The sanctuary Aris called home was less of a house and more of a tumor growing on the side of an industrial vent. It was located in the tangled guts of Sector 4, suspended fifty feet above the ground by rusted chains and sheer stubbornness. To enter, he had to shimmy across a horizontal support beam that was slick with condensation and smelling of sulfur, a daily acrobatic feat that usually served to filter out the drunk or the clumsy.
Tonight, however, the climb felt different. His hands, usually steady as stone, were vibrating with a fine, persistent tremor. It wasn't fear, exactly. Fear was a cold thing, a tightening of the gut. This was something else. It was the frantic, humming energy of a machine that had been turned on for the first time and didn't know how to idle.
He slid the corrugated metal door shut behind him and threw the heavy latch. The lock was mechanical, a simple deadbolt he had scavenged from a pre-collapse bank vault. He trusted mechanical things. They either worked or they didn't. They didn't have hidden agendas, and they certainly didn't eat your memories.
The interior of the shack was cramped, smelling of dried herbs and gun oil. A single hammock strung diagonally across the room served as his bed. shelves made of flattened license plates lined the walls, filled with the detritus of his trade: jars of purified water, scraps of rare metals, a half-disassembled clockwork bird, and his carving tools.
Aris stumbled toward his workbench and collapsed onto the stool. He pulled the iron compass from his pocket and set it down on the wood. It hit the surface with a heavy thud, deeper and more resonant than an object of its size had any right to make.
It sat there, innocent and malign. The needle was still shivering, refusing to settle on a cardinal direction.
"What did you do to me?" Aris whispered, his voice cracking in the silence.
He peeled off his jacket, wincing as the fabric pulled against his skin. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.
The black band was there. It wasn't ink. It looked like a bruise that had formed in a perfect geometric circle around his wrist, darker than the surrounding night. As he watched, the edges of the band seemed to smoke, a faint, shadowy vapor curling off his skin and dissolving into the air. It didn't hurt anymore, but it felt heavy, as if his arm had suddenly gained ten pounds of lead weight.
He needed information. He needed to see the text again.
"System," he murmured. "Status."
Usually, invoking the System was like flicking a light switch. A blue, semi-transparent window would pop up, listing his vitals, his hunger levels, and the time. It was a sterile, comforting utility that every human in Aethelgard possessed.
This time, the air in front of him tore open with the sound of ripping canvas.
The interface that manifested wasn't blue. It was a jagged, unstable crimson, flickering with static like a broken broadcast. The text didn't sit neatly in boxes; it bled down the screen, the font shifting between archaic runes and standard script.
[Name: Aris Valerian]
[Race: Human (Destabilized)]
[Class: The Anchor (Heretical/Unique)]
[Level: 1]
[Attributes]
Strength: 4 (Malnourished)
Agility: 9 (Enhanced by Panic)
Endurance: 5
Stability: 12% (CRITICAL)
Aris stared at the "Stability" metric. Normal humans didn't have a Stability stat. They had Mana or Stamina. Stability was a term reserved for architecture, for the structural integrity of bridges or the magical barriers that kept the Null at bay. If a person's stability hit zero, they didn't just die. They unraveled. They became part of the background radiation of the universe.
Twelve percent meant he was walking on the edge of a razor.
He scrolled down, his eyes scanning frantically for the ability he had used in the alley. He found it under a tab labeled [Authorities].
[Active Skill: Static Lock]
Rank: I
Description: Imposes a localized absolute order upon a target, halting its temporal progression for a duration determined by the user's will and sacrifice.
Effect: Target enters a state of Stasis. Physics, chemical reactions, and biological functions are paused.
Cost: One (1) Memory Fragment of Emotional Significance.
Current Debt: Paid.
Aris read the cost three times. He felt the cold knot in his stomach tighten.
One Memory Fragment of Emotional
Significance.
It wasn't a glitch. It was a transaction.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cool metal wall of the shack. He tried to summon the image he had lost. He knew, intellectually, what it was. He had been five years old. It was a birthday. Or maybe a festival? There had been a red ball.
What shade of red?
He concentrated, furrowing his brow.
Crimson? Scarlet? Rust?
Nothing. There was no visual data.
Who gave it to me?
He grasped for the face of his mother. He could remember the shape of her, the smell of lavender and engine grease that always clung to her hair, but when he tried to picture her handing him the ball, the frame was empty. It was like watching a movie where a scene had been spliced out, the film jumping jarringly from one moment to the next.
A terrifying thought seized him. If he used the power enough times, would he forget her entirely? Would he forget himself?
He stood up, knocking the stool over. He began to pace the small room, three steps forward, three steps back. The panic was rising again, a hot tide in his throat. He was a Scavenger. His entire life was built on remembering: remembering safe paths, remembering which merchants paid fair prices, remembering who to trust and who to avoid. His mind was his only asset.
He couldn't use this power. It was a death sentence.
But then he remembered Karn's face. He remembered the feeling of helplessness, the smell of the thug's rancid breath. If he hadn't used the Lock, he would have been beaten, robbed, and likely left for dead in the gutter. In the Static Zone, weakness was a capital crime.
He had a weapon now. A terrible, cursed weapon, but a weapon nonetheless.
He stopped pacing and looked at the pile of junk in the corner. Tucked between a stack of old magazines and a box of spare gears was a leather-bound book. He had found it years ago in a submerged library near the edge of the Null. The pages were blank, the paper thick and yellowed. He had been saving it for something important, though he never knew what.
He grabbed the book and a charcoal pencil. He sat back down at the bench, sweeping the compass aside.
He opened to the first page and wrote, his handwriting jagged and aggressive:
ENTRY 1
I am Aris Valerian.
I am eighteen years old.
I live in Sector 4.
Today, I lost a memory of a red ball. I think it was a toy. I think I was happy.
The power eats the past.
If I forget who I am, read this.
He stared at the words. They looked pathetic, a tiny scratches of graphite against the inevitability of oblivion. But it was all he had. He would call it the Book of Tethers. If the System wanted to take his mind, he would keep a backup copy on paper.
He closed the book. The adrenaline was finally fading, replaced by a crushing exhaustion. The climb, the shock, and the hunger were claiming their due.
Aris climbed into his hammock, keeping his boots on and his hand wrapped around the hilt of his knife. It was a habit he couldn't break. As he drifted into a restless sleep, the ticking of the Chronos Core seemed to synchronize with the throbbing of the black band on his wrist.
Tick. You survive.
Tock. You lose.
He woke to the sound of screaming.
It wasn't the usual screaming of the slums—the drunken brawls or the cries of someone being mugged. This was a mechanical, amplified shriek that tore through the morning fog like a physical blow.
Aris rolled out of the hammock, landing in a crouch, knife already raised. The light coming through the cracks in the corrugated metal was gray and sickly. Morning in the Static Zone was just a lighter shade of night.
The screaming was coming from the sky.
He moved to the small, circular window he had cut into the wall and peered out.
Above the sprawling, rust-colored rooftops of Sector 4, a fleet of drones was descending. They weren't the small, buzzing scav-drones he was used to. These were Seekers—sleek, chrome tear-drops with glowing red eyes. They moved in a swarm, scanning the streets with wide fans of laser light.
But they weren't what was making the noise.
High above, projected against the underside of the frozen tidal wave, was a massive hologram. It was the face of the Grand Overseer, the ruler of the Radiant Spire. His features were perfect, smoothed by digital filters, his eyes glowing with a benevolent gold light that made Aris want to vomit.
"Citizens of the Foundation Layer," the Overseer's voice boomed, echoing off the canyon walls. "Rejoice."
Aris snorted. Whenever the Spire told you to rejoice, you should check to make sure you still had your kidneys.
"The Chronos Core requires new stabilizing agents," the voice continued. "The fluctuations in the Null have increased. To ensure the safety of Aethelgard, we are initiating a Grand Selection."
Aris froze. A Selection.
They happened once every decade, but usually, they were small. They took the talented, the magically gifted, the ones whose parents could afford bribes. They took them up to the Spire to become Wardens or Mages.
"Due to the severity of the crisis," the Overseer said, his smile never wavering, "this Selection will be mandatory for all unregistered youths between the ages of sixteen and twenty in Sectors 1 through 5. Report to the central plaza immediately for processing. Non-compliance is treason. Treason is Erasure."
The hologram flickered and vanished, but the drones remained, descending into the alleyways like a swarm of locusts.
Aris stepped back from the window, his heart hammering.
Mandatory.
That meant blood tests. That meant Spirit scans.
If they scanned him, they wouldn't see a malnourished slum kid. They would see the Anomaly. They would see the Heretical Class. They would see the "Error" that the System had tried to delete yesterday.
He looked at the compass on the table. It was vibrating again, pointing urgently toward the door.
"I can't go," he muttered. "If I go, I'm dead."
But if he stayed, the drones would sweep the sector house by house. They had thermal sensors. They would find him hiding in his metal box, and they would burn it down with him inside.
He was trapped.
A heavy pounding on his door made him jump.
"Aris! Open up!"
It was a girl's voice. Urgent. Terrified.
Aris hesitated, then slid the bolt back.
A girl tumbled into the room. It was Renna, the daughter of the mechanic who lived two levels down. She was sixteen, thin as a rail, with grease smudged under her eyes. She looked at Aris, her eyes wide.
"They're blocking the exits," she gasped, grabbing his arm. "The Gear-Breakers are working with the drones. They're rounding everyone up. Karn... Karn is down there."
Aris stiffened. "Karn?"
"He's awake," Renna said, shaking. "But he's... wrong, Aris. He's shouting about a ghost. He says you turned him into stone. He's telling the Inquisitors that you're a witch."
Aris cursed silently. He had hoped the thug would keep his mouth shut out of shame, or that the memory of the event would be fuzzy. But of course not. Karn was stupid, but he was vindictive.
"You have to run," Renna said. "He's bringing them here."
"There's nowhere to run, Renna," Aris said, grabbing his jacket and shoving the compass into his belt. "They have the sector locked down."
"The Vents," she whispered.
Aris looked at her. "The thermal vents? That's suicide. The steam alone will boil us."
"Not the main ones," she said. "My dad... he found a bypass. An old maintenance shaft that goes under the plaza. It dumps out near the Selection staging area. If we can get into the line inside the processing zone, we bypass the initial perimeter check. We can fake our IDs."
It was a desperate, stupid plan. The vents were a labyrinth of scalding heat and toxic gas.
"Why are you telling me this?" Aris asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Because I can't open the hatch alone," she admitted, tears welling in her eyes. "It's rusted shut. I need help. And... and you're the only one who doesn't look like he's about to piss himself."
Aris looked at the terrified girl. He looked at his shaking hands. He looked at the Book of Tethers lying on his workbench.
He grabbed the book and shoved it into his inner pocket next to his heart.
"Show me," he said.
They exited the shack, moving onto the precarious walkways of the upper scaffolding. Below them, the chaos was absolute. The narrow streets were a crush of bodies. People were screaming, running, trying to hide their children. The drones hovered overhead, firing stun blasts at anyone moving away from the plaza.
"This way," Renna hissed, ducking under a cluster of hanging cables.
They moved fast, parkouring over the rooftops. Aris felt a strange fluidity in his movements. His agility stat—Rank 9—was no joke. He was faster than before, his balance supernatural. He leaped a six-foot gap between buildings without breaking stride, landing silently while Renna scrambled to catch up.
They reached the access hatch, a heavy iron circle set into the roof of a generator building. Heat radiated from it in waves.
"It's jammed," Renna grunted, pulling on the wheel. It didn't budge.
Aris grabbed the wheel. He strained, his muscles burning. It was fused with rust and years of grime. Below them, heavy footsteps clanged on the metal stairs.
"There he is!" Karn's voice roared. "The one in the black coat! That's the Demon!"
Aris looked down. Two levels below, Karn was pointing up at him. Next to the thug stood a figure that made Aris's blood run cold.
It was an Inquisitor.
Dressed in white robes that remained pristine despite the filth of the slums, the Inquisitor wore a porcelain mask with no mouth, only a single, vertical slit for an eye. In his hand, he held a rod of pure white metal that hummed with agonizing purity.
The Inquisitor looked up. The single eye-slit seemed to dilate.
[Warning. High-Threat Entity Detected.]
[Authority of the Anchor Resonating.]
"Open the damn door," Aris snarled. He grabbed the wheel with both hands. He didn't have the strength. He knew he didn't.
But he had the Lock.
He didn't lock the wheel. He didn't lock the door.
He visualized the rust. The microscopic bonds of oxidized iron that held the metal fused together.
Lock the friction to zero.
He didn't know if it would work. He didn't know the cost. He just pushed the intent into the world.
The black band on his wrist flared.
Cost: The taste of strawberries.
The memory vanished. He forgot a flavor he had loved.
The wheel suddenly spun freely, as if it were greased with oil. Aris spun it so hard he almost threw himself off the roof. The hatch popped open with a hiss of steam.
"In!" he shouted, shoving Renna down the hole.
He glanced back. The Inquisitor raised the white rod. A beam of concentrated light, hot as the sun, slashed through the air.
Aris dropped into the darkness just as the beam sheared the top of the hatch off, melting the iron into slag. He pulled the damaged lid shut above him, plunging them into suffocating heat and total darkness.
"Move," Aris coughed, the air tasting of copper and death. "If we stop, we cook."
He was running toward the Selection, toward the belly of the beast. It was the last place a fugitive should go, which meant it was the only place he might survive.
As he crawled through the dark, he tried to remember what strawberries tasted like.
He licked his lips. Nothing. Just dust.
Tick.