Part I: The Awakening Cradle
Summary: Thale wakes in a metallic cradle inside a forgotten vault, surrounded by empty memory caskets. Her spine aches. The name "Thale Grey" is carved into a registry panel nearby. Cold light pulses from flickering ceiling panels.
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The cradle hissed.
A slow exhale of pressure valves, then silence. The world came back not in light or sound—but weight. The weight of skin. The weight of eyes. The weight of something missing.
Thale opened her eyes.
Above her: a ceiling of oxidized steel, veined with flickering cables like blackened veins. A light—pale green and pulsing in a broken rhythm—stuttered across the inside of the chamber, casting uneven shadows that crept like insects. Her body lay inside a pod, partially submerged in thin grey fluid that smelled like wet copper and old electricity. Her fingers felt raw. Her teeth ached.
When she tried to sit up, her spine screamed.
She gasped. Something clicked in her lower back—sharp, mechanical. The pain spiked, then settled into a dull electric buzz. She reached around, fingers brushing across raised nodes along her vertebrae. It felt like… ports. Small, circular, metallic. Seven of them. One blinked red.
Her breath fogged the glass. Or maybe the vault was just that cold.
The cradle creaked as she pushed herself upright, naked and shivering, the grey liquid dripping from her hair in strands. The pod interior was smooth, worn—etched with faint lines that might've once been code. No signs of others. No warmth. No welcome.
In front of her, a metal plate hung from the side of the cradle like a patient tag. Burned into its surface, blackened and half-erased:
> Subject: THALE GREY
Cycle: 5119
Memory Core: UNSTABLE
Purpose: [ERROR]
Reseed Status: INCOMPLETE
She whispered the name aloud.
"Thale… Grey."
The words sat awkwardly in her mouth, like stones misfiled in a drawer. She couldn't remember ever hearing them before. And yet—something in her chest answered. Not recognition. Just... gravity.
The chamber around her was vast and circular, a rotunda lined with at least two dozen other cradles. All were empty. Some were shattered. A few had red smearings around the edges. One had been clawed open from the inside. The floor was covered in overlapping rings of metal runes, like a clock designed by a madman—constantly shifting patterns that refused to settle into logic.
The air smelled like dust and blood and antifreeze.
She stood slowly, legs uncertain, knees whispering with each bend. The cold was alive against her skin. Around her, the walls of the vault rose in jagged spines toward a single dark dome overhead. There were no doors, no ladders. Just the echo of her breath and the soft electronic whisper of unseen machines.
And then—another sound.
Not from outside. From the walls.
"...wake...wake...wake...Thale..."
It wasn't quite a voice. More like a recorded loop, skipping on a corrupted track. It echoed, not through the air, but through the floor—through the soles of her feet.
She backed against the cradle, heart hammering.
"...Thale...Thale Grey...Cycle...Cycle five one one nine..."
She covered her ears. The whisper continued. Not louder, but closer.
Then silence. Total.
Thale looked down. The floor beneath her left foot glowed faintly—a circular rune, shifting into a new symbol as she moved. Her presence was waking the floor. It responded to her. Or remembered her.
In the far corner of the room, something moved.
Not loudly. Just a shiver of motion. A curtain of wires swaying. A shadow bending the wrong direction.
Thale reached toward the floor, where a shard of cracked mirror lay under a collapsed panel. She snatched it up with shaking fingers and crouched behind the cradle. Her reflection stared back—pale face, wild black hair stuck to her skin. But something in the mirror shimmered wrong. For a split second, her eyes blinked… out of sync with her real ones.
The whisper came again.
This time, from a direction. From the far wall.
And this time, it wasn't her voice.
-----+--
Part II: The Voice in the Walls
Summary: As Thale explores, a mechanical whisper echoes her own voice back at her, repeating things she hasn't said. Strange diagrams etched into the floor seem familiar. The air smells like old blood and ozone.
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Recap of the final moment from Part I:
> Then silence. Total.
Thale looked down. The floor beneath her left foot glowed faintly—a circular rune, shifting into a new symbol as she moved. Her presence was waking the floor. It responded to her. Or remembered her.
In the far corner of the room, something moved.
Not loudly. Just a shiver of motion. A curtain of wires swaying. A shadow bending the wrong direction.
Thale reached toward the floor, where a shard of cracked mirror lay under a collapsed panel. She snatched it up with shaking fingers and crouched behind the cradle. Her reflection stared back—pale face, wild black hair stuck to her skin. But something in the mirror shimmered wrong. For a split second, her eyes blinked… out of sync with her real ones.
The whisper came again.
This time, from a direction. From the far wall.
And this time, it wasn't her voice.
---
The voice was male. And static-wrapped. As if coming through a cracked speaker jammed in a throat.
"...Cycle five-one-one-nine... heartbeat... presence confirmed... do you hear me...?"
Thale stayed low behind the cradle. Her breath shook. The air around her was no longer still. It hummed faintly. A vibration below hearing, like a hidden motor turning under the vault floor.
She pressed the mirror shard to the edge of the cradle and tilted it, angling toward the wall where the sound had come from.
Nothing. Just wires. And thick conduit, some of it pulsing faintly, as if pushing something wet.
The voice again, slightly clearer:
"Thale Grey. You are not permitted to exist. Please remain calm while your thread is corrected."
She dropped the mirror.
Her foot stepped back instinctively—and touched another glowing rune. The floor responded, and something mechanical hissed above. She looked up.
From the ceiling descended a metal arm the size of a human spine, ending in a black iris that opened with a soft chk. Inside it: a red lens, unblinking.
She didn't wait to see what it would do.
Thale ran.
Her bare feet slapped against the metal runes as she darted across the chamber. Behind her, the metal arm descended fast, unfolding with unnatural speed. She dove between two shattered cradles, grabbing a heavy cable for balance. The floor tiles glowed brighter under her—the runes recognizing her presence and realigning as she passed.
She ducked into a narrow alcove behind the wall plating, half-collapsed and filled with broken wiring. Her shoulder caught on a jagged edge, slicing it open. She stifled a scream. Warm blood ran down her arm.
The voice returned.
"Unauthorized signal deviation. Initiating breach response. Deploying... correctional swarm."
Correctional—
She didn't get to finish the thought.
The far side of the chamber groaned.
Loud, metallic. Like a vault door shifting for the first time in centuries. A vertical slit in the wall began to widen—mechanical plates pulling back in increments, revealing a long passage behind it. The air that flowed in was cold and carried a smell that made her stomach knot:
Rotting plastic. Old rain. And something electric.
From within the new corridor came a clicking sound. No—thousands of clicking sounds. Like teeth made of metal tapping against glass.
Thale turned to flee back across the chamber—
—and slammed into a man.
Or at least something in the shape of one.
He yelped in panic and fell backward with a loud clatter. Springs, gears, and brass mechanisms spilled from his overstuffed coat. He scrambled upright, adjusting a cracked monocle that ticked like a stopwatch.
"Don't kill me! Don't eat me! I—I'm not edible—not yet, not—!"
Thale stumbled back, arm raised, mirror shard still clenched.
He froze when he saw it.
"Oho. A glint! A mirror! You're lucid! You're—wait, you're her!" His face lit up like a feverish child. "You're the ticked one. The erratic. The one they looped and looped and—oh stars above, you're real."
Thale narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
He stood, brushing soot and machine oil off his tattered red jacket. Cogs on his collar spun quietly. A long brass chain trailed from his wrist into the depths of his sleeve.
"I am called Vermidge. Mr. Vermidge. Clockbound. First of the Forgotten Schedule. Keeper of ticks and tocks, sworn enemy of forward motion. At your very uneasy service."
She stared at him.
He grinned.
Behind them, the corridor of clicking grew louder. Vermidge's grin faltered.
"Oh no. Oh... oh, tick me sideways. You opened a corridor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You stepped on a symbol. That counts! That always counts!"
"What are they?"
Vermidge looked toward the breach, monocle spinning.
"They're the Swarmers. But worse. Correctionals. They think you're a glitch. Which means I'm in proximity to a glitch, which means—"
From inside the corridor, a long shadow rippled across the floor.
It did not walk. It slithered, sharp-edged and many-limbed.
Vermidge bolted.
"—WHICH MEANS WE RUN NOW!"
$___________-------______
Part III: Mr. Vermidge
Summary: She discovers a ragged man hiding behind a server tower. He introduces himself as Mr. Vermidge, "Clockbound." He's covered in gears and stutters about "the schedule" and "the loop." His left eye is a ticking monocle.
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Final moment from Part II:
> From inside the corridor, a long shadow rippled across the floor.
It did not walk. It slithered, sharp-edged and many-limbed.
Vermidge bolted.
"—WHICH MEANS WE RUN NOW!"
---
Thale didn't wait to argue.
She ran.
The floor beneath her lit with moving runes, each glowing symbol a step in a strange alphabet that seemed to recognize her passage and react—a system she neither trusted nor understood. She followed Vermidge through a jagged aperture between two vault ribs, the metal groaning as they slipped inside.
Behind them, the corridor screamed.
Not a voice. A data-scream. Raw signal. Her head pulsed with it—like her memories were being scraped. She stumbled but Vermidge caught her wrist and pulled.
"This way! Come on, come on, come on—"
The passage was narrow and crumbling. Old circuit-trees had grown through the walls, their bark flaking wires, their roots pulsing with outdated code. Small lights blinked like bioluminescent parasites, watching. Judging.
They ducked through a shattered maintenance hatch into what looked like a dead control center: fractured screens, overturned chairs, a dried puddle of something that looked like oil but smelled like a corpse had remembered it once had blood.
Vermidge slammed the hatch behind them and began cranking a lever embedded in the wall. A clunk. A hiss. Gears locked into place. Silence returned.
He fell backward onto the floor and stared at the ceiling.
"Blessed entropy. We're not dead."
Thale crouched across from him, still gripping her shard of mirror.
"What was that thing?"
"Correctional swarmling," he wheezed. "Newer than the standard drones. Older than grace. They hunt system echoes. You. Me. Anything that isn't nailed to a scheduled path."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only kind I've got, I'm afraid." He sat up and tapped the side of his head. The monocle ticked in response. "Time's broken, and it's offended. We're what's left after logic breaks its own mirror."
"You're insane."
"Most certainly. But not wrong."
She took a breath and let her hands relax, though her fingers wouldn't quite let go of the glass.
"Start over," she said. "Who are you?"
Vermidge stood with a groan, brushing off his ruined coat. Up close, she could see how deeply wired into his flesh the gears were—some fused to bone, others grafted into veins. His left hand was entirely brass. His spine clicked when he straightened.
"I was once an archivist," he said, voice lighter now, theatrical. "Then I was a deserter. Then I was a sleeper. And now I am... Clockbound." He bowed with a rusty creak. "Bound to the Schedule. Whatever's left of it. I keep the time, Thale Grey."
She flinched.
"You know my name?"
"It's carved into your existence. Anyone with half a synchronizer could read it. Which I have, albeit it's installed in my spleen."
She blinked. "What do you mean, 'carved into me'?"
He tilted his head, then reached forward without asking. She recoiled. He hesitated.
"May I?"
Thale nodded stiffly.
He reached behind her and gently touched her spine. His fingers traced something cold—etched metal.
"There. Between thoracic five and six. Neural tag plate. Old style. Not secure. Someone wanted to make sure you wouldn't forget who you were. Or they didn't trust you to know in the first place."
He stepped back. "Thale Grey. Cycle five-one-one-nine. Resurrected improperly. Memories scrubbed. And worse—you're awake."
"I don't understand."
"No one does. That's the problem. Understanding doesn't function here anymore."
He leaned against a console and lit a match. The flame was blue. He waved it at the air until it fizzled.
"This vault isn't just a bunker," he muttered. "It's a loop anchor. A reset chamber. They were storing something down here. Dreams. Patterns. Things that refused to stay dead."
Thale glanced at the ruined monitors.
"They were storing people."
"Or parts of people," he nodded. "Fragments. Versions. Echoes of thought."
"Why?"
"I don't ask why. I just know the Schedule called for a purge. They locked it all down. Then you woke up."
He gave her a very flat look.
"And now the world is leaking again."
She stared at the wall. Something behind it thumped—soft, repetitive. Like metal chewing.
"You said I'm 'unscheduled.' What does that mean?"
Vermidge lowered his voice.
"It means you weren't supposed to wake up. You weren't on the loop. Which makes you... interesting. And very, very illegal."
She felt something flicker behind her eyes. A burst of heat. A pulse.
"I didn't ask to wake up."
"No one ever does," he said softly. "But it's done. You're here now."
A low bong echoed through the room.
Not from inside. From above.
Vermidge's eyes widened.
"They're shifting the corridor again."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we're out of time."
He turned and threw open a rusted emergency panel. A long, slanted tunnel led downward into blinking darkness.
"Come on, glitch-girl," he said. "Time's breaking again. Let's go make something of it."
Part IV: The Breach
Summary: Distant metal thumping grows louder—the Swarm is approaching. Vermidge panics. Thale opens a sealed exit panel using a strange symbol burned into her palm. The vault begins to shake and groan.
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Final moment from Part III:
> Vermidge turned and threw open a rusted emergency panel. A long, slanted tunnel led downward into blinking darkness.
"Come on, glitch-girl," he said. "Time's breaking again. Let's go make something of it."
---
Thale stared down into the tunnel. The emergency panel gaped like a throat—lined with corroded circuitry, strobing with pulses of green and red. It smelled of warm dust and something else, something… sweeter. Like burnt fruit.
Behind them, something scraped against the vault wall.
Not a scratch. A surgical touch. The sound of intelligent metal.
"Go!" Vermidge hissed.
Thale stepped into the passage, barefoot, and winced at the icy floor beneath her feet. Her injury burned—her shoulder now sticky with congealing blood—but she ignored it. She moved fast, deeper into the dark.
Vermidge followed, muttering to himself.
"I knew it. I knew she'd wake eventually. They always do. Schedule's always a liar—never on time, always improvising—"
The light flickered.
They paused.
The vault groaned above them—no, bent. The sound came from everywhere at once. Metal flexing. Somewhere, a siren hiccupped and died. Behind them, a door clanged shut.
Then came the screech.
Thale covered her ears. It wasn't sound. It was code. Raw, violent. A signal meant to break thought into pieces. Her knees buckled.
Vermidge pulled her up. "Nope. Not yours. Not today."
They continued down the sloped passage, past defunct security turrets and rusted bioscanner panels—each one lighting up as Thale passed, then dimming like disappointed eyes.
At the bottom of the slope, a sealed door blocked their path. It was smooth black glass, ringed in etched silver veins, humming softly. The center bore a symbol: a circle split by a vertical line. Familiar.
"I know that," Thale whispered.
She reached for it.
As her fingers neared the glass, the line glowed faintly gold. Her palm stung.
Thale pulled her hand back—and saw it: a symbol burned into her skin. The same as the door. Not a wound. Not a scar. More like a watermark. Subdermal.
"Don't touch it," Vermidge said suddenly.
Too late.
Her palm brushed the center of the door.
The mark pulsed. Gold flooded the edges of the symbol. The air thickened. A low thrum passed through her bones. The door breathed once, inward—and then opened with a hydraulic hiss.
Beyond it: darkness. And something moving.
"Sweet schedule," Vermidge said under his breath. "She's keyed to the vault…"
Thale turned to him.
"What am I?"
But before he could answer, a distant crash echoed from behind them—followed by a new sound:
Crawling.
Fast. Many-limbed. Gutteral mechanical growls, not like animals but like grinding blades searching for friction.
"They're coming," Vermidge said. "More correctionals."
Thale stepped into the corridor. Her foot caught on something. A body.
It wasn't human anymore. The face was smooth metal, partially melted, with hollow sockets for eyes and a mouth stretched into a frozen scream. Tubes grew from its throat, snaking into the wall.
She stepped over it.
They entered a tunnel of polished obsidian walls that flickered with static. Here, the lights didn't come from bulbs but from the material itself—walls that pulsed like living glass.
The door sealed behind them. No sound. No mechanism.
Gone.
"Where does this lead?" she asked.
Vermidge gave a tired sigh. "Not where. When."
She turned sharply. "What?"
But he was already walking.
"You broke the vault, Thale Grey. And the Schedule doesn't like being broken."
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Part V: Into the Corridor
Summary: The two flee as the vault's lights fail. Thale grabs a shard of mirrored glass and sees a flicker of her own face—blinking out of sync. The door seals behind them as they step into the shifting corridor beyond.
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Final moment from Part IV:
> The door sealed behind them. No sound. No mechanism.
Gone.
"Where does this lead?" she asked.
Vermidge gave a tired sigh. "Not where. When."
She turned sharply. "What?"
But he was already walking.
"You broke the vault, Thale Grey. And the Schedule doesn't like being broken."
---
The corridor was wrong.
It wasn't just the design—smooth glass walls veined with flickering data-rivers—but the way it bent. Not in angles. In decisions. It chose its shape as they walked, subtly shifting the geometry of its path, always just ahead of their awareness.
Thale pressed her fingers to the wall. Warm.
A pulse shivered through her skin. Not painful, just… curious.
Something on the other side was watching her watch it.
Behind them, the closed door was gone. Erased from existence, as if it had never been part of the corridor at all.
"Don't stop," Vermidge said. "Keep moving. If it notices us thinking, it'll reflect."
"Reflect?"
"It shows you where you're not. And if you believe it—you'll vanish."
Thale wasn't sure if he was explaining or rambling, but either way, she walked. Her footsteps echoed in a way that didn't match her pace. The floor tiles shimmered slightly underfoot, catching faint reflections.
She reached into her coat—one Vermidge had thrust at her minutes ago—and pulled the mirror shard she'd taken from the vault.
Still intact.
She held it at waist height and angled it upward, toward her face.
Her reflection looked back.
And blinked.
Twice.
Then held its eyes open.
Thale frowned.
Her real eyes blinked. The reflection didn't.
Instead, the image smirked slightly—just enough to freeze her stomach.
"Stop walking," she whispered.
Vermidge turned, confused.
She held up the mirror between them.
"What do you see?"
He squinted, monocle ticking.
"Myself. Handsomer. Slightly taller. Shame."
Thale turned it back.
Now her reflection was still. Too still. She slowly lifted her left hand. The reflection followed.
Right hand. Same.
She lowered both. The reflection didn't move.
It stared at her. Its lips began to move—
—but then the wall beside them flickered, and the light bent inward.
A fissure opened. Not like a door—more like a decision collapsing.
Inside: darkness threaded with red veins. A corridor that looked nothing like the one they were in—angular, humming, filled with rows of flickering monitor-eyes. Machinery lined the walls like sleeping animals. One eye turned toward her.
"Don't step through," Vermidge warned. "It's a corridor echo. A leftover moment."
"It's… calling."
"That's not a call. That's a trap. Memories masquerading as choices. The longer we stand still, the more the grave wakes up."
"Why me?" she asked again.
Vermidge looked at her, the ticking of his monocle slowing.
"I don't think you're the first Thale Grey."
Her heart slowed.
"What?"
"I don't think you're even the fifth. Just the first one to wake up properly."
The corridor shook slightly.
Light flickered. The echo corridor snapped shut like a mouth.
Ahead, the true corridor opened. It shifted into a spiral ramp, twisting downward into humming, pulse-lit dark.
Thale followed it.
Before descending, she lifted the mirror one last time.
Her reflection was smiling.
Too wide. Too knowing.
It mouthed a word.
She lowered the glass.
"I don't want to know," she whispered.
Then she stepped forward, and the world shifted with her.
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