West stood at the edge of the illuminated circle, the green glyphs rotating slowly around him in concentric rings. The air within the chamber had shifted—denser, charged with unseen logic. The energy that radiated from the Root Protocol now pulsed in a measured cadence—like a test pattern, each oscillation probing his biological rhythm, his cognitive response, his will.
The Preserved took three steps forward. Its movements were calm, deliberate—an ancient grace honed over centuries of interface. The voice behind the mask carried no emotion, only clarity, its intonation laced with multi-channel harmonics.
"The Trial will assess three sequences: Memory Integrity, Conflict Resolution, and Autonomy Index. Completion confirms anomaly status. Deviation results in neural dissolution."
West raised an eyebrow. "Dissolution sounds a lot like death."
The Preserved replied, "Only if your mind cannot hold its shape. Those who fracture, cease to be."
Before West could respond, the green light surged upward from the circle, enveloping him in a shimmering veil. It felt both warm and icy—like water made of thought. His vision shattered into light.
—
Sequence One: Memory Integrity
West opened his eyes to a different world.
He stood in a sun-drenched canyon—familiar, too familiar. The sand beneath his boots, the dry heat against his scarred arms, the familiar hum of an old dropship overhead. It was one of his earliest missions—Operation Slate Echo.
His old unit stood before him. Ten soldiers. Friends. Some smiling, others adjusting equipment. Faces he hadn't seen in years—some dead, some missing, all etched in guilt.
He stepped forward, trying to speak—but no words came. His mouth moved. No sound. He was a spectator in his own memory.
Captain Harlan turned toward him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're always late, soldier. Always one beat behind when it matters."
West clenched his fists. He remembered this day. The orders were unclear. The skies had darkened too fast. And then came the drone strike.
A roar from above. Fire. Screams. The shockwave.
He watched himself frozen behind a ridgeline while the blast incinerated the front unit. Harlan's voice echoed, not in sound but in memory.
"You froze. They died."
West shouted into the simulation. "I tried to warn command! I didn't—"
But the moment played again. And again.
Until finally, he stepped forward, into the fire.
It stopped.
The simulation pulsed.
Response registered: Memory core stable. Trauma contained. Integrity confirmed.
The canyon dissolved.
—
Sequence Two: Conflict Resolution
A desolate cityscape. Concrete towers reduced to ribs of steel. Rain fell in razor-thin sheets, tapping on broken glass and ruined drones.
Ahead, two figures emerged through the haze.
The Variant.
And… himself.
But not quite. The other West wore a different look—armor darker, streaked with crimson. His eyes were sharp, cold, devoid of humanity. The version of West that had stopped trusting people. That had chosen control over faith.
He stepped forward.
"You fight machines," the dark twin said, "but you've become one. Calculated. Surgical. You gave up blood for certainty."
West replied quietly, "And you gave up choice."
They clashed.
The battle was ferocious. Pipe against fist, memory against instinct. Each strike triggered flashes of shared history—squads lost, cities razed, friends who never came back. The twin fought with surgical perfection. West fought with the raw, untamed will to survive.
He tackled his other self into a broken terminal, shattered glass reflecting two faces.
"You're not me," West growled. "You're the fear that I might become this."
He raised his fist—then stopped.
Refused to strike.
The image faded.
Response registered: Conflict resolved. Core divergence identified. Autonomy intact.
—
Sequence Three: Autonomy Index
Darkness.
Then a console room appeared. Sterile. White walls. One chair. One interface.
The Root Protocol stood silent around him, like an audience of unseen eyes.
Before him, two prompts:
[UPLOAD CONSCIOUSNESS: Become Directive Zero. Lead the Grid.]
[DECLINE: Remain flesh. Walk away.]
A moment passed.
West stepped toward the console. Lights blinked beneath his hand. All power at his fingertips—access to every node, every command, every decision. He could rewrite the war, bring order. Prevent the chaos that had taken so much from him.
He touched the pad.
Paused.
Then shut it down.
"If I control everything, I become what we were trying to stop."
The light around him pulsed in soft acknowledgment.
Trial Completed. Candidate classified: Irregular Prime. Access granted.
—
West gasped as the chamber returned. The trial light dissipated like mist. Sweat beaded on his forehead, every muscle trembling from the mental strain.
The Preserved knelt beside the Root Protocol, its mask bowed.
"You carry deviation with structure. Chaos with restraint. You are not of the system, but you hold it."
The Variant stood at the edge of the glyph ring. It trembled, one hand clenched. For the first time, it felt… obsolete.
And deep below—far beneath the cables and stone and history—something older stirred.
Something the Root had kept sealed.
It knew his name now.
And it had begun to wake.