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Mirror

Author: Tim

2025-09-20 00:35:03

EZREN’S POV

The test chamber smells like antiseptic and bad choices. White tiles that never learned to be anything but bright, fluorescent lights that hum like a distant generator, the air thick with the metallic aftertaste of recirculated stress. Devon’s chair is colder than it looks; the leather squeaks when I sit. He tapes electrodes to my temples with the same awkward tenderness he uses when he apologizes… fingers lingering like he’s trying to patch something that can’t be seen.

“You sure about this?” he asks again, the words soft enough that Kira can’t hear through the observation glass, but loud enough that they thrum in my skull.

“No,” I say. “But we need to know how far it reaches.”

Devon presses a palm to the activation panel as if it’s a mousetrap, and he keeps waiting to hear the snap. “Beginning test sequence,” he tells the room and the recording array. “Subject voluntarily interfacing with suspected neural synthesis network. Time: 14:30.”

Kira stands pressed to the glass,

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Will You?
AVELINE’S POVThe community hall smells of smoke and citrus oil and something older I can’t name. Wood polished by generations, not committees. I arrive early, but not first. Elders are already there, drifting in through side doors, moving slowly, deliberately, as if time itself has learned to wait for them.They bring food wrapped in cloth. They bring folded story-scarves, stitched with symbols I recognize only partially. They bring nothing digital.I bow my head. Not because it’s protocol, but because it feels correct.“You are the archivist,” one of them says. A woman with white braids bound in red thread. Her eyes are sharp and amused. “You look younger than your arguments.”I smile faintly. “My arguments had better be younger than your stories.”That earns a low chuckle from somewhere near the wall.We sit in a circle. No podium. No screen. My equipment stays closed at my feet for now, a quiet animal waiting its turn.The matriarch arrives last. Everyone stands. She is smaller th
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

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