5

Vale and I exchange a quick look of wary surprise. The AI is proactive enough to spot us as newcomers immediately. Perhaps our clothes or our wide-eyed stares gave us away, or maybe the city's network already identified that we have no local data footprint. Either way, it knows.

No one else around seems to find this unusual; a pair of tourists to our right, who look like they might be from another city (their attire is more old-fashioned), also receive a similar greeting from a floating avatar and follow it inside.

Trusting that this is normal, we step into the dome. Inside is a spacious rotunda with informational displays along the curved walls. A large 3D map of Arcadia City hovers in the center, populated with constantly updating icons indicating points of interest: parks, museums, residential districts, transit lines. A few other visitors wander about examining various screens or speaking to attendants—some attendants are human staff wearing the same emblem as Maris had, while others are clearly holographic or robotic helpers.

One such helper, an AI in the form of a softly glowing human outline, glides toward us. Its face is an abstract minimalistic mask, its voice gentle and androgynous. "Hello, and welcome to Arcadia Central. We are happy to have you. How can I assist you today?"

Ray, brimming with enthusiasm, steps forward before we can stop him. "Hi! We just arrived and we, um, need a place to stay. And maybe some general orientation."

The AI's head inclines in a nod. "Of course. Arcadia provides complimentary accommodation for all visitors and new residents. Do you have identification or would you like to register as new citizens?"

My heart skips. Identification. We have none that we can safely use. Registering as citizens could create a record of us under false pretenses, something that might be risky. I quickly interject before Ray volunteers any info. "We're not ready to register just yet—we're... traveling through, for now. Is it possible to get accommodation as temporary visitors without full registration?"

"Absolutely," the AI answers pleasantly, showing no sign of suspicion. "We can assign you guest accommodations. May I have your names, or any preferred aliases for the booking?"

We've prepared for this. We decided to use only first names and, if pressed, claim we have no surnames or use an old family name unrelated to anything in the prison records. In this society, perhaps surnames are optional or easily changed, especially with many communal living experiments out there.

One by one, we provide simple first names. "Jane," I say. "Vale." "Kei." "Mira." "Ray." The AI doesn't ask for more. Its hand gestures through a console interface that appears mid-air.

It then asks, "How many rooms do you require? We can provide individual micro-apartments, or larger shared units if you prefer to stay together. All options are comfortable and fully furnished."

We hesitate. In the prison, we often slept in proximity for safety, but here we might need privacy to discuss. Yet splitting up too much could be unwise until we're sure of our surroundings.

"Do you have a suite with multiple bedrooms?" Vale inquires, ever practical.

"Yes," the AI responds immediately. "There is a vacant four-bedroom unit in Residential Tower 8, which can be expanded to five bedrooms on demand via nanoconstruction. It overlooks a community garden and is within walking distance from this plaza. Would that suffice?"

All of us are slightly taken aback by the generosity and flexibility. "That sounds great," I say slowly.

"Excellent. I will assign that to you. As visitors, you have it free for up to one month, and you may extend if needed. If you choose to register as citizens, it can be made permanent or you can request a different location at that time. Here are your access credentials."

In response to the AI's words, a small tray slides out of a nearby console, holding five thin wristbands, each a different subtle color. We step forward to take them. I pick up a blue one. It's made of a material that feels like smooth leather but clearly houses some tech—inside, I see a faint circuitry pattern that glows once when I clasp it on.

"Those bands will serve as your temporary identifiers and keys," the AI explains. "They are synched to the apartment and other basic services, but they do not carry full citizen profiles. You can use them for access to your lodging, public transportation, and basic amenities in the city. If lost, they will deactivate, and you can get replacements here or at any service kiosk. Now, I will transmit directions to your lodging."

On the central map display, a highlighted path appears, starting from our current location and winding through a few streets to a point labeled "Res Tower 8 – Garden Heights." The map also shows the tower's image: a slender high-rise entwined with greenery. It looks to be about a kilometer away.

"Do you need a guided escort or transport?" the AI inquires.

We share a quick look. Walking would give us a better feel of the city and keep us in control, but it might also expose us for longer in public. Taking a transport pod would be quicker and perhaps safer if we fear being spotted. However, we haven't seen any sign that anyone's looking for us.

Kei smiles at the AI. "We'll walk, I think. It'll be good to stretch our legs and see the sights."

"A wonderful idea," the AI agrees. "Arcadia is very pedestrian-friendly. Enjoy your walk, and welcome again." With a slight bow, the glowing figure drifts away, going to assist another group that just entered.

Ray secures all five wristbands, handing them out to each of us. As I secure mine, the band adjusts to my wrist size automatically. A tiny holographic interface flickers above it for a second, showing my name "Jane – Guest" and an icon of a house (probably indicating it's keyed to the new apartment). It then fades, leaving the band looking like any simple bracelet.

The ease of everything is disconcerting. We just obtained a home—if a temporary one—within minutes, no paperwork, no currency exchanged, nothing. I catch myself waiting for the catch, but so far, there isn't one apparent.

We exit the Welcome Hub with a mix of relief and disbelief. Mira actually laughs under her breath once we're outside. "If someone told me last week that I could just… walk into a city and get a free apartment by asking nicely, I'd have called them insane."

"I know," I say, matching her quiet laughter. "It's surreal. All of this is."

Vale clears his throat, though he's smiling too, if faintly. "Let's not let our guard down completely. It's amazing, yes. But we still don't know how this all coexists with… with places like where we came from."

The reminder tamps down our giddiness a notch. He's right. This city, as magical as it appears, harbors a mystery—how could it allow a black site prison to take people like us? Are the citizens truly ignorant of it, or is there more under the surface?

"We should get to our lodging and then plan our next steps," I suggest. "We need to learn about the history of the world, and quietly figure out if anyone's looking for us."

The others agree, and we set off along the path indicated.

Walking through Arcadia Central is a feast for the senses. The plaza transitions into a broad pedestrian avenue. On either side, building façades display dynamic art: one tower's face ripples with what looks like a school of glowing fish swimming upward; another has a cascade of digital ivy that periodically blooms into multicolored flowers before resetting. It's as if the city's skyscrapers are canvases and the nanites paint vibrant moving murals on them.

We pass by an open-air café where patrons sit at smooth white tables under large trees (real trees, swaying gently). A robotic server on four spidery legs delivers a tray of steaming cups to a table, navigating around people with graceful precision. The smell of coffee and fresh baked bread drifts by, making my stomach growl softly—reminding me that aside from adrenaline, we haven't eaten a proper meal since our escape.

Mira glances at me and smiles. "After we settle in, we should definitely try some of the food here."

As we walk, a few people cast friendly glances or nods our way. We must stand out somewhat, despite our efforts. Not in a hostile way, but simply as unfamiliar faces or curious newcomers. I notice again how our group moves differently. Vale and I naturally take positions at front and back like guards; Kei scans every alley and rooftop as if expecting trouble; Mira and Ray in the middle marvel at sights but remain unnaturally aware of their surroundings for average pedestrians. Most locals walk with carefree ease, often engrossed in conversation or in their own thoughts, not constantly checking behind them.

I consciously adjust my gait to seem more relaxed, swinging my arms a bit and admiring the surroundings as a tourist might. The others pick up on it. Ray actually points at a tall sculpture in the distance—a spiral tower that has hummingbirds of light flitting around it—and says loudly, "Wow, look at that!" It's a bit overdone, but it makes us seem more innocently awe-struck rather than tactical. A couple of passersby follow his pointing finger and smile, perhaps taking pride in their city's ability to wow newcomers.

Under my breath I whisper, "Nice, Ray." He winks.

We cross a small bridge over a clear stream that runs right through the middle of a boulevard. Fish or something like fish swim in it, and I realize the stream is likely part of the city's water recycling and decorative ecosystem maintained by nanotech. Children kneel by the banks farther down, letting the fish nibble at their fingers, supervised by watchful parents. The scene is idyllic and it hits me once more how hard it is to reconcile this with our old reality. My mind flashes images from the prison: sterile gray corridors, flickering fluorescent lights, the constant fear in everyone's eyes. And now here: color, light, safety, joy. It's almost painful to experience because it underlines how much was stolen from us.

We walk on. The address leads us to a quieter street lined with what looks like residential towers, each with its own design flair. Tower 8, labelled "Garden Heights" as the AI said, is a medium-blue building wrapped with terraces of gardens at various levels. It's around thirty stories tall, modest in this city of higher skyscrapers, but very inviting. At ground level, instead of a lobby in the traditional sense, the building opens into a community courtyard. We enter through a wide arch and find ourselves in a lush garden space at the tower's core, open to the sky above. Plants and small fruit trees line the pathways, and a gentle mist in the air suggests the presence of nanites maintaining humidity. A few residents relax on benches or tend to the plants. They glance at us with polite curiosity but go on with their activities.

By the entrance, a simple pedestal with a glowing pad likely serves as the check-in or security. Vale steps up to it and waves his wristband. The pad turns green and displays "Welcome, Guests. Unit 28F prepared. Elevator unlocked."

"28F," Mira notes. "That must be the 28th floor."

We find the elevator, seamlessly integrated into the garden wall. The doors slide open and we all step in. There are no buttons inside—only a soft voice that says, "Good day. Please state your destination or place your wristband on the sensor."

"28th floor, Garden Heights," Vale says clearly.

The elevator glides up so smoothly I barely feel it moving. A transparent panel shows the garden courtyard falling away as we rise, then the view shifts to outside the building as we ascend along the outer wall. For a moment, a panoramic view of the city stretches out. I catch my breath. From this vantage, Arcadia Central is even more breathtaking: gleaming towers, the central plaza now a mosaic below, further out I see what might be a river glinting, and beyond, hazy hills. There's a faint hum in the distance that could be other maglevs or perhaps wind generators, but no cacophony of traffic or industry.

In the reflection of the elevator glass, I see our five faces looking out. We appear young and hopeful, almost like ordinary friends on a sightseeing trip. Yet I know each of us harbors scars and secrets beneath that facade. The reflection also emphasizes our peculiar perfection—our hair, after a quick wash and cut, is shiny and falls just right; our skin is unblemished (scars faded quickly once we were treated with med-nanites post-escape); physically we look like the best versions of ourselves. I see this in contrast to a few residents we passed—people here are generally healthy and content, but they still have the little quirks of normal humans: a bit of asymmetry, a blemish, varying body shapes. We, however, were crafted to be weapons or experiments—maybe unintentionally, they made us aesthetically ideal as well. Standing among normal folk, we almost look like how movie stars or genetically enhanced models would have in the old world. It's a strange, disconcerting realization. No wonder some eyes followed us; we probably project an aura of uncanny perfection aside from our tense posture. I make a mental note: we might have to consciously downplay our looks, too. Perhaps wear looser clothing, hats, or something to not attract too much admiration or envy.

The elevator doors open directly into our new apartment. (I marvel at that—no keys needed, it recognized our IDs to allow entry right into the unit, very secure yet convenient.)

We step out into a spacious, open-plan living area. It's flooded with natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city and nearby towers. There's a sitting area with modular furniture that looks like it can reshape itself, a kitchen nook with sleek surfaces and not a single appliance in sight (likely all built into counters and activated by command). The décor is minimalistic: clean lines, neutral tones, and a few potted plants that seem to be part of the automated system, their leaves turning slightly as if following an invisible sun.

Mira wanders to the window and gasps softly at the view. Kei immediately begins checking the rooms branching off—finding the bedrooms. "Four bedrooms currently," he reports. "One can split into two small ones, probably those wall panels can move."

He's likely right; one wall in the living area has a faint seam that could indicate a partition that nanites could dissolve and reassemble to create a fifth room if commanded.

Ray nearly leaps onto a plush couch, bouncing a bit. "Oh wow. Actual furniture. Soft furniture." He looks like he might fall asleep right there, relief evident on his face.

I feel it too—the sense of safety, or at least privacy, beginning to sink in now that we have four walls (transparent as some of them are) to ourselves. Still, Vale does a sweep around the perimeter, likely checking for surveillance devices. I decide to do the same on one side.

As I pass by a wall panel, I notice a small interface blinking with a gentle blue light. It might be a home AI waiting to greet us. I tap it lightly. The panel projects a friendly sphere of light that hovers in the air. A voice chimes, "Welcome, guests, to Garden Heights. I am the home assistance AI. Is there anything you need?"

Vale is by my side quickly, eyeing the glowing sphere with distrust. I give a slight shake of my head to him—no need to be aggressive. "Thank you," I say to the AI softly. "We're just getting settled. How do we ensure our privacy here?"

The sphere pulses, as if understanding exactly the subtext of my question. "This unit is private to you. By default, no one will enter without permission. Cleaning and maintenance are handled by interior nanites which you can schedule or pause as you prefer. If you have concerns about monitoring, rest assured that in Arcadia, personal spaces are not under surveillance. Only in emergencies would city systems intervene, such as detecting a fire or medical emergency, and even then, minimal protocols apply. Your conversations and activities are not recorded."

I glance at Vale, who raises an eyebrow. It's as straightforward an answer as one could hope for. If true, it means we can talk freely here. If it's not true, then at least the AI gave no sign of deception—though how would I tell with a machine?

"Understood, thank you," I reply. To test boundaries, I add, "We'd like to be undisturbed for now. We'll call if we need anything."

"Of course," the AI responds pleasantly. "Enjoy your day." The sphere gently fades out, and the panel light dims.

Mira joins us. "I can't believe it's this easy," she says under her breath.

"It feels weird, doesn't it?" Kei says from the couch, where he's now sitting beside Ray. "Like we stepped into a storybook town after living in a horror novel."

Ray, sprawled comfortably, adds, "I keep expecting someone to pinch me and say it was an elaborate simulation."

The word "simulation" hangs in the air. We've all wondered at times in the prison if the outside world even existed or if what we remembered was a dream. Now here we are, and it's more fantastical than anything we imagined.

Vale remains standing, arms crossed. "We need to plan. This is a reprieve, but the questions haven't gone away. We need information—real information—about what happened while we were locked up, and why."

I nod and sink into an armchair across from the couch. The cushions contour to me instantly, adjusting support—another small luxury that makes me almost sigh. "Agreed. We should gather whatever we can from public sources first, without raising suspicion. There's probably news archives or a historical database accessible. We should search for anything relating to secret facilities, or missing persons that might correlate to us."

Kei leans forward. "Yes. We also need to see if our… escape was noticed at all. If the world at large doesn't know about the prison, maybe the ones who ran it will keep it quiet. But if they lost their 'assets'—" he means us—"they might be looking quietly. We should be careful about any digital trace we leave."

Mira sits on the arm of my chair lightly. "We should maybe avoid logging queries about the prison directly. Perhaps research the timeline of when we were taken, see if something major happened then. Or find references to any controversies around advanced human experimentation or nanotech misuse."

Ray scratches his head. "Public info might be sanitized. I'm guessing we won't find 'Oblivion Cells secret prison' in a search bar. If this society is as harmonious as it seems, any ugly parts might be hidden."

He's probably right. Utopias often come with selective memory. "We might have to dig deeper," I agree. "Perhaps find a library or university archive that has more than the surface-level public records."

Vale finally sits, albeit perched on the edge of a stool. "One step at a time. Let's start basic. What year is it? How long were we down there? Did any of us know exactly?"

We exchange looks. The truth is, none of us knows the current date. In the prison we lost track of time. Our ages, as we recall them, might not even be accurate now.

Kei jumps up, going to the window and gazing at the cityscape thoughtfully. "We could ask the home AI or check whatever passes for the internet here."

I feel a small pit in my stomach; the fear of the unknown span of years. But I have to know. "Let's ask something innocuous first."

I direct my voice to the air, remembering the name Maris used: "Arcadia city AI, are you listening?"

A soft chime sounds from the apartment's ceiling. "I am here," responds the home AI (likely connected to the wider network).

I choose a casual approach. "What is today's date?"

The answer comes promptly, with a hint of a cheerful tone: "Today is April 16, 2125."

A collective silence falls in the room as we all absorb that. 2125. The implications ripple through my mind. The last time I knew for sure what year it was, it had been 2120—five years ago. But in that prison, time was so distorted. For some of us, it might have been even longer since we were taken. Mira's eyes are wide; she was taken around 2122, if I recall. Vale... none of us know when Vale came in, he's never said exactly, but the hardened look on his face tells me 2125 is later than he hoped.

Ray is the first to break the silence. "We missed a lot," he says quietly.

Mira sinks into my chair next to me, and I instinctively drape an arm around her for comfort. Five years since I last knew the world. Or at least five years lost. Possibly more for others. My throat tightens.

Vale straightens. "Alright. It's a long time, but not a century. The world can change a lot in five years… though it feels like this one changed more than expected."

Kei shakes his head. "I suspect much of this was already in development even before. We just had no idea from inside. It might not all have happened overnight."

He's right; a post-scarcity society likely took longer than five years to establish. It makes me wonder how long that prison had been running and how outdated it might have been with respect to the rest of the world. Did we suffer while society moved on without us, or were we relics of a darker time?

I have to focus. "AI, one more question. Could you give us a brief overview of major world events in the last, say, ten years? Particularly any related to Arcadia's development or changes in governance."

This might be a heavy query, but phrased as curious newcomers, maybe not too odd.

The home AI's sphere reappears, glowing softly. "Certainly. Over the last decade, the world has seen continued progress in global unity and technological advancement. Some key events: In 2117, the Pan-Global Council was formed, further uniting world regions to tackle climate stabilization and resource distribution—this laid groundwork for widespread adoption of nanotechnology infrastructure. Arcadia City itself completed its transition to a fully post-scarcity economy by 2120, providing all basic needs to citizens via the Arcadian Nanite Network. In 2122, the last major global conflict, the Andean Border Dispute, was peacefully resolved through council mediation. Thereafter, military conflicts worldwide have diminished significantly. In 2123, a breakthrough in fusion energy, coordinated by the World Science Consortium, ensured virtually unlimited clean energy supply, boosting all nanotech operations. Socially, there has been a shift toward shorter work weeks and more creative pursuits as automation increased. The current year, 2125, marks the fifth anniversary of Arcadia's 'Open City' policy, allowing individuals from any pre-existing communities or experimental societies to freely integrate into Arcadia's system with no questions asked, in hopes of uplifting all remaining pockets of humanity."

The AI pauses, as if ready to provide more detail on any of those points if asked. We all exchange looks again.

"Open City policy," Mira murmurs. "That sounds like what we just experienced. 'No questions asked' integration."

"Yes," I whisper. "Convenient for us, ironically."

Vale's brow is furrowed. "Notice: not a word about any crimes or major internal troubles. No mention of anything that would explain that prison."

He's right. Everything the AI listed is optimistic and progressive. I think carefully and then ask, "AI, what about crime or public safety incidents in recent years? Any notable ones?"

The sphere responds promptly. "Arcadia Central reports extremely low crime rates. Petty incidents do occur but are swiftly resolved through rehabilitation programs. The last violent crime reported in this city was two years ago, a domestic dispute that resulted in minor injuries. It was resolved peacefully. On a broader scale, there have been no recorded incidents of domestic terrorism or major criminal conspiracies in Arcadia for over a decade. The city's proactive social and technological measures have created a safe environment."

Ray lets out a low whistle. "No major crimes in a decade? Wow."

It sounds unbelievable, yet here we are in a place that feels nearly devoid of strife. Either it's true, or the city is very effective at concealing problems.

Kei sits back down, rubbing his chin. "This is one side of the story. If everything is so perfect, then whatever was done to us had to be completely off the books. Maybe a hidden faction or a leftover from before that global unity."

My mind churns, considering that. Perhaps certain powers didn't fully trust the peace or had their own agendas, leading to covert programs.

Vale stands. "We need deeper data. Public AI will give us the official line. If we want the truth, we might have to look for things that aren't served to us on a platter."

I agree. "Perhaps libraries, academic databases, or older records that haven't been curated for propaganda."

Mira raises her hand slightly, as she does when she has an idea but is a bit hesitant. "What if… what if we search for the names of any people we knew were taken? Not us, but others in the prison. Like Dr. Haviland, the one who helped us escape—remember he mentioned he had been someone important once. Or even our own surnames, if we dare, as missing persons maybe?"

Dr. Haviland—the scientist prisoner who sacrificed himself in our escape—had indeed claimed he was a prominent researcher before being thrown into the oblivion of that facility. If we search him, maybe something will come up.

"We have to be careful not to raise flags. But yes, we could try subtle searches. Perhaps at a library where queries might be more anonymous than using our home AI, even if it says it's not monitored," Kei advises.

Vale nods. "Better to go out and find a public data hub. Or a university, something where we can blend in among other info-seekers."

"It's early afternoon now," I note, glancing at a wall clock that's appeared digitally on the window glass (it shows mid-afternoon). "We have plenty of daylight. Perhaps we should eat first, though." I manage a small smile; despite everything, the normalcy of suggesting lunch feels grounding.

Ray jumps up, "Yes please. I am starving. And I want to try whatever this post-scarcity cuisine is like." He's putting on an excited face, maybe to lighten the mood.

Everyone agrees food will help.

We decide to test the apartment's capabilities. Mira goes to the kitchen area and finds what looks like a sleek panel with a holographic interface. "I think it's a food dispenser or fabricator," she says. "Um, AI? Can you prepare lunch for five, chef's choice local cuisine?"

The counter panel immediately glows and a compartment opens. We watch in fascination as, within a glass enclosure, swirls of tiny particles start assembling plates of food almost like magic. Within seconds, the compartment slides out a tray with five steaming meals on elegant dishes, complete with utensils and glasses of water.

Each plate has a colorful arrangement of what looks like a grain salad with roasted vegetables and some type of protein cut into artistic slices, drizzled with a fragrant sauce. There's also a side of fresh bread and a small bowl of fruit.

Our mouths practically water at the sight and smell. We carry plates to the table and sit. There's a moment, almost ceremonial, where we each take a first bite in silence.

The flavors explode on my tongue—savory, sweet, perfectly spiced. It's real food, far beyond the nutrient gruel or occasional stale provisions we survived on. I have to blink back an unexpected tear as I chew. It's not just the taste; it's the realization of how much we were deprived and how something as simple as a well-cooked meal is a luxury we almost forgot.

Mira actually sniffles a little, laughing at herself. "It's so good it's making me emotional," she says, embarrassed.

Ray is already halfway through his plate, not even pausing, a big grin on his face. "If this is typical, I could get used to utopia real fast," he jokes between bites.

Vale, always composed, sets a hand on Mira's shoulder. "We'll have time to enjoy things," he says quietly. "You deserve to enjoy this. All of you do." It's a rare tender moment from him.

Kei raises his glass of water. "A toast," he says, surprising us because toasts are not exactly our habit. We each pick up our glasses. Kei's dark eyes soften. "To freedom, and to finding the truth."

"Freedom and truth," we echo softly, clinking the glasses together. The water is cool and pure, almost sweet. Another thing taken for granted by everyone out there, but to us it's noteworthy.

As we finish eating, the mood is a bit lighter thanks to the meal, but our resolve is also crystallizing. We have strength now to continue our quest.

We clean up (or rather, we place the used dishes back in the dispenser, and nanites disassemble and whisk them away, likely recycling the matter—Ray watches that process with keen interest). Then we prepare to head out to gather information.

Mira chooses to stay back at the apartment to sift through any info on the home system that might be useful—she's good at gleaning subtle details. Vale and Ray will go together to check out a History Museum we saw a sign for on the city map, to see what the official public history looks like. Kei and I will go to the City Library or University archive to attempt deeper searches. We decide that splitting up might cover more ground quickly, and in this environment it seems safe enough, though Vale makes us promise to all reconvene by evening.

With our plan set, we grab a couple of city map pamphlets (Ray insisted on picking up the printed souvenir ones at the Welcome Hub as a novelty—"first paper I've touched in years," he said). They also serve as a low-tech backup if we need it. We ensure our wristbands are secure and head out, back into the gleaming city.

As I step out of Tower 8, the late afternoon sun paints the plaza in a gentle glow. It's beautiful here, and for a second I allow myself to simply feel the warmth on my skin and the breeze in my hair without fear. Then I steel myself. Time to dig up the past hidden beneath this shining present.

Shadows of the Past

Back out in the city, Kei and I make our way towards the Arcadia Central Library, following directions on our wristbands. Meanwhile, Vale and Ray split off toward the Historical Museum a few blocks away. We agreed to reconvene at our apartment by evening to share findings.

Walking with Kei, I feel a mix of determination and trepidation. The library is a stunning building shaped like an open book, with terraces that form "pages" lined with greenery. We pass through its broad entrance—no security gate here either, just a welcoming atrium with a holographic directory. The scent of old paper mingles with the crispness of electronics; apparently physical books still exist alongside digital archives.

We quickly find a research hall, where dozens of citizens sit at terminals or lounge with tablet devices. The atmosphere is quiet and studious. Kei and I choose adjacent terminals secluded in a corner. The screens awaken with soft light as we touch them, asking for a login or guest access. The system accepts our guest wristbands with limited privileges. That's fine; we don't need to check out materials, just browse.

I take a steadying breath and begin searching the public database. First, I query general history: the Unification Council formation, Arcadia's foundation. It yields exactly what the AI summarized earlier—glowing accounts of a peaceful transition, technological miracles, the end of poverty. Scanning for any hint of conflict or controversy, I add keywords like "crime," "dissent," "protest." The results are bland: a few minor protests in the early days about allocation of nanotech, swiftly resolved; some debates about cultural preservation in a world of abundance, but nothing indicating serious unrest. It's as if society glided from turmoil into tranquility with barely a bump.

Kei is working at the next terminal, his face a mask of concentration. He's likely digging deeper with his technical savvy. After a few minutes, he leans over and murmurs, "They've partitioned a lot of info. Public stuff is all utopian. I'm trying to see if there's a way into more detailed records."

I nod. I try a different approach: searching names and events personal to us. I start with Dr. Haviland—the scientist who helped us escape. Typing "Dr. Elias Haviland Arcadia" yields a short biography in a science consortium archive: apparently he was a lead researcher in nanomedicine until 2118. Then, suddenly, his record ends with a footnote: "Dr. Haviland went missing in 2118 following a lab accident; presumed deceased." My heart skips. Missing? Lab accident? That sounds like a cover story. 2118… that might have been around when he was taken to the prison.

I quietly share this with Kei, who grimaces. "If they covered up his abduction with a fake accident, then there must have been complicity from someone high up."

I search a few other names—people I recall from the facility who talked about their past: a political dissident named Marjorie Ng, a military officer named Col. Singh. The queries come up empty on the library net. If their disappearances were covered up, they might have been expunged from records entirely, or they were nobodies to begin with.

Kei tries something more technical: he accesses a data directory list, looking for anything locked away. "I can see references to archives here…" he mutters. On his screen I glimpse directories labeled with years and codes, perhaps raw historical data or governmental records. When he clicks one, a prompt appears: "Restricted – Council Archives (Access Level A Required)".

He frowns. "There's a trove of original records that aren't open to the general public. Not surprising, but if the truth is anywhere, it's there."

I bite my lip. "Any chance you can bypass it?"

He gives a tiny shake of his head. "Not from here. I'd trigger alarms. The library access is probably heavily monitored for intrusion attempts. I'd need direct access to wherever these archives are stored."

I sit back, frustrated. "So they are effectively hidden behind a permission wall. Not classified to the point of invisible, but out of reach for regular folks."

"Most regular folks likely don't even care to dig here," Kei notes softly. "Why question a paradise? Only we have the incentive."

He's right. To any content citizen, digging into the gritty past might seem unnecessary or even distasteful.

I rub my temples. "Let's gather what superficial info we can now, then head back. Maybe Vale and Ray had more luck."

We spend another hour combing minor details—confirming the timeline of when each of us was taken against world events. Vale was military; he might have been taken around the time of that Andean Border Dispute mentioned earlier. Was he in that conflict? The records say it ended peacefully, but perhaps not everyone was peaceful. I find a mention of a Colonel S. Vale in a list of officers praised for peacekeeping in 2121—could be our Vale. Then nothing more after 2121. He likely was disappeared after that.

Kei finds evidence that technology advanced by leaps in the last five years—perhaps thanks to minds like Dr. Haviland being exploited in secret. If he was forced to work in the prison on projects, the society might indirectly be benefiting without knowing the human cost. It's a sickening thought.

Ultimately, we have a lot of conjecture but no proof. We log off and leave the library with heavier hearts.

As we rendezvous back at the apartment, Vale and Ray arrive shortly after us. Mira gets up from the couch, where she's been scrolling through search results on our home interface. The looks on Vale's and Ray's faces tell me they were as frustrated as we were.

We exchange information in low voices, even though the home AI said it doesn't listen—old habits die hard. Vale reports from the museum: "All shiny exhibits about Arcadia's triumphs. They had a hall about 'Challenges of the Past' but it was sanitized. Mentioned the last wars, the climate crises, but painted everything as inevitably solved by the Council. There was nothing about opposition or any unrest during the transition period."

Ray chimes in, "I even asked a guide there about what happened to the old national governments or militaries. She said, 'Oh, most were merged or decommissioned as people saw the benefits of unity. A few hardliners resisted but they eventually came around.' It was so vague. I got the sense they gloss over anything ugly. And when I mentioned disappearances, like, 'Did everyone just agree? No one had to be removed?', she looked at me like I was speaking nonsense. Either she truly didn't know of any removals or was trained to deflect."

Mira sighs. "Here, I tried digging via the open net and social forums. It's weird—there are subtle gaps. Like, anything about certain years or projects just doesn't show up. People don't discuss them. Either because nothing happened or because it's been scrubbed. I suspect the latter."

We fall silent, a mix of anger and disappointment brewing. This utopia maintains its perfection partly by controlling knowledge. Not overtly banned knowledge, perhaps, but by burying it where almost no one would find it.

Kei breaks the silence. "The Council Archives. That's where the raw data is. I saw their index. If we can get in there…"

Vale nods. "Then that's what we do. Tonight."

I glance at him. "Tonight?"

He meets my eyes, firm. "Why wait? Every day we linger is another day we could slip up and draw attention. We need answers now, and then we can decide how to act on them. The archives might have key evidence, maybe even records of that prison's creation or operation."

He looks around at all of us. "We expose that, or at least understand it, and we'll know if this society is truly rotten underneath or if it was a rogue element we can excise without shattering everything."

It's a bold plan—to break into presumably the most secured knowledge vault in the city on our first full day here. But he has a point.

Mira, though looking nervous, nods. "I'm in. I don't want to live in this paradise always looking over my shoulder. I want to know what we're up against."

Ray gulps but then grins. "I didn't come this far to chicken out. And hey, breaking into a high-tech archive? Kind of thrilling."

Kei is already at a console, bringing up a map of the city. "The Council Archives… likely located at the Council Hall or a data center. Let's see." He zooms into a district near the central administrative area. Sure enough, there's a building marked Arcadia Historical Archives and Records. It's not far from City Hall.

Mira points at the description. "Says it's open to accredited researchers by appointment only. Definitely not something we can just walk into."

Vale asks Kei, "Security?"

Kei ponders. "Probably mostly electronic locks and sensors, maybe drones. But this isn't a bank or armory; they likely don't expect break-ins. Crime's nearly nil, remember. So they might not have heavy guards."

I interject, "Also, since it's knowledge, they might rely on the obscurity as primary defense. Not many would attempt to steal data when society gives them everything else they need."

Vale stands and begins checking his jacket where he concealed a few improvised tools from our escape kit. "We go after midnight. Fewer people on the streets. We avoid using any obvious powers unless absolutely necessary; last thing we want is to trigger some sensor that detects unusual energy or something."

We all agree. Our powers… truthfully, we've avoided discussing them openly even among ourselves while we were in public or in an unknown environment. But each of us harbors abilities beyond the norm, the very reason we were locked up. Still, caution is key; we'll use them only subtly if at all.

It's late by the time the skyline outside grows dark. Arcadia at night is serene: illuminated by soft lights and the glow of those dynamic murals. We leave the apartment quietly, all dressed in darker, nondescript clothing that we found in the closets (the apartment's nanite system had provided a variety of garments). Hooded jackets, simple pants, comfortable shoes. We could almost be a group of youths out for a late stroll, except our expressions are grim and focused.

The walk to the Archives building takes about twenty minutes. The city's nightlife, as we observe from shadows, is calm—people dining in late cafes, some strolling under the automated street lamps that adjust their brightness as needed. We see a few drone-like machines humming along overhead, possibly doing night monitoring or maintenance, but none focus on us.

The Archives building itself is an imposing structure of stone and glass, likely older than some of the flashy towers, with a neo-classical façade that gives it a sense of importance. By night, its windows are mostly dark. A single light shines in what might be a lobby and a couple on an upper floor. There's no obvious guard outside, just a closed main door beyond a short flight of steps.

We circle around to an alley where Kei identified a side entrance (likely for staff or deliveries). Here, out of direct view of the street, we find a maintenance door with a digital lock panel.

Kei kneels by the panel, tools in hand. He removes the outer cover to expose the circuits. "Old-fashioned electronic lock," he whispers. "Give me a minute."

Vale and I keep watch at either end of the alley while he works. Mira and Ray stand back, their breaths shallow with nerves. In the stillness, every distant sound—like the soft whoosh of an automated shuttle sliding down a nearby street—feels amplified.

After some tense seconds, Kei curses under his breath. "This thing is tied into the city network. I can't just cut it; an alarm would trip. I need to spoof an access signal."

He holds up a small device—a portable hacker board we salvaged. He connects it to the panel wires. Lights flicker on his board. "Come on, come on…" he mutters.

I glance behind us; one of those aerial drones is lazily coming down the street. It doesn't look like a police drone—more like a utility bot—but it has sensors. We press ourselves into the shadows. The drone passes overhead, a faint spotlight scanning the street but not the alley. It moves on. I exhale slowly.

"Got it," Kei whispers as the lock clicks open. He carefully catches the latch to prevent it from making noise, then eases the door open just enough for us to slip through. One by one, we enter, and Kei gently closes it behind.

Inside, we find ourselves in a dim corridor with utilitarian décor. Small guide lights along the floor provide just enough illumination to navigate. The air smells of old paper and electronics—a familiar library scent but heavier.

"Archives likely in basement servers or top floor records room," Vale suggests softly. "We should find a directory."

There's a map plaque on the wall. Mira squints at it. "Main Archive Hall is on level B1 and B2 (basement levels). Administrative offices upstairs."

We decide to head downward, figuring the raw data and records will be below ground in secure storage.

We descend a stairwell (avoiding the main elevator to minimize exposure). The stairwell is silent, except for our soft footfalls. I count steps; it's oddly comforting, reminiscent of pacing my cell counting tiles, though now it's to keep nerves steady.

At B1, a door opens into a hallway lined with compact shelving units behind glass walls—a glimpse of rows of physical records, perhaps books or archived documents. No human in sight.

"Which way to servers?" Ray whispers.

Kei points to a sign: "Data Center ->" with an arrow. We follow that to another secure door. This one has a biometric scanner instead of a simple keypad.

Vale grimaces. "We can't hack a fingerprint easily."

I step forward. "Let me try something," I whisper. I place my hand near the scanner but not on it, closing my eyes. One of my enhancements is a subtle telekinetic and electromagnetic sense; I discovered in the prison I could sometimes manipulate electronics by inducing small currents (it's how I secretly tripped a few cameras or locks during our escape). It's a delicate trick, but this scanner likely has stored patterns for authorized personnel. If I can simulate a generic authorized signal...

Concentrating, I feel the faint hum of electricity in the panel. I nudge it, cycling through what might be stored patterns. For a moment, nothing happens, and I worry I'll overload it and set off an alarm. But then—a tiny click. The light on the scanner flashes green as if recognizing an input, and the door unlocks.

Kei looks at me in surprise. I just shrug with a tiny smile. Powers can have their uses, carefully applied.

We slip into the data center. The room beyond is cool and filled with the quiet whirr of servers. Racks of quantum drives or whatever advanced storage this society uses line the walls. In the center, a holo-terminal glows in standby mode.

This is it—the heart of Arcadia's memory.

Vale and Mira stand watch by the door as Kei, Ray, and I approach the terminal. It wakes up to our presence, displaying a login prompt. This one requires high clearance.

Kei jacks in his hacking device again. "Keep an eye on the system messages. If it starts throwing alarms on the interface, tell me," he instructs.

I nod and watch the holo-screen as he connects under the console hood. Code streams across in ghostly lines as he tries to override security. A few tense moments pass. My palms sweat.

Suddenly, the interface flickers and then bypasses the login screen. We're in.

Kei softly pumps a fist. "Alright… let's find what we need. Download whatever looks relevant. I'll plug in storage." He attaches a small data crystal device to the console.

I take the controls, navigating the archive. It's vast. Categories of records, from Council meeting transcripts to infrastructure schematics. We need something specific.

I search keywords: "prison", "detention", "Oblivion." The last one yields nothing at first, but then I refine to search project codenames and hidden files. There—file fragments labeled with obscure terms. One catches my eye: Project Oblivion – Personnel List (Confidential).

My heart leaps. "Found something," I whisper. I open it. A list of names, code numbers, statuses. My eyes scan and freeze as I see familiar names: my own, Vale's, Mira's, Kei's, Ray's… and dozens more. Each marked as "Retained – Indefinite."

Mira, at the door, whispers urgently, "Hurry up, guys…"

I glance back to see her tense. "What is it?" I hiss.

"I… sense someone nearby. Maybe upstairs. Just a feeling," she says. Her empathic ability must be picking up a stray emotional spike—perhaps a night guard or a late worker moving about. No alarms yet, though.

We hasten. Kei initiates a download of the personnel list. I scroll further. A preface of the document reads: "Project Oblivion: Initiated 2118 under authority of Special Security Council. Objective: quietly remove and contain individuals deemed high-risk to societal stability due to extraordinary abilities or knowledge that could disrupt public order. Facilities established off-grid to detain subjects indefinitely while leveraging their skills for controlled research."

I feel a chill reading this cold justification of our fates. High-risk to stability? Because we have powers or wouldn't fit into their perfect world, they locked us away and even exploited our abilities.

Ray lets out a soft curse under his breath as he reads over my shoulder. His fists clench.

There's more. "Leveraging their skills for controlled research" – that explains Dr. Haviland's presence. They used him to advance nanotech and medicine, no doubt, and others like him, all while the world thought them dead or missing.

Kei is downloading as fast as he can. I click on another file: Council Directive 2120-5A: Expansion of Oblivion Facilities. But before I can read it fully, Mira hisses, "Someone's coming down the hall!"

We all freeze, listening. Yes—footsteps, an echo of boots on tile.

Vale gestures for silence and motions us to finish quickly.

I hit a command to copy that Directive file, but it's large. The footsteps get louder.

The console suddenly issues a warning ping: Unscheduled access detected – security notification dispatched. Kei mutters a curse and tries to cancel the alert, but likely too late.

"So much for lax security," Ray murmurs. "We gotta go, now."

We have to choose: fight or flight. But confronting an innocent guard or, worse, an automated security unit could cause harm or expose us. Better to retreat with what we have.

Kei ejects the data crystal, hopefully containing the crucial files. I quickly skim the screen as it flashes red, committing to memory the first lines of that directive since I couldn't download it in time:

"Directive 2120-5A: In light of the successes of Project Oblivion in averting potential crises, the Council approves expansion of containment facilities and continuation of research under utmost secrecy. Public knowledge of these measures is to remain zero; cover stories and false identities for detainees have been disseminated as necessary…"

The rest begins to scroll, but I abort as Vale waves furiously to move. It's enough to confirm the highest authority was in on it.

Vale mouths, Go! and points to a door on the opposite side of the server room (likely another exit). We slip out just as a voice from the hall we came echoes: a man's voice, anxious, "Hello? Anyone here?" A flashlight beam cuts the dark as a guard or worker steps into the archive hall we left, finding the biometric door ajar.

We creep down a narrow maintenance passage. An alarm begins to sound throughout the building now: a soft chime and a polite automated voice, "Security breach in Sector B1. Please remain where you are. Response team has been notified." Even their alarms are gentle in Arcadia, I think with absurd humor.

We hurry up the maintenance stairs. Our luck holds; we encounter no one in these back passages. The guard likely is still checking the data room, and any response team will take a few minutes to mobilize.

Within minutes, we're out into the night street via a side door, running silently down an alley away from the Archive building. We slow only when we're several blocks away, blending into a quiet boulevard lined with trees. We force ourselves to walk calmly, though our hearts thunder in our ears.

No sirens, no pursuit visible—Arcadia likely doesn't have rapid-response SWAT teams on standby, and by the time they inspect and find data copied, we'll be long gone.

Back at our apartment, we double-check we weren't followed, then slip inside and lock the door. Only when we're safely in the living room do we finally breathe and break into shaky smiles of relief. We did it.

But the mood quickly turns sober as Kei produces the data crystal and slots it into our apartment's holo-projector. He's careful to isolate it from the network (he doesn't trust any auto-sync that might alert the authorities to what we're viewing). We gather around as the files manifest in the air, lines of text and data points confirming what we suspected: our imprisonment was part of a sanctioned secret project to preserve the utopia's image by removing those who didn't fit the mold or who knew too much.

My vision blurs with tears of fury as I read an executive summary out loud for the others:

"Project Oblivion – Confidential Report, Council Special Security Division.

Summary: In order to maintain public order during the Integration and Nanotech Advancement era, select individuals posing high risk to the stable transition have been covertly detained. Subject types include: Enhanced humans with abilities exceeding standard parameters; Scientists and engineers with knowledge deemed too dangerous if uncontrolled; Military personnel unwilling to stand down; and other dissenters likely to incite unrest. These individuals are held in secured facilities (Oblivion Cells) off-record, with all official traces removed."*

A tremor goes through me. Even expecting this, seeing it spelled out is different. Mira covers her mouth, eyes shining with tears of anger. Vale's jaw is clenched so tightly I fear he might crack a tooth. Ray mutters something under his breath—raw hurt and disbelief—and Kei places a steadying hand on his shoulder.

We scroll through page after page. There are lists of detainees (so many names, more than we ever encountered—implying multiple secret facilities worldwide). Technical logs of experiments conducted, noting how certain prisoners contributed to breakthroughs in nanotechnology, medicine, AI—how Arcadia quietly reaped the benefits of minds and abilities it had imprisoned. And then we see Council meeting transcripts where the city's leadership, the very architects of this utopia, coldly discuss the "necessary sacrifice" of a few for the happiness of the many. They knew exactly what was happening to us. They endorsed it.

It's all there, in horrifying clarity. The brutal prison we escaped wasn't a bizarre anomaly—it was a deliberate cornerstone of this utopia's success.

It feels as if the floor is dropping out from under me. I sink onto the sofa, my knees weak. "They… they built a heaven on a foundation of hell," I whisper, voice trembling.

No one disagrees. The silence in our living room is heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the holo-projector. In that silence, the gulf between Arcadia's gleaming façade and its hidden darkness yawns wide.

Through blurred eyes, I see Ray swipe at tears of rage. Mira has a hand pressed to her chest, as if she can't breathe properly. Kei's expression is distant, calculating, perhaps already thinking of how to use this information. Vale looks deadly calm, which I know means he's suppressing deep anger to stay clear-headed.

On the projector floats an image: a schematic labeled "Oblivion Facility Omega – Layout," the very blueprint of the place we called hell for years. To see it in official documents, to know they planned it this way… It sends a fresh wave of fury through me.

I don't realize I'm crying until Mira sits beside me and gently thumbs a tear off my cheek. I place my hand over hers, giving it a squeeze. We're alive, we escaped, and now we have proof of why we suffered. It doesn't erase the pain, but at least we know it wasn't meaningless chaos—it was systematic and evil, and it can be exposed.

Vale clears his throat, voice low. "Now we know." He looks around at us, eyes hard. "Now the question is, what do we do with it?"

He doesn't have to elaborate. We all understand the weight of his words. Exposing this secret could upend Arcadia's society. Would people believe it? Would they care? If the Council suppressed this so effectively, what happens when five unknown fugitives blow it open? Panic? Denial? Or justice?

Mira's voice is soft but firm. "People deserve to know. Those who were lost… deserve to be known." She points at the list of names slowly scrolling. Many of those names have "Deceased" next to them. Experiments gone wrong, perhaps, or "excess" prisoners quietly executed to tie up loose ends. A few names show "Active – Location: Oblivion Gamma" or other code words—meaning some are still alive, still imprisoned out there.

My stomach churns. We may have escaped, but others remain. And none of Arcadia's blissful citizens have any idea.

Kei interjects carefully, "If we leak this info blindly, the Council might quash it or discredit us. We need to be smart. Maybe find allies… there must be someone in this society who would side with us if they knew."

Vale nods slowly. "Perhaps. But it's risky trusting anyone here. This conspiracy was huge and lasted years. Hard to know who isn't complicit or indoctrinated."

Ray clenches his fists. "I refuse to just let it slide. Even if we have to stand in the central square and broadcast it ourselves."

I manage a small, sad smile at his passion. "We won't let it slide, Ray. We'll find a way."

My eyes drift to the window. From our high floor, I see the panorama of Arcadia at night: tranquil, illuminated by soft golden lights along the parks and the gentle pulse of neon art on skyscrapers. It looks almost the same as it did a few hours ago, yet in my mind it's utterly transformed. The warmth and awe I felt when we arrived are tainted now by a cold undercurrent of betrayal. This city is beautiful, yes, but it's a beauty built on unseen cruelty.

I take a deep breath, wiping the wetness from my cheeks. There will be time to cry later; right now, we need resolve. "One thing's certain," I say, my voice steeling itself. "We can't pretend to be normal citizens and just… blend in anymore. Not after this. We have to do something."

Mira places her hand over mine. "We will. We'll make sure no one else suffers what we did."

Ray stands up, pacing the living room. "We could try to contact those other facilities. Or free the others—"

Vale lifts a hand to gently stop him. "Slow down. One battle at a time. If we rush, we fail. The Council likely has contingencies if this gets out—maybe even kill-switches on those other prisoners." His face darkens at the thought.

A heavy silence follows. We know he's right. We need a strategy.

Kei turns off the projector for now, plunging the room into dim lamplight. We've seen enough tonight. The ugly truth hangs in the air, branded into our memories. "Let's rest a bit," he suggests. "We're exhausted and emotional. We think clearer with some sleep."

By sleep, I doubt he means actual rest—we're all far too wound up—but at least some quiet to process.

Vale surprisingly nods. "Alright. We'll post a watch rotation, just in case." Old habits die hard—though in this plush apartment, it feels almost absurd to think of keeping watch like we did in the prison. Still, no one objects.

It's nearly 3 AM by now. Mira volunteers to take first watch, probably because she knows she won't sleep a wink immediately after all this anyway. Ray offers to stay up with her—he's jittery enough that he couldn't sleep if he tried.

The rest of us retire to separate rooms, though "retire" is a loose term. I find myself standing by my bedroom window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, looking out over the quiet city. In the distance, I see the faint outline of the Archives building we infiltrated, its alarm lights now dark. They know someone was inside. Perhaps by morning, the Council will be on alert. But they still don't know who, or what was taken.

I wonder if Arcadia's leaders are awake right now, blissfully unaware that a group of their ghosts has returned armed with evidence. Or maybe they're sleepless, always keeping one eye open for shadows like us.

I close my eyes and release a long breath. My reflection on the glass looks haunted, eyes hollow with fatigue and anger. But also—alive. Alive and free in a way those Councilors might never be, bound as they are to preserving a lie.

They tried to erase us, but here we stand, right in the heart of their precious city. And we've found their buried truth.

I think of the kids chasing holographic fish, the friendly strangers, the cheerful attendant on the train. None of them know that their world is built on bones. Part of me wants to rage at them, to shatter their ignorance. But another part of me hesitates—because once they know, Arcadia will never be the same for them either.

I realize, in that moment, the enormity of what we might unleash. This isn't just about revenge or even just about freeing those still captive. It's about forcing an entire society to look at its own soul. Will they rise to the truth and make amends? Or will they double down and silence us to keep their Eden intact?

I don't have the answers yet. But I do know that we will not stay silent.

Behind me, I hear a soft tap. Turning, I see Kei at my door, offering a faint, sad smile. Without a word, he steps in and we stand side by side at the window for a moment. He, too, seems deep in thought.

"You okay?" I ask under my breath.

He nods slightly. "Yeah. Just… thinking of all the time we lost. And how ironic it is that the technology I used to dream about—" he gestures at the shining city, "—was partly made by people like us, in chains. It's... it's a lot."

"It is." I put a hand on his shoulder. Kei doesn't usually open up much about his feelings, but this night has cracked us all open.

He glances at me, eyes glimmering with determination in the dark. "We'll figure something out, Jane. We didn't survive just to watch things crumble. Maybe… maybe Arcadia can atone, somehow."

I envy his hint of optimism. "Maybe," I echo softly. "Either way, we're going to make sure no one forgets what happened. What is happening."

A comfortable silence passes between us. In the living area, I hear Mira and Ray speaking in hushed voices—Mira's calm, steady tones trying to ease Ray's fiery frustration. Vale's door remains closed; he's likely writing out a plan or maybe, finally, allowing himself a moment to feel the weight of what we learned.

Eventually, Kei pats my shoulder and slips out to let me rest. I don't know if I'll manage any real sleep, but I lie down anyway, staring at the ceiling. Nanites in the mattress adjust to cradle me, as if trying to lull me into comfort. What a strange world—one that pampers you with one hand while locking you in a cage with the other.

My last thought before I drift into a light, uneasy sleep is that tomorrow, we step into this beautiful city with new eyes. The warmth and wonder I felt will be harder to access now, knowing what lies beneath. But perhaps that's the price of truth.

And I would rather live in an uneasy truth than a comfortable lie.

Morning comes softly, with golden light seeping around the curtains. We gather in the kitchen, heavy-eyed but resolved. No one has to say it—we're continuing with our plan to bring these secrets to light. Over a quick breakfast conjured by the nanite dispenser, we discuss practical steps: contacting media (if independent media even exists here), maybe finding a sympathetic Council member (if any weren't part of this). We consider the risk of simply publishing the files on the public network.

We're cautious; Kei notes that any data dump could be traced to our access last night. They may already suspect unauthorized persons in the city. We decide to lay low today, observe news or any signs of a manhunt, and devise a careful strategy.

Mira, ever perceptive, also insists we take a moment for ourselves. "However this all plays out," she says, "we need to remember why we're doing it. Not just for us, but for all those names on that list. Let's not let anger consume us entirely."

Vale agrees quietly, adding that discipline and clarity will win out over blind rage. Coming from him, that's practically an emotional speech.

Before we head out to feel the city's pulse, I take one more look at the names on the detainee list we retrieved. So many lives, each a person like us, stolen from the world. Some are already gone, never to see freedom. But some might yet be saved, if we succeed.

I gently scroll to five particular entries, highlighted in my mind:

Jane Doe – Subject 27 – Status: Retained (Facility Omega).

Vale Amir – Subject 14 – Status: Retained (Facility Omega).

Kei Tanaka – Subject 33 – Status: Retained (Facility Omega).

Mira Patel – Subject 45 – Status: Retained (Facility Omega).

Ray Johnson – Subject 52 – Status: Retained (Facility Omega).

Retained. That clinical word for what was really our stolen lives. Next to each name, last updated timestamps (likely when we escaped, those weren't updated yet, perhaps still listing us as in custody—meaning they haven't reported our escape broadly).

Seeing our identities listed in a secret file of an ostensibly perfect society steels my spine. This cannot remain hidden.

I shut off the display and pack away the data crystal. It'll be our ace in the hole.

Before we step out, Vale catches my elbow. He meets my gaze. "No matter what happens next… we stick together, alright?"

"Of course," I say without hesitation. The five of us, thrown together by misery, are each other's lifeline now. "Together until the end."

He nods, satisfied, and we join the others.

Outside, Arcadia shines as brightly as ever under the morning sun. People go about their day with smiles, as if nothing at all is wrong in the world. The air carries the scents of jasmine and fresh bread. The sky is a perfect robin's egg blue.

Yet under the surface, the shadows we discovered lurk, waiting.

As we head into the vibrant streets, blending once more into the crowds, I feel a peculiar calm wash over me. We have a purpose clearer than ever: to unmask the truth. However daunting it might be, however kind or cruel the outcome, we'll see this through.

In my mind, I carry the weight of all the oblivion cells and the voices that were silenced within them. But I also carry hope—the hope that exposing this will force Arcadia to live up to its ideals, or at least spare future souls from the fate we endured.

We move onward, five extraordinary fugitives in plain sight, hearts pounding with resolve. The warm, golden city hums around us, oblivious to the storm about to come.

And as I walk, I can't help but feel that the ghosts of our past—the lost and the forgotten—are walking with us, step for step, toward whatever awaits when Arcadia finally faces its hidden truth.