They Erased My Name from History — Now I Burn Their World
Chapter Two: The Code Beneath the Skin
Far below the bustling metropolis, beneath layers of concrete and steel, lies a world steeped in decay and resonance. Here, the remnants of a darker past hum with a constant, low vibration that echoes through the vast emptiness. The old transit tunnels, once vital arteries of movement and connection, stretch like desolate veins under the Dominion's skin—vast and abandoned since the ascendancy of the oppressive Skyways. Like us, these tunnels have been forgotten, left to the mercy of dust and time. Flickering lights, remnants of a bygone era, cast dim shadows across rusted steel walls, where faint echoes of electrical energy yet pulse softly, reminiscent of a bygone heart, a heartbeat of the very machine that the Dominion constructed to bind us in servitude.
With each step I take, my boots crunch loudly over the scattered shards of shattered glass, a cacophony that drowns out the whispers of memories long-buried. This place, once alive with purpose and vibrant with the hurried footsteps of countless lives, has become a tomb of silence now. I recall when it thrummed with the laughter and chatter of commuters, a vibrant undercurrent to the city above, back before the merciless Cleansing Protocols ravaged its spirit. I was no more than seven years old at that time, nestled securely beside my mother, clutching her hand as though it were a lifeline as we sought refuge from the ominous sweep drones prowling the tunnels, their mechanical eyes scanning for the slightest hint of dissent. "Be silent," she had urged, her voice a mere murmur, suffused with fear and urgency. "If we move like ghosts, we'll live to see another day."
And so we moved like whispers in the darkness, shadows among shadows. But the specter of fate was unforgiving. She didn't live; the drones found her while I remained hidden, a fragile echo of hope swallowed by despair. I shake the recollection loose, attempting to banish the haunting reminders of that day. Not now, I tell myself fiercely. Memories are insidious traps, weapons honed to strike inwardly. The Dominion ensured our collective agony when they injected the tracking serum into every newborn—a cruel failsafe, laced with the promise of pain, designed to activate at the slightest hint of rebellion. My own serum, however, remains inert because, according to their meticulously crafted records, I don't exist. I am an anomaly, a ghost in their system.
As I slide down the incline towards the Core Junction, anticipation prickles along the back of my neck. This clandestine location, where the four principal arteries of the Dominion converge, sits as an enigmatic chamber, miles beneath the surface. It is cloistered from prying eyes, hidden from surveillance, not due to secrecy, but rather because no one dares to believe that anyone could traverse this depth. But I'm not just anyone; I am a mirror reflecting the shadows of the Dominion's darkest secrets.
With deft movements, I approach the chamber door and initiate its override. Rather than employing a conventional key, I whisper the forgotten code nestled deep within layers of erased memory, a fragment of myself that they overlooked. It is a ghostly signature interred in the debris of trauma.
"Viraen-0X11… Echo-Null…"
As I speak the incantation, the AI guarding the gate flickers to life, its weary circuits sputtering like the dying gasps of an ancient deity.
"Unknown command structure detected. Partial clearance granted… Confirmed. Initiating Ghost Access Protocol."
The doors yield slowly, opening as if they were a gaping wound in the fabric of the universe.
Within lies the very seed of the Dominion: a crystalline nexus of servers, suspended in an ethereal anti-gravity field. It pulsates with white light, casting radiant beams across the dim chamber like a heartbeat lost in time. Information surges through this core—endless streams of data comprising names, coordinates, histories, births, deaths, and deceit. Everything they've ever attempted to control swirls around me like a tempest.
With every careful step I draw closer to the core, the static in the air heightens, crackling around me like the charge before a lightning strike. My skin tingles with awareness, and my breaths come in short gasps. Here, the Dominion has embedded meticulous failsafes—psychic triggers designed to disable intruders, nanite shock barriers primed to incapacitate, and DNA-encoded lockdowns meant to thwart any unauthorized entry. Yet, all of these defenses are futile against a ghost.
I lower myself, kneeling before the core, its surface smooth and undulating, almost alive.
"This is your final warning," the system drones, its metallic tone cold and unforgiving. "You are unauthorized. You are nothing."
Exactly.
I press my palm firmly against the interface, and in that moment, the world shudders violently. Pain crashes over me—an electric storm igniting my nerve endings, tearing through the very fibers of my spine. My vision splinters, fracturing into kaleidoscopic shards. I see faces—long-lost friends, family members, a tapestry of places; codes and buried memories surge forth, rushing toward me like a tidal wave of fire.
And then I'm inside.
Not merely within the system but engulfed in the very essence of truth.
Before my eyes unfolds a panorama of false history, a detailed tapestry spun by those who sought to control the narrative. I see the betrayals they inflicted, how they rewrote rebellions as mere riots, how they transformed leaders into labeled criminals, and I find my family's name—Xedrin—flagged as subversives, scrawled across the ledgers to be purged, to be erased. They believed that eradicating us would suffice to silence dissent.
But the code remembers.
And so do I.
With fierce resolve, I begin rewriting the narrative. Each lie they spun, every false martyr they constructed, every innocent child scrubbed clean from the records; I reclaim their names, their identities, and restore the truth they attempted to obliterate. I splash the vindicating reality across their sacred screens in blinding strokes, daring them to confront the damage they wrought.
Outside, alarms blare, a cacophony of warnings heralding my trespass. They recognize that I am here, the harbinger of their quiet undoing. But it is far too late for them.
With an adrenaline-fueled fervor, I kindle the first spark—a data bomb nestled strategically within the code. This is not merely a message; it is not just a thirst for revenge. This is a living virus, burgeoning with intent, fueled by rage and the relentless pursuit of justice. It unfurls within the system, sweeping through like wildfire, carrying with it a single defiant proclamation, branding itself onto every screen, into the minds of every drone, every soldier's neural HUD:
"You tried to erase me. Now I erase you."
And this is only the beginning.
To be continued...