2025-08-14 22:22:53
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We Hold the Whole
MITCHELL’S POVThe Gatekeeper’s words refuse to fade.We hold the whole.They echo through every secure channel, every encrypted briefing, every hurried whisper between aides who were not supposed to panic… but did anyway.Mitchell stands before a wall of screens that curve like a broken horizon. World leaders flicker into place one by one, faces arranged like constellations: presidents, ministers, elders, chairs of councils that once thought themselves permanent. Some sit rigid. Some lean too close to their cameras. A few try to look calm and fail.A chime sounds. The channel seals.“Director Mitchell,” says the Secretary-General, voice low. “You asked for this emergency convening. You have the floor.”Mitchell exhales once. She does not raise her voice.“Thank you,” she says. “I will speak plainly. The Gatekeeper claims to possess a complete copy of the root library.”The reaction is immediate.“That’s impossible,” snaps a trade minister from the northern bloc.“We were assured…”“D
Root Library
EZREN’S POVThe message strikes the room like a dropped blade.A copy of the root library has been moved.No signature. No timestamp beyond the automated one. No pathway trace. Just that single, terrible sentence blinking at us on the archive console, the cursor pulsing like a heartbeat out of rhythm.Mitchell is the first to speak. “This is a breach.”Aveline whispers, “Or a rescue.”Devon makes a strangled sound. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”I don’t say anything at first. My body goes cold… not the panicked kind of cold, but the hollow, sinking kind. The kind that comes when you realise something sacred might have slipped through your fingers. Or worse… been taken.The root library isn’t just a directory. It’s the master index of all preserved cultural components… the map to everything we’ve sworn to protect. Whoever holds a copy doesn’t just keep records; they keep the record.They hold the architecture of memory.The Gatekeeper. Prism. Contractors. States are hungry for narrative control
Not All Save
AVELINE’S POVThe archive chamber is quieter than usual… more peaceful than any room has a right to be after the week we’ve had. The vault lights hover like pale moons above the aisles, soft and cool, steady in the way my pulse isn’t. After Devon’s exposé detonated across the networks, the world fractured again. Protest threads, counter-threads, emergency statements, legal fireworks… It’s all still unfolding, jittering, mutating.I came here to breathe.The temperature is always kept a few degrees lower than the main facility. Preserved media need the cold. So does my mind, apparently. I step into the central aisle, where the shelves rise higher than I can stretch, each row stacked with recorded lives… voices, memories, fragments saved from the noise. My fingertips hover near a sealed capsule, not touching, just feeling the gravity of what’s inside.“Not all preserve to save.”The phrase has been looping in my head since the message hit Devon’s relay. It’s a warning. Or a philosophy.
Prism
DEVON’S POVThe terminal room is too quiet for what I’m doing. Too still. The coffee on my elbow has cooled into a dead thing, and the screens in front of me gleam like constellations scattered across a moonless sky. Code blinks. Logs hum. And somewhere beneath my ribs, something crawls.Prism.The word keeps surfacing in contractor logs and donor ledgers, slippery and precise, like someone wanted it to be both hidden and found. I lean closer to the screen and scroll.PRISM CHARTER, REVISION 3: Managed Preservation for a Stable Tomorrow. Ethical Streamlining. Confidence in Continuity.My jaw locks.“Oh, that’s rich,” I mutter. “‘Ethical streamlining.’”Zara, standing beside the door with her arms crossed, raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a euphemism for selective memory.”“It is,” I say. “Look… here. Their models use the same framework that the contractors used for packet filtering. They’ve just polished it and slapped a bow on top.”She steps closer, peering at the screen. “And they e
Order
MITCHELL’S POVThe briefing room smells of old coffee and sharpened pencils, a strange comfort against the cold steel of the folding chairs and the humming projector. A new map hangs on the wall … same regions, same fault lines, but now it’s threaded with red pins marking fresh flashpoints: data seizures, contractor raids, public demonstrations swelling into something hotter.Mitchell stands at the front, arms folded, her posture a blade barely sheathed. Her team filters in, murmuring, exchanging wary glances. The encrypted message sits on her tablet like a bruise: Reparations are noble. We prefer order. Aveline forwarded it immediately. And Mitchell recognised the phrasing with a cold certainty.The voice behind it belongs to a diplomat she’s argued with for years … the unofficial emissary of a faction obsessed with stability. They never call it authoritarianism. They call it stewardship. They cloak it in silk: preservation, continuity, rational governance. But the meaning is the sam
Paid For
AVELINE’S POVThe hospital ward hums with the subdued rhythm of convalescence… soft beeps, the hiss of a humidifier, the low murmur of nurses exchanging clipped instructions. I breathe in the antiseptic air and steady myself before pulling back the curtain around Bed 12.He’s thinner than when I last saw him. The wounded activist… Jalen… lies half-upright, a sling bracing his left arm, eyelids heavy but alert. He registers me with a faint smile.“Aveline,” he rasps. “If you’re here, it must be important.”“It is,” I say softly, taking the chair beside him. “But you’re more important. How’s the arm?”He snorts, then winces. “Feels like it was introduced to the concept of shrapnel the hard way.”“That’s because it was,” I say. “You shouldn’t joke with fractured ribs.”He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. “You came for more than wellness checks.”I hesitate. Jalen senses it.“Ask,” he says. “I’m tired of carrying the old lies.”The curtain rustles as a nurse passes, but we
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