Chapter 7: Fracture Drift
It started with a dream.
No—a bleed.
Something not remembered, but felt. Like waking to someone else's heartbeat in your chest.
Eros stood in the middle of a lab hallway, lights flickering overhead. Cold steel walls. Air sterile with chemicals and old blood. His boots didn't echo—because he wasn't really there.
Not now.
But then.
A boy sat on the floor, curled in on himself, wrapped in a black hoodie two sizes too large.
Head down. Fingers trembling. Back against the door.
He was humming. Just under his breath.
Broken. Off-key.
But familiar.
And when Eros stepped closer, he saw it.
Prion.
Except not.
Younger.
Gaunter.
Wounds still raw around his wrists.
A collar blinking at his throat.
And on the wall behind him, scratched into the white surface with something sharp—
"DON'T ERASE HIM."
"Eros."
The voice came from the door behind him.
He turned.
No one there.
Just a white hallway stretching endlessly.
And the flickering hum of the overhead lights pulsing in time with his heart.
Then—
Bang.
Eros snapped awake.
It wasn't a dream.
It was a fracture.
One of the first.
He sat up sharply, the rail station shadows still thick around them. Prion hadn't moved, still slumped against the pillar, his chest rising slow but steady.
The chip lay in Eros's lap.
Dead.
But still warm.
Outside, the sirens had gone silent. Which only meant the sweep was moving fast—stealth now, not force. Whoever New Era sent next wouldn't come in guns blazing.
No. It would be someone smarter.
Someone trained.
Someone like him.
Eros exhaled, then pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
A pulse of static flared across his vision.
Another glitch.
Another memory that didn't belong.
Except it did.
Somehow, it did.
"You alright?" Prion's voice—low, dry.
Eros looked up.
"Yeah."
A lie.
"I saw something," he added. "Another… bleed."
Prion tilted his head.
"Was I there?"
"You were always there."
He stood and paced, blood humming through his limbs like an unspent shot. He wanted to move, to act, to kill something—but there was nothing here but shadows and too many questions.
Prion watched him with half-lidded eyes.
"Override symptoms," he said. "Emotional resurgence. Instinct re-prioritization. Visual hallucinations."
"You're quoting a file."
"I wrote it."
Eros stopped moving.
"You wrote… your own breakdown report?"
Prion's mouth curved faintly. "Before they stopped letting me touch the system."
The air shifted again.
A faint buzz passed through the floor.
Eros felt it.
So did Prion.
He turned his head slightly.
"They're close."
Eros nodded. "Yeah. I know."
"Do you think it's a kill team this time?"
Eros's grip on his weapon didn't tighten.
Because it was already clenched.
"No," he said.
"They're sending someone smarter."
A beat passed.
Then Prion's voice, soft but steady:
"Do you think it's someone you trained?"
Eros didn't answer.
Because he already knew the truth.
And outside, someone in a black coat and mirrored visor stepped into the edge of the rail station.
Waiting.
Not hunting.
Watching.
The past is no longer dormant—and neither are the ones trained to replace him.
They didn't speak at first.
The one in the black coat just stood at the edge of the magrail platform, visor gleaming faintly in the dusted light, hands loose at their sides.
Too loose.
Too casual.
Eros recognized the stance instantly.
Not someone from the generic squads. Not a synthetic.
A field-class operative.
Elite.
Same weight. Same cut of movement.
Same precision drilled into muscle and bone.
Eros straightened without realizing it.
A mirror of the posture.
And the moment he did—the figure tilted their head, just slightly.
Recognition.
They knew him.
And they'd been waiting for this.
Prion didn't move.
Still slumped where Eros had left him, but now more alert. His eyes half-open, tracking the tension like reading a code sequence no one else could see.
"They sent someone close-range," he murmured.
Eros didn't take his eyes off the figure.
"Yeah."
"How do you know?"
"She's not pulling a weapon."
A step forward.
The figure removed the visor.
Long black hair fell loose from the helmet, face sharp, angular, unreadable.
Her eyes were violet-grey, almost colourless.
No shine.
Only clarity.
"Eros," she said.
No preamble.
No salute.
No rank.
Just his name.
He knew her voice.
Didn't know why.
"You're not supposed to exist anymore," she said simply.
His fingers twitched near his blade.
"Neither is he," Eros said.
"Then you really don't remember."
She smiled. Thin. Not unkind.
"They really did wipe you clean."
Prion's voice broke the air again, calm and low:
"Name?"
Eros shook his head.
"I don't know."
But the woman spoke anyway.
"My designation was Aether," she said, gaze flicking to Prion. "Subject Eight. Memory tether prototype."
Eros stiffened.
Eight.
That meant she came after Prion.
After everything collapsed.
"You were the next test," Prion murmured.
"I was the one they built to succeed you," she said. "But I failed differently."
Her tone didn't hold regret. Just fact.
"Turns out," she continued, stepping closer, "you can't stabilize something meant to fracture."
Eros stepped between them as she advanced.
"I won't let you touch him."
"I'm not here to kill him."
"Then why are you here?"
She didn't answer immediately.
She looked past him, to Prion, like someone staring at the blueprint of a bomb that refused to detonate.
"I'm here because you're collapsing," she said at last.
"Not just him. You."
Eros narrowed his eyes.
Aether stepped closer.
"I was trained the way you were. You forget that."
"I don't remember it at all."
"No. But your body does."
She reached into her coat slowly and withdrew a single silver cartridge.
Set it on the cracked floor between them.
Eros stared at it.
A core fragment.
Memory-class.
One of the rarest types.
"You recorded a loop," he said.
"No. You did."
His heart skipped.
Aether stepped back.
"That's your data," she said. "From attempt twenty-five. You recorded it manually. Buried it outside the wipe net."
"Why would I—"
"You'll know when you see it."
Prion finally spoke.
And his voice cut clean through the tension:
"Don't let him watch it alone."
Aether's eyes shifted slightly.
"You remember that loop."
"I remember all of them."
She didn't look impressed. Or afraid.
She just looked… tired.
"Your override symptoms are increasing," she said to Eros. "You'll break soon."
"Then why warn me?"
"Because I already did. Back then."
She gestured to the cartridge.
"You left me behind once," she added. "Try not to do it again."
And with that, Aether turned and walked away.
No gunfire.
No pursuit.
Just silence.
And a tiny, silver shard of the truth left gleaming in the dark between them.
The cartridge contains what Eros recorded himself—outside the wipes. But what kind of man records memories he's not allowed to keep?
They didn't speak for a long time.
The cartridge sat between them like something alive.
A thin pulse of blue blinked from its side—once every ten seconds. Slow. Measured. Waiting.
Eros had handled weapons deadlier than this.
But somehow, it terrified him more.
He turned it over in his hand.
It hummed faintly when touched. Like it recognized him.
Prion remained silent, curled with his knees pulled up slightly, coat drawn around him to stave off the lingering cold.
He didn't look at Eros.
He didn't need to.
"I don't know what I recorded," Eros said finally.
Prion's voice was quiet.
"But you're afraid to find out."
That was the truth.
He didn't respond.
He slotted the cartridge into the handheld relay clipped at his belt—old tech, blacklisted, off-grid.
It blinked green.
A flicker.
Then—
[Initializing memory core | Fragment #25 – manual tether sync engaged]
The device buzzed.
A hiss.
And then a voice.
His own.
But raw.
Worn.
Fractured in ways that made the skin crawl.
"If this plays… then that means you're bleeding again."
"Means you're starting to remember. That's good. That means this version of you might still make it."
"But listen. Carefully."
Eros didn't breathe.
Across from him, Prion closed his eyes.
The voice continued:
"You'll want to kill him again. You always do around this stage."
"But don't."
"Not this time."
The tone of his own voice chilled him.
Not emotionless. Not controlled.
Just… tired.
Familiar. Too familiar.
And worse, regretful.
"You said it was his fault. That he rewrote you. Manipulated your instincts. Turned you against the Organization."
"That's a lie."
"You asked him to."
Eros felt the breath catch in his throat.
"You begged him to pull you out."
"You cried when they said they were going to use him one more time—to 'test the threshold.' You threatened them. I threatened them."
"They wiped us three times for it."
"But he remembered it all."
Prion didn't speak. His lashes fluttered, but his face remained unreadable.
Like he'd already heard it all.
Maybe he had.
"So if you're listening, if you're hesitating again, don't waste it. Protect him. Because he's not the reason you're broken."
"He's the reason you ever made it this far."
The recording glitched.
A sudden shriek of feedback.
Then a final line.
"And if this version of you betrays him again—don't worry."
"I'll kill you myself."
The file ended.
The cartridge burned hot in Eros's hand before the light winked out.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
His throat was dry. His pulse racing. His mind split in too many directions.
"Attempt twenty-five," Prion murmured after a long pause.
"You remembered all that?" Eros asked.
"No," he said softly. "Just the important part."
"What was that?"
"That you warned yourself not to hurt me again."
And for once, the edge of Prion's voice cracked.
Only barely.
But Eros caught it.
The tremor underneath the calm.
He didn't know why, but his chest tightened.
And for the first time, he felt something he hadn't in a long, long time.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
But something dangerous.
Regret.
He sat beside Prion without a word.
Just close enough for their shoulders to touch.
Prion didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just let it happen.
Outside, the city began to hum again. Distant. Menacing.
But in the dark, between static and fractures and the ache of half-remembered promises, two broken things breathed the same air.
And for a moment—neither of them ran.
What else did he leave behind in other loops? And why did he warn himself so violently?
The air had shifted.
It wasn't just the silence anymore.
It was the stillness.
Like the entire district was holding its breath.
Eros noticed it first.
The birds had stopped.
No wind. No distant footsteps. Not even the usual background static from the power grid.
Only the slow tick of Prion's breath beside him. Faint. Uneven.
And getting worse.
Eros turned.
Prion's face was too pale, even in the low light.
His hoodie clung damp against his back. Sweat had begun to bead at his temples.
He was shivering.
"Hey."
No response.
Eros touched his shoulder.
Flinched. Too hot.
"Prion."
Still no answer.
Just a twitch of his fingers—like he was typing something invisible in the air.
Or trying to remember what language pain was spoken in.
Then—
The hum.
It started in the floor.
Then climbed the walls.
An ultra-low vibration Eros recognized immediately.
System ping.
But not from New Era.
Something else.
Something hunting anomalies.
He moved quickly, crouching in front of Prion and gently slapping his cheek.
"Hey, stay with me."
Still no response.
But his lips moved.
Just one word.
A whisper.
"Loop…"
A sudden jolt hit the air.
Like a live wire coiling through the concrete.
Prion's back arched.
Eyes wide open—completely white for a second.
No iris.
No recognition.
His mouth moved again.
This time, louder:
"Don't let it map me."
And then he collapsed.
Eros caught him before he hit the floor, dragging him close and shielding his body.
The heat coming off him was unnatural.
Like his internal code was short-circuiting.
Not a fever.
An override reaction.
Eros looked up.
A light flickered at the far end of the tunnel.
Not a drone.
Not a human.
Something in between.
A hunter unit.
Thin. Skeletal. Designed to pick up signature bleed.
Meant for one thing: trace and terminate anomalies.
And right now, it was locked on Prion.
He set Prion down slowly.
Rose to his feet.
Stared the thing down.
This wasn't an assassination order.
It wasn't a mission.
This was a clean-up operation.
A ghost protocol.
A silent purge of all the parts of the experiment they couldn't explain.
And Prion—
He was all of that.
Eros pulled out his blade.
Its edge shimmered, tuned to field frequency.
He'd used it dozens of times. To kill without emotion.
Without pause.
But now, for the first time, he felt his hand tremble.
Because this wasn't a hit.
This was a protection order.
And he had issued it—in another version of himself.
He charged.
The hunter moved fast, spindly arms whipping forward like razors of light.
Eros ducked the first strike, drove the blade into its central node.
But it didn't fall.
It adapted—legs folding backwards, twisting mid-air to avoid collapse.
Sentient reflexes.
Not just a drone.
A live-mapped weapon.
Probably designed by Prion himself—before they called him a threat.
The thing surged again.
This time Eros didn't dodge.
He let it hit him.
Rolled with the impact, twisting its arm until it snapped like glass under pressure.
One more strike.
The kill node exposed.
He didn't hesitate.
Blade plunged deep.
Flash of white-blue light.
And then… silence.
Eros knelt, panting.
Body aching.
Mind reeling.
Then—
A cough.
He turned.
Prion was awake.
Barely.
Lips cracked. Eyes half-lidded.
"You… really fought it," he rasped.
"I did."
"Why?"
"You told me to."
A flicker of a smile.
"Then maybe I was right… to believe in you again..."
Prion passed out in his arms.
This time, it wasn't just from exhaustion.
It was system strain.
Neurological fragmentation.
And Eros knew—
They were running out of time.
The hunter wasn't the last. It was the beginning of the purge. And Prion's system is unravelling.
If your instinct was to kill—but your memory begged you to protect—what would you follow?
The echo of memory is louder than any order. But what happens when even memory begins to fail?