhelming that it almost feels like an insult. The deep green of the parks and vertical gardens almost hurts the eyes, as if painted over a gray canvas. Everything is clean, polished, perfect.
Nest is elevated, and that makes it feel unreachable. The mega towers, huge stylized structures that seem to defy gravity, rise as if they want to touch the clouds. Their architecture is not just functional; every curve and line seems designed to impress, to scream to the world that this is where true power lives. Glass that reflects the sky, hanging balconies full of exotic plants, and walkways connecting buildings like golden veins in a living city.
I keep going. The roar of my bike is a noisy contrast to the silent electric vehicles parading through the streets of Nest. People here walk with a calmness that only comes from the security of not having to fight for anything. They wear clean, impeccable clothes made from fabrics I’ve never touched. They barely glance at me, but when they do, their eyes always lower a bit, as if my presence is something dirty that sneaked into their perfect world.
The academy is in a central part of Nest, close enough to be accessible, but far enough for the students not to mingle too much with those from the Pits. The structure is imposing, a steel and glass building that seems to pulse with energy. I park near the entrance, turning off the engine while letting out a long sigh.
The professor is waiting for me inside, but before I enter, I stop for a moment to look down. From here, I can see the entire circle of the city, with the Pits acting as a dark, chaotic belt around Nest. It's a reminder of how cruel this city can be.
“One more step, Kailen,” I tell myself, adjusting my jacket and moving toward the academy doors.
At the entrance, the identification scanner lit up red. That's when I remembered I'd left my ID bracelet at home.
—Come on, Eleonor, you’ve seen me study here for almost nine years. I know I was gone for a couple, but I’m still a registered student,— I said, trying to sound convincing.
She frowned, clearly irritated.
—What the hell are you talking about, you damn beggar? Go back to the Pits. What are you doing here? What nonsense is this about studying here?
Her tone immediately irritated me, but I tried to stay calm.
—Don’t mess with me, woman. What the hell are you talking about with this 'go back to the Pits'?— I replied, but when I saw the seriousness on her face, I stopped. An uncomfortable thought crossed my mind: What if she really didn’t recognize me?
—It’s me, Kailen. I’m here to see Professor James about my thesis,— I added, trying to be patient.
Eleonor was about to throw me out, but then something in my voice or expression seemed to spark a memory in her mind.
—Kailen? Kailen Neuvak? That Kailen?— she asked, her eyes wide in disbelief. Her surprise bordered on insult. —Man, what happened to you? You look horrible. How could your family let you go out like this?
I shrugged, avoiding her gaze.
—Well, my family and I aren't on the best of terms right now,— I admitted, keeping it brief.
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, but what she said next provoked a sharp sting of irritation.
—So the rumors are true? You don't see a young lord run away from his family every day... although you always see them crawl back,— she added, shaking her head as if she had the right to comment on my life.
I just stared at her.
—So, can I pass or not? Professor James sent me a pretty insistent holo. He's desperate with some prototypes and needs me to finish the work so he can publish,— I lied with a cheeky smile. I wasn't about to turn around just to look for some damn bracelet.
She hesitated for a moment but finally snorted.
—Alright, but woe to you if I find out you're lying to me and not going to the professor,— she warned, in her usual superior tone.
I just nodded before walking through the doors, leaving her judgment behind.
As I crossed the academy doors, I was hit with the same clean, antiseptic air as always. Everything here was perfect, shining, as if someone was obsessed with rubbing every corner until all traces of humanity were erased. The streets were paved with polished stone, that kind of useless luxury that seems designed to remind you that you don't belong.
The buildings loomed like mausoleums of knowledge, made of white marble and black steel that seemed to scream "respect" to anyone who looked at them. Elegant arches, stained-glass windows trapping light like they were sanctuaries, and carved details that probably cost some artisan their life. Everything was too beautiful, too perfect. I'd been here before, years ago, but now it felt like I was walking through a museum where I no longer had a ticket.
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The bike screeched when I parked it next to a row of vehicles that were probably worth more than everything I had left in life. I heard stifled giggles from a couple of students passing nearby. I didn't bother looking at them. What did it matter? To them, I was just another walking disaster.
The campus was full of those damn perfect kids. Ironed shirts, designer backpacks, walking like the world owed them something just for existing. Some younger ones with pristine uniforms, others older with a know-it-all air and coffee in hand. None of them cared about the guy with the worn jacket moving like a ghost among them.
I headed toward the research wing, like an automaton, following the path I knew by heart. The polished steel stairs were still there, the same endless spiral that seemed designed to make you feel every step as a sentence. The glass walls revealed prodigies working behind them. Some played with drones or reviewed holographic data, as if they were saving the world. I suppose some of them would, but to me, it all felt ridiculous. I didn’t care. Nothing did.
The building was impressive, sure, but all I saw were the shadows of my past. Every hallway, every damn mural of great academic achievements, reminded me how far I was from that life now. Once, this had all been everything to me. Now it was just another reminder of what I could never get back.
When I reached Professor James' office, my stomach tightened, though I wouldn't have admitted it under threat of death. There it was, his name, projected in golden hologram: Professor James Anderson - Department of Advanced Theoretical Sciences. I knocked on the door, more out of habit than desire. I knew what was coming: questions, expectations, disappointed looks. Everything I wanted to avoid. But here I was, facing it again, as if everything I'd tried to leave behind was dragging me back.
—Come in.
Professor James was the classic image of the academy: short in stature, thin to the point of looking like a scarecrow dressed in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. His gray hair, combed with obsessive precision, gleamed under the office lights as if he polished it every morning along with his ego. His fine-framed glasses rested on the tip of a sharp nose, and every time he spoke, his eyes behind the lenses seemed to pierce you, as if evaluating how inferior you were to his intellect.
He didn't offer his hand or make any polite gesture. Instead, he sat behind his dark wood desk, cluttered with piles of books, papers, and holographic models of some formula that surely only he understood. His desk looked more like an altar to himself: books written by "James Anderson, PhD" occupied a prominent place, with shiny covers and endless titles about theories and discoveries that no one outside this building could understand or care about.
—Good morning, Mr. Neuvak.— he asked in a tone that made it seem like offering me a chair was a divine concession.
He spoke slowly, as if each word had to be measured, weighed, and approved before leaving his mouth. That kind of voice that made you feel like he was giving a lecture, even if all he was doing was telling you the time. He had a special talent for turning any interaction into a one-hour talk, peppered with references to his own books and accomplishments.
He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk, and looked at me with that mix of condescension and scientific curiosity, as if I were an interesting specimen but clearly defective. His ego filled the office more than the smell of leather and old books.
James subjected me to a thirty-minute diatribe. An unsolicited masterclass on why I was a spoiled brat, how wonderful the Neuvak family was, and why I should accept everything they had made me swallow, smile, thank them, and ask for another helping. All in that unbearably smug tone that made it seem like he was doing me a favor by humiliating me.
When he finally finished, he dismissed me with a vague gesture, making it clear that my opinion wasn't worth the air it took to utter. What did he expect? That this insufferable little man would do anything other than wallow in his own ego?
—Professor Giles is waiting for you in the labs. He wants to review your prototypes. Normal, considering someone so dull would be interested in researching those 'magical theories.' Archotechology is nothing but trash,— he said at the end, with that venomous disdain that even pierced my patience.
I felt my blood boil. It must have shown on my face because the little bastard shrank back in his chair, quickly changing his attitude and "kindly" pointing me to the exit. Coward.
What else could you expect? Everyone here lived in their perfect bubble, untouchable, as if the call to mobilize had never existed. It was ridiculous. Hundreds of thousands of students walking around this campus, and not a single one was called up. Except me, of course. Though perhaps it wasn't a coincidence. Maybe it had always been about me, as if I had a damn "available for sacrifice" sign stuck to my forehead.
I shut the thought off abruptly, quickening my pace toward the labs. I didn't want to waste another second in this place. Every second here reminded me that I didn't fit, that I wasn't supposed to be here.
When I arrived, the contrast nearly made me stop in my tracks. For the first time, something on this damn campus wasn't immaculate or perfectly polished. The labs were an organized chaos: used materials piled carelessly, welding tools scattered as if someone had abandoned them in the middle of a project, and wires hanging from the ceiling or trailing across the floor. Everything had a worn-out, real-work vibe to it, something that finally didn’t seem like a facade to impress.
It was strange. Almost comforting. Here, at least, it seemed like someone was actually doing something, even if it was a mess in the process.
—Professor Giles!?— My voice echoed through the disorder of the lab. There was no sign of him amidst the chaos, only the hum of machines and the metallic scent of materials in the air.
—I’m not making any more prototypes for the theoretical sciences department!— Professor Giles' raspy voice came from the back, laden with exasperation. A sound of something slamming against a table accompanied it, as if he had just thrown an object in frustration. —Let them get their damn hands dirty for once! I’m not their damn servant!
I stood still for a moment, trying to locate him amidst the piles of tools and scattered parts. Finally, I saw him emerge from behind a workbench, his hair disheveled and his glasses slightly askew, as if he had been fighting the universe and wasn’t doing too well.
—And what do you want?— he asked without even looking at me, still busy with what seemed to be a tool halfway disassembled. "If you're here to ask me something, I warn you, I'm not in the mood."
—My name's Kailen. I’m under the mentorship of Professor James.
—The damn rat in a tuxedo?
—That’s the one.— I couldn’t help but smile.
The hostility on Professor Giles' face dissipated almost instantly, replaced by a grimace that could pass for curiosity, though still with a hint of disdain.
—So? What’s a student of James doing here?
—He sent me in his place. He said you were interested in my thesis. Honestly, I’m looking for help finishing my experiments so I can graduate.
—Your thesis?— Giles raised an eyebrow, looking toward a corner of the lab. —Is that strange prototype yours?
—Probably.— I answered without much enthusiasm, but as I followed his gaze, I recognized my own experiment tucked away in the corner, covered in dust.
—And how is it supposed to work?
—The nano-forges of the Pilgrims use an encrypted code to determine their production,— I began, adopting a more serious tone. —They can replicate virtually any tool or assemble complex structures, but they’re impossible to decode with our technology.
—I know that already, kid.— Giles waved a hand dismissively, impatient. —Everyone here knows about the Pilgrim forges. Those damn aliens brought technology so advanced it looked like magic to our ancestors.
—The problem is that the forges have security protocols that make them unusable without the original language and blueprints.— I paused, making sure I had his attention. —That’s where my theory comes in. The Rogues developed multiple languages, and one of them is the yellow tongue. I think it’s possible to use it as an intermediary.
Giles squinted.
—Intermediary?
—Yes.— I walked over to the prototype and pointed to the interfaces. —The yellow tongue can transform and slightly modify the initial signal. This way, the forge would receive a pulse that mimics the original one from the Pilgrims. That pulse would act as a key. Then, the yellow protocol would translate the key and leave it open for a third protocol...—
I paused, measuring his reaction. Giles scratched his chin, his expression shifting from disbelief to something more like genuine curiosity.
—Go on, kid,— he grunted, leaning toward the prototype. —This is starting to sound interesting.
—...to intervene and complete the assembly according to our instructions,— I finished explaining, aware that I was on the verge of losing Professor Giles with so much technical jargon.
For a moment, the man stared at me with an expression I couldn't decipher, then burst into a laugh that echoed through the lab, making tools and prototypes vibrate.
—You've got guts, kid!— Giles exclaimed, a mix of mockery and fascination in his voice. —Coming in here and talking to me about something as absurd as if you were the next DeMiguel Angelo or some saint sent by the Pilgrims.— His tone was sharp but not entirely hostile. —And who's supposed to back such madness? You want me to abandon my work to help you solve this alien puzzle?
I swallowed, feeling the confidence I was trying to project falter.
—I don’t need much, professor. Just access to more advanced tools and some restricted texts from the central library. The theory is solid, it just needs to be tested. Also, the final phase must be conducted in the pristine forge of the university.
Giles crossed his arms, assessing me with a scrutinizing look.
—You're crazy, kid. The university would never...— His voice trailed off for a moment, but I could tell that despite immediately dismissing my request, he was taking time to think it over. Finally, he sighed before continuing. —That yellow tongue... If you're not mistaken, this would be the first time something from the Rogues benefits us and doesn’t try to annihilate us. Aren't you afraid of activating something you shouldn't?
—The risk exists,— I admitted, striving to sound firm. —But if I'm right, the development possibilities would outweigh any danger. Imagine an operational forge: manufacturing tools, medicine, food... Everything this city needs to survive.
The professor stopped inspecting the prototype and turned toward me. His expression was still difficult to read, but it had shifted, as if he was seriously considering my words.
—Alright, Kailen. If you don't mind this being your direct ticket to the insane asylum or the gallows, then I'm interested. But let me be clear: if you make this thing blow up, I don’t want to see a single strand of your hair in this lab again. Understood?
I smiled, this time with some relief.
—Understood, professor. When do we start?
Giles shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was getting himself into, but began gathering tools.
—Right now. But listen carefully, if that damn James comes to claim credit for this, I swear I’ll strangle him with one of his own ties.— He tossed me a wrench while continuing to adjust the equipment. —Take this to the library and get the most up-to-date information on the yellow tongue protocol. And look through the records of the 17.850 Île de Fran expedition too. I understand they found interesting ruins related to the wild AI.
I nodded eagerly, feeling a wave of determination as I left the lab with the wrench in hand.
What followed were almost two months of grueling work: 16-hour days on average, absurd amounts of caffeine, and the occasional dubious injector to keep us going. But it was worth it.
Slowly, we managed to build a command library capable of integrating with the different keys of the Pilgrims known to humanity. In the end, we deciphered 745 entries. More than half corresponded to basic tools: construction utensils, agricultural implements, and repair kits. Other batches included light weaponry, high-precision electronic components, and the most valuable of all: 18 rare synthetic medicines.
However, the real gem of the crown was a unique, almost miraculous entry: an exceptional compound, more advanced than any known medicine. We had no idea of its full scope, but the preliminary analysis suggested it could heal damaged tissues in ways that bordered on the impossible.
Giles observed the prototype with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety, his hands trembling slightly as he reviewed the data on his terminal.
—This... this could change everything, kid,— he murmured, almost to himself. Then he turned to me, his eyes alight. —But it could also unleash a hell we can't even imagine. Are you ready for what's to come?
—No, but there's no time to wait.
—Well said, kid.— The professor lit a cigarette, and his face turned bitter as he took a drag. —Unfortunately, the university has blocked all my attempts to access the nano forge. And we can't prove anything with that broken junk we've been using. We're at a dead end.
I couldn't help but sigh.
—Kid, are you sure you don't want to go back to your family? I know all this interference in your research is really because of their influence. If they'd stop interfering, you could finish this without any problems.
I took the cigarette he offered and, after a deep drag, responded:
—What they're asking is too high a cost.
—You won't get anywhere in the Nest as long as they've got their boot on your neck, kid.
—I know. That's why I plan to leave as soon as I get my certificate. I can still find work in the industrial zones.
The professor finished his cigarette, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it with a mix of resignation and anger.
—It's true that megacorporations couldn't care less about the big families. But life in the industrial rings isn't pretty.
—It's better than living like a slave.
—Not much better though
I looked him in the eyes, letting my determination speak for me.
—That's the path I've chosen. I’m not going to leave my life in the hands of others." I took my weapon from my belt, admiring it under the soft light of the setting sun. Its black surface reflected a reddish gleam, almost as if it shared my resolve. "Freedom." The name of the weapon, engraved in fine lettering, was more than a title; it was a reminder of the lesson my mentor taught me: the awareness of taking my fate into my own hands.
The professor watched me in silence for a moment, then nodded with what seemed to be a mix of pride and concern.
"If that's the path you've chosen... go home and rest for today. We've dedicated almost two months to this, and I’m not going to let it all go to waste."
"Will you help me?"
"I have some ideas, but it's better to consult them first. Go rest, kid. I'll contact you in a few weeks."
I said my goodbyes to Professor Gale and returned to my rundown home. The soft afternoon light filtered through the cracks in the blinds, casting irregular shadows across the bare walls. I left my things in the least cluttered corner and turned on the old terminal.
I updated my log before collapsing onto the worn-out mattress. The list blinked on the screen, a constant reminder of the priorities I couldn't ignore:
1. Find Professor James. Wait for contact from Professor Gale.
2. Check the job board. I owe two months' rent. ☹
3. See Kan. He need help.
4. Get a damn central processor.
I sighed as I read the last point, feeling the weight of the accumulated weeks on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and let exhaustion take over, knowing that tomorrow would be just as complicated.