Dawn broke over New Earth in viscous tendrils of honeyed light, clinging to the dew-laden grass as we approached the monolithic Memory Bank. Its obsidian facade rippled like liquid gold under the synthetic sun, an architectural paradox that fused ancient pyramid geometry with bio-mechanical tendrils. From the atrium's central fountain, disembodied laughter—high-pitched and infantile—bobbed to the surface, only to sink back into the mercury-like water.
The queue coiling around the revolving doors sent a neural shiver down my spinal interface. A Neanderthal in cured leather jerkins clutched flint coins pitted with primitive runes; three Tri-Solaris diplomats had dehydrated themselves into papyrus scrolls, their spines etched with binary codes fluttering in the recycled breeze. Most unsettling was the velociraptor coiling its tail around an amber credit card, the creature's retina displaying a digital ledger of stolen memories.
"Present memory credentials," the mechanical teller intoned, its voice dripping with saccharine synth-honey. The bio-luminescent display on its chest cycled through a grotesque menu:
First Kiss: 30 Orbital Rotations of LifespanPaternal Loss Grief: 50 RotationsFinal Epiphany: 100 Rotations
Xiaoyu's quantum rose wilted into a bud, its petals dissolving into binary code. Her digital hair cascaded down in pixelated strands. "It's siphoning my 2037 summer..." she gasped. A searing pain flared in my right eye—my neural implant had activated, projecting translucent tubes emerging from each queue member's occipital lobe. Vivid streams of memory fluids—emerald nostalgia, ruby rage, sapphire terror—pulsed through the tubes into the bank's gilded veins.
Lao Wang raised his antique Polaroid, the film developing in seconds. The photo revealed a horror beneath the golden veneer: Human skulls embedded in the walls, their cranial cavities repurposed as vault doors. Their empty eye sockets had been fitted with combination locks, each iris a spinning wheel of stolen memories. Dr. Lin's glass heart frosted over, the hourglass within her chest reversing flow. "They're extracting my 2072 surgical protocols!" she cried, her mechanical fingers clawing at the frost.
We breached the emergency airlock, plunging into a memory labyrinth. To the left, floating birthday candles burned with the luminance of forgotten celebrations, each flame a stolen "Happy Birthday". To the right, a river of crystalline tears surged, carrying tattered notes inscribed with "I'm Sorry" in a thousand languages. But the true abomination hung from the ceiling: Umbilical cords as thick as starship cables, each terminating in a glowing fetal apparition—genetic replicas of the Main System's central AI embryo.
"It's a clone farm," my 2045 cyborg self stated, ejecting a laser saw from my robotic forearm. "They're cultivating emotional batteries." As the blade sliced through a cord, the river of tears erupted into a boiling geyser. Grief coalesced into an armored knight, its greatsword forged from millennia of farewell letters. Young Lu Zhao's clockwork eyes spun wildly; he 咬破 (bit through) his finger, drawing glowing nursery rhyme notes in the air. The knight's blade froze mid-swing, three centimeters from my carotid. Dr. Lin's voice leaked from the helmet's cracks: "They've (retrofitted) the—"
The vault door loomed as a hundred-meter mammoth skull, its tusks carved with ancient Sumerian cuneiform. When Xiaoyu inserted her quantum rose into the tusk keyhole, the creature's fossilized eyes swiveled. "Iris scan failed," the door rumbled. Neural tendrils shot from its molars, ensnaring her as her scalp chip was hacked—projecting footage of her grandfather tampering with system codes on his deathbed.
"So you created the vulnerability!" I roared, slamming my fist against the tusk. Glass cages descended from the dome, confining us among colossal display shelves. Each bottle held a concentrated memory: A jar labeled "King Zhou's Wrath" billowed smoke inscribed with ancient curses; a test tube marked "Einstein's Eureka" sparkled with equations in stellar ink. At the center stood a crystal column, encasing the soundwave of my mother's lullaby on her deathbed—the only memory I'd refused to sell.
Dr. Lin suddenly snapped two of her titanium ribs, painting an ouroboros on the cage floor with her golden hydraulic fluid. "Use this—for the neural override..." Her glass heart spiderwebbed as sand rushed backward through her internal hourglass. From the bank's depths, infant cries echoed—hundreds of Main System fetuses awakening in their amniotic tanks.
Lu Zhao pressed his forehead to the cage, his clockwork pupils resonating with the lullaby's frequency. In that moment, the entire bank fell into stasis. We watched memory fluids reverse course, surging back into customers' brains. Confused murmurs rose as a Neanderthal blinked, suddenly recalling a forgotten child's face. In the silence, the crystal column cracked. My mother's spectral form materialized, her lips forming three syllables:
"Smash it."
My 2045 self rammed into the column, shattering it. A torrent of imprisoned memories catapulted us skyward—childhoods, first loves, final goodbyes swirling like a tornado. Amidst the debris, we glimpsed the truth beneath the foundation: A red-clad 少女 (maiden) with a mechanical spine impaled a colossal hourglass, her Tang Dao sword rusted into the sand—eternally frozen in the act of stopping time.