"My name is Legion, for we are many."— Mark 5:9
Date: December 11th, 10:00 PM, the Year 2050 Location: Fate City (Outer District), Pikes Code: D.F.
The night descends like liquid shadow.
From afar, Fate City glows—bright, flawless, untouchable. But look closer, and you'll see the cracks. Like the layers of the earth, it's divided. Five outer rings, each one progressively more desperate than the last, and in the center, a tower that slices the sky like a blade. Government HQ. It rises from the heart of the city, so tall it looks infinite from the ground.
Fate City. What a fucking joke.
"The more you give up, the easier it is for me to take over." That voice again. Always calm. Always waiting. Always hungry.
I was lying on the floor, cold concrete pressing against my back. Moonlight sliced through the broken skylight, illuminating dust in the air. The abandoned building creaked around me—metal beams exposed, debris scattered across the floor, the walls stripped to their bones. The air tasted stale, with hints of rust and rain. The silence was heavy—so heavy I could hear my own heartbeat. My breath, uneven. A stillness that didn't belong.
"Play the lullaby."
A soft hum slid into my ears. Gentle. Warm. Almost human. A mother's voice, if I ever had the memory. Piano trickled beneath it. Simple. Safe. It was my only defense against the voice—this fragment of music I'd discovered by accident. The one thing that quieted its demands, if only temporarily.
"I wish they all shut up like this more often. These fucking voices."
I must've looked like a corpse—black suit soaked in crimson, face blank, blood crusting at the edges. But I was awake. Still here. Still in control. For now.
I stared at the square of glass above me. A skylight with no purpose. Rain tapped the pane harder and harder, water leaking through cracks and dripping onto the factory floor in a syncopated rhythm. Puddles had formed in the uneven concrete, reflecting the sporadic flashes of distant lightning. The sound was almost soothing. Almost.
I felt a ripple in the air—too precise to be wind. Too methodical. The kind of movement that doesn't belong in an abandoned place.
"A human life form has entered the territory."
My head snapped right. Predator-mode. I didn't even think—my scanner kicked in on reflex. The world shifted into wireframe. Data points. Vitals. Movement patterns. A life signal. Faint heartbeat. Slow. Steady—but cautious.
I moved.
She was tucked into the far corner, soaked from the rain, arms wrapped around something pressed tightly to her chest. Small frame. Tense, but still. Not unconscious—just exhausted. Like someone who'd been walking too long without a place to stop. A kid, maybe eight or nine. Dirty hoodie. Scratched camera. She didn't look up. She was just holding on.
A window popped up in my vision: Analog. Rare. Sentimental.
"Eliminate. Risk factor: Witness."
The command flashed red across my retinal display. The voice, growing colder, more insistent. It was always like this—offering the easy way. Kill. Eliminate. Destroy. Each time I obeyed, something within me dimmed a little more.
I stared down at her. "Oh, shut up," I muttered.
She stirred. Her eyes cracked open. Blue. Unblinking. She looked up at me—and froze. Then her hand slowly raised the camera. "Sorry, kid—"
Flash. The shutter snapped.
And just like that, I was in front of her—sword drawn, its tip hovering just above her throat. My body moved before my mind could catch up—the cybernetics responding to perceived threat.
She didn't scream. Didn't move. Her breathing hitched, but her heart rate barely changed.
Brand: Comodo
Model: 10RX97
Year: 2000
Type: Photo camera
"Wow," she whispered, eyes widening like she'd just discovered treasure instead of a weapon at her throat. "You're super-duper fast!" She made a rapid zigzag motion with her free hand. "Do you have superpowers or something? I bet you do!"
I lowered the blade. "You should leave before I do something I'll regret."
"I don't think you will."
She smiled. Small. Honest. Missing one of her front teeth.
"My gut says you won't hurt me. It's always been right. That's why I'm still alive." She tapped her stomach firmly. "Right here. This is my superpower. My gut-feeling meter. Never breaks. Not even once!"
She held the photo out toward me. "Just wait. It'll appear in a second."
I stepped back, letting the overhead light flicker behind me. My shadow stretched across the floor. Her hand didn't waver.
"What are you doing here?"
"Shh," she whispered. "Just look…"
The image developed slowly. Grain by grain. And then I saw him. Me. But not me.
Black hair. Violet eyes—still mine, but glassy. Hollow. A bloodstained suit wrapped around a machine. A killer made to look human.
It had been years since I looked at my own face. Too long. And I hated what I saw.
"Looks good, right?" she said, like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just captured the soul I wasn't sure I still had.
I didn't answer. I shut off my sensors. I needed to see her—not her vitals, not a readout. Just her.
Brown hair. Blue eyes. Hoodie, shorts, sneakers. Two scars—one across her cheek, another above her eyebrow.
She reminded me of Hope City. Of the ones I couldn't save.
"You're not a big talker, huh?"
She stepped forward, calm. Unafraid. She kicked at a piece of debris, sending it skittering across the floor with a clatter that echoed through the empty factory.
"That's okay. My dad was similar, with other people, although he was a great listener. You probably are too." She giggled, the sound bright and incongruous in the gloom. "My name's Hedgehog. Not my real one, but the one I picked. 'Cause I'm small but tough and nobody messes with me." She puffed out her chest. "What's yours? Are you... a cyborg? Like, part robot part human? I saw one once, I think. Or maybe it was just a guy with a really shiny arm."
She was annoying. But not the bad kind. The kind that made me feel... not entirely alone.
"Darius." I gestured at the metal gleaming through torn skin on my arm. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe, I am."
"Cool. You like the photo? I'm pretty good with angles. Used to take 'em of all the kids at the shelter before—" She cut herself off, suddenly finding the floor interesting. "Before stuff happened. This is my best one ever though. I can tell."
"Where'd you get that camera?"
She looked down. The smile faded.
"My dad gave it to me. It's all I've got left." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, fingers tracing the worn edges of the camera. "He never let it go. Even slept with it next to him. Said pictures were what was real in a world full of fake." She swallowed hard. "He took pictures of the bad stuff happening in the rings. The stuff nobody's supposed to see."
She hugged it to her chest like it still had a heartbeat of its own.
I should've turned away. Should've vanished back into the dark. Should've listened to the calculations in my head demanding I complete my mission alone.
But I didn't.
Outside, a distant hum—barely perceptible but unmistakable—vibrated through the air. The kind of sound that doesn't register to normal ears. But mine weren't normal. Not anymore.
She looked up again. Her voice was quiet. Steady.
"Can we be friends?" She rocked slightly on her heels, suddenly looking her age—just a kid in an oversized hoodie, hair matted with rainwater, asking the simplest and hardest question. "I'm real good at hiding and I don't eat much. And I can help! I know all the secret ways through Ring Four and Five. All of 'em!"
My neural implant pulsed—a silent alert. Thermal signatures approaching from the east and south. Multiple targets. Moving in formation.
The kind we don't talk about. Not if we want to live.
I made a decision the old me never would have made.
"Not here," I said, extending my hand. "We need to move. Now."
Her small fingers wrapped around mine without hesitation. They were calloused for a child's—rough from a life with no softness in it.
"I knew it," she whispered, bouncing slightly with excitement. "My gut's never wrong. Never ever."
That night, as Fate City loomed behind us, something changed. For the first time in years, the voice fell silent. And I could hear myself think. The real me. A small victory, but mine.