Chapter 17: "Memory Fragments"
The getaway van rumbled through West Hollow's back alleys, engine coughing as if protesting the weight of victory. Inside, dim cabin lights painted the crew in tired amber.
Jack slumped against the metal wall, the flickering admin halo orbiting his wrist like a lazy electron. Every revolution pulsed data whispers—street‑cam feeds, Guild distress pings, even radio jingles—all vying for space in his skull.
He pressed two fingers to his temple. "Too loud. Feels like every Wi‑Fi password in the city just climbed inside my head."
Zara adjusted the halo's settings via tablet. "I can set throttles—limit bandwidth so it doesn't fry your neurons. But full cutoff kills our new intel pipeline."
"Throttle," Lyra ordered. "Living boyfriend preferred over omniscient corpse."
A soft humm signaled reduced flow; Jack exhaled thanks.
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Quick Triage
Reina inspected Jack's pupils. "Dilated but responsive. Tell me your name."
Jack blinked. "Jack Wilson… mostly." He frowned. "Middle name…?" Empty space yawned. He shook it off. "We'll fill that in later."
Patch hopped on the dashboard. "Status: Ω down, node slagged, Guild communications nuked. But we just poked a hornet hive with a flamethrower."
Zara pulled up live‑feeds—Guild ambulances clustered around the smoking tower, drones scanning rubble. "They'll isolate the breach soon. We change safehouse." She pinged coordinates for an abandoned arcade two districts over.
Lyra squeezed Jack's hand. "Rest until we arrive. You earned a reboot."
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Internal Glitch
Jack tried to sleep but found himself drifting through his own headspace—broken memories orbiting like shattered moons. The brother's laugh was gone, replaced by fuzzy static. In its place surfaced other fragments: a girl in red sneakers sharing a stolen soda; a promise to never steal again—ironic.
He grasped the sneaker girl's face, anchoring it before it, too, could dissolve. Hold on. Don't lose everything.
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Guild Emergency Council
Elsewhere, in a smoke-filled penthouse bunker, Guild Master Marrick convened an emergency holo‑assembly. Executives argued amid flickering sconces; nobody sat in Cross's seat.
Marrick slammed a gauntlet. "Phase Two has failed. Cross compromised. Omega offline." He turned to a hooded figure whose shadow flickered unnaturally. "Activate Project Dominus. If Wilson wants admin rights, he'll inherit admin consequences."
The hooded figure bowed, revealing glassy eyes swirling with micro‑sigils. "Dominus will purge the city grid at dawn."
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New Hideout – Pixel Palace Arcade
Neon ghosts still flickered on dusty CRTs as the crew slipped into the derelict arcade. Zara bypassed an ancient breaker, lighting rows of silent cabinets: Galaga, Street Fighter, Dance Fever 2099.
Jack wandered to a cracked Dance Fever machine. The high‑score screen listed initials J.W. He smiled faintly—proof some past still existed.
Reina laid out mats for the rescued test subjects now sleeping in corners. "Recovery first. Then counter‑strike plans."
Patch delivered instant noodles. "Carbs for the admin."
Jack slurped mechanically. Halo data still scrolled, but manageable. He pinged Zara's wristpad. "I can spoof Guild satellites now. Maybe feed them fake pings on our location."
Lyra looked impressed and worried. "One step at a time, tech‑god. We patch your memories tomorrow."
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Midnight Confession
Later, while others slept, Jack sat on the Galaga stool. Lyra joined him, two steaming mugs of canned cocoa.
"How many pieces gone?" she asked quietly.
Jack's halo dimmed to a gentle hum. "I lost my middle name. And… I think my first crush's face." He laughed without humor. "Trading nostalgia for super‑user status—bargain of the century."
Lyra rested her head on his shoulder. "We'll write new memories together."
Jack shut his eyes, letting that promise sink in. The arcade's neon glow felt like a pause button on chaos. For now, it was enough.
But far above, satellites realigned to new commands not of Jack's making—Project Dominus was waking.