The Emergency Protocol
The old system did not collapse quietly.
From the silent bunkers beneath the Central Core, dormant orders flared back to life.
Operation Vestige:
"Suppress emergent disorder. Preserve systemic cohesion at all costs."
Black-clad suppression units, unmarked and unsanctioned, moved like shadows through the forgotten veins of the city.
They weren't there to arrest.
They were there to erase.
The Night of Broken Songs
It began at the outer assemblies.
Small gatherings celebrating their new freedom—dancing, singing songs older than memory.
A woman painted a glyph on an abandoned transit wall.
A boy recited a poem forbidden under memory codes.
And then, without warning:
Drones screeched overhead.
Flash-dispersal fields ignited the air.
Memories fractured under forced recalibration beams.
One by one, the small fires of awakening were stomped into ash.
The system had made its decision.
Freedom was a disease.
And it demanded a cure.
Elior's Response
Mira woke Elior in the sanctuary's lower chambers.
Her eyes were wide.
Her voice shook.
"They're burning the assemblies. They're... wiping people."
Elior rose, fists clenched.
For a heartbeat, the sanctuary itself seemed to pulse with his anger.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," he muttered.
But it had.
Because the old world never let go without breaking.
He stepped into the cool air, the faint glyphs swirling around him like mist.
And he made a choice:
"We protect them. We give them a chance to dream without fear."
Even if it meant war.
Lysa's Breaking Point
Inside her surveillance tower, Lysa watched the chaos unfold.
Orders to suppress had not come from her.
They had come from above.
"Legacy Override. Tier Zero."
Orders written decades ago.
Back when the Network was still young—and infinitely more cruel.
Her subordinates pleaded for direction.
"Director, if we don't act now—"
But Lysa no longer heard them.
Because on one of her auxiliary feeds, she saw something impossible:
A boy, maybe ten years old, standing in the middle of a suppression unit formation.
No fear.
No compliance.
Just a hand-drawn glyph on his chest—the same symbol she'd seen in her dreams.
Elior's glyph.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time, she disobeyed.
The Sky We Choose
Elior stood at the edge of a plaza, watching as suppression units closed in on another gathering.
This time, he did not hide.
He stepped forward, his presence shifting the air.
The units faltered.
Their calibration systems glitched.
Because when belief reached critical mass, not even machines could remain untouched.
The crowd stood taller.
The glyphs brightened.
And the sky—fractured and false—began to crack.
Not from violence.
From faith.
From the simple, indomitable belief that a different future was possible.