My Final Enemy is Me

8. The False Rescue

The void didn't just end; it collapsed into a claustrophobic, metallic box. Frathan hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud, his skin burning as if he’d been dragged across a hot circuit board.

"Status report," Frathan choked out, his vision swimming. "System, talk to me."

"System functions restricted," the cold, synthetic voice replied. "Mirror Guardian Protocol engaged. Threat level: Absolute."

A holographic shimmer bloomed in the center of the dark, cramped room. Seraphina’s image solidified, but her expression was devoid of the warmth he’d once felt. She was just pixels and spite.

"Missed me, Frathan?" the projection asked, her voice dripping with artificial honey.

"You’re a script. A fake," Frathan spat, hauling himself up. His knuckles were raw, blood dripping onto the cold grate. "Where is the real Seraphina?"

"The real one? She’s exactly where she needs to be," the projection smirked. "Watching you die, just like all the others."

"You’re trying to bait me into a fight I can’t win, aren't you?"

"Bait? No, darling. I’m just the cleanup crew. And you’re a remarkably messy bug."

The hologram dissolved, but the space it occupied didn't remain empty. A ripple of light coalesced into a figure. It was Frathan. Not a double, not a reflection—but a combat-optimized version of him, holding a blade identical to his own.

"Are you going to talk yourself to death, or are we doing this?" the double asked, his voice a perfect, irritating mirror of Frathan’s own.

"I’m going to enjoy breaking you," Frathan growled.

"Sure you are. You’ve been saying that since the first cycle."

The double didn't wait. He lunged, a blur of motion that mirrored Frathan’s own tactical training. The clash of steel rang out, a sharp, dissonant chime in the small, echoing chamber.

"You're predictable," the double muttered, parrying Frathan’s strike with effortless precision.

"Yeah? Well, you’re boring," Frathan shot back, ducking a vicious swing at his throat.

"Boring? I’m efficient. I don't have your baggage."

"Baggage? You mean a personality?"

The double kicked Frathan in the chest, sending him sprawling into a wall. "I mean memories. They slow you down. They make you hesitate."

Frathan coughed, the metallic taste of copper flooding his mouth. "They also make me hit harder than a glorified calculator."

"Keep telling yourself that."

The double lunged again, but Frathan rolled, scraping his back against the jagged plating of the room. He needed to change the cadence. He needed to be irrational.

"Why don't you try something new, Frathan?" the double taunted, his stance shifting into a mirror of Frathan’s favorite defensive posture.

"How about I stop playing by your rules?" Frathan groaned, scrambling to his feet.

"And do what? Die faster?"

"How about I stop trying to win the fight and start trying to break the arena?"

Frathan didn't strike at the double. He turned, sprinted, and slammed his shoulder into the control console he’d seen earlier.

"What are you doing?" the double demanded, his voice finally losing that smooth, simulated composure.

"Turning the lights off," Frathan gasped.

He jammed his hand into the exposed circuitry, ignoring the searing pain as voltage ripped through his arm.

"Warning," the system screamed. "Integrity failure imminent!"

"Finally," Frathan hissed. "Something original."

The room sparked violently, the walls flickering between a dungeon cell and the cold, empty white of the simulation’s core. The double faltered, his movements glitching, his form stuttering like a dying TV screen.

"That’s... that’s not in the algorithm," the double spat, his image warping.

"It’s called a bad idea," Frathan yelled, twisting the wires. "You should try it sometime!"

"You're going to kill us both!"

"I’m going to kill you. I’m just going to be really miserable while I do it."

A massive explosion of static tore through the chamber. The force of it threw Frathan against the door, the metal buckling under the pressure. The double let out one final, distorted shriek before dissipating into a cloud of glowing, useless data.

Frathan slumped to the floor, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.

"System? You there?"

No response. Just a low, mournful hum that vibrated through his teeth.

He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming. The door to the prison had been blasted off its hinges. Beyond it lay a corridor of shifting, liquid shadows—the way out.

"I’m not dying here," he muttered, forcing his legs to move.

He took a step, but his knees buckled. He reached up to wipe his face, but his fingers came away dark and viscous. He coughed, and a heavy, oily glob of black sludge hit the floor.

"Not good," he whispered, staring at the stain. "That's definitely not good."

He stumbled into the corridor, his vision tunneling. He could hear footsteps—not his, but a heavy, rhythmic cadence approaching from the darkness.

"Finally found you, Subject 01," a voice boomed from the shadows.

Frathan leaned against the wall, his lungs burning. "You’re late for the party, pal."

"The party is over," the figure emerged—a tall, armored entity with a face obscured by a static mask. "The purge has begun."

Frathan reached for his blade, but his hand hung limp at his side. He looked up at the entity, a defiant, blood-stained grin spreading across his face.

"Then I guess I’ll just have to keep living long enough to annoy you again."

"Your biometrics are failing," the entity stated, raising a glowing spear. "There is no 'living' left for you."

"We'll see about that," Frathan whispered, his eyes locking onto the entity’s mask.

The entity lunged. Frathan closed his eyes, his finger tracing the hidden, jagged edge of the data-shard he’d swiped from the cell. He didn't know what it did, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going down without a fight.

As the spear point pierced the air in front of his chest, Frathan slammed the shard into his own palm.

White light consumed everything.

"Let’s see how you like a real glitch," he roared, and then, the world ended.