I woke to the taste of damp concrete and the stench of exhaust fumes, my senses lurching between two worlds. A low drone—part engine, part distant chant—filled the narrow alley. Above me, neon signs flickered: a hungry orange "DRONE DELI," a jagged teal "HOLO-BAR," and the intermittent glow of a battered holo-ad projecting a looping ad for behavioral credit loans. My head pulsed, and for a moment the alley blurred into the sterile corridors of the neural transfer chamber back in 2084.
This can't be happening.
I pushed myself upright, each movement a reminder of the irreversible cost etched into my neurons. The alley's brick walls were scarred with graffiti—an angry red spray: "2020 SILENCED"—and layers of grime that whispered of decades of neglect. My boots, unfamiliar on cracked pavement, felt heavy as I tested the weight of this body. The transfer had been successful—my consciousness nested in this host—but the echo of my former life still crackled at the edges of perception.
A sudden shimmer across my vision made the world stutter, as if someone had hit "pause" on reality. I blinked and the scene reloaded: a row of delivery drones descended like mechanical vultures, their rotors slicing through the evening air. I sucked in a ragged breath, tasting ozone and fried oil.
First priority: blend in.
I forced my shoulders down, smoothed my jacket—a synthetic blend that clung awkwardly to my new frame—and stepped into the alley's mouth. The city beyond was a chaos of motion: hover-bikes weaving between ground-level traffic, augmented pedestrians with neon tattoos scrolling real-time data across their skin, and holo-adverts layering over crumbling brick facades. Each sight struck me with visceral intensity, a collision of centuries-old architecture and hypermodern tech.
I paused beneath an overpass, letting the sensory overload settle. My internal voice parsed it all: the potential for market arbitrage in the scarcity of data, the risk of detection by the Central Algorithm's surveillance nodes, the ironic poetry of trading in a city that traded in everything.
A faint tremor—almost imperceptible—rippled through my skull. My vision warped: streetlights bent like molten glass, footsteps echoed in reverse. For a heartbeat I saw my reflection in a shattered windowpane: a soldier's posture, a trader's calculating gaze, and beneath it all, a man who no longer belonged.
Eco.
The glitch passed, leaving only the steady hum of the city. I pressed my palm to the cool glass of a storefront that advertised "Behavioral Credits: Earn Stability Points for Obedience." The window's reflection wavered; a fragment of text flickered across my vision: "…TRANSFER COMPLETE. MONITORING…"
I jerked back, heart pounding. Neural residue from the transfer was supposed to fade within hours, not announce itself in glitches. The old world had left me with these unpredictable anomalies—residual memories, distorted senses—evidence that I had crossed time.
Shaking off the moment, I moved on. A block away, a market thrived under a canopy of patched tarps and holo-umbrellas. Stall owners hawked everything from antique crypto-keys to black-market neuro-boosters. I inhaled deeply: spices burned against the metallic tang of ionized air. My strategy formed: gather local currency, secure temporary lodging, and begin the search for the first clue—anything that pointed to the erased events of 2020.
A vendor called out, thrusting a handheld scanner toward me. I tensed, expecting a security check, but the device emitted only a soft chime. The man wore a patch over one eye—an optical implant flickering with data streams. He mouthed words without sound: "Behavioral Credit Exchange?" I forced a nod, handing over a credit chip I'd looted from my transfer pod. The chip's holographic face glowed, then dissolved in his scanner. He handed me a stack of local currency notes—thin, plasticized bills that rippled with embedded holo-inks.
Step one: financial assimilation.
I tucked the bills into my pocket and continued through the market, eyes scanning for surveillance drones. Every mirrored surface held a potential watcher; every glitch in the crowd might be a sign of temporal interference. A child darted past, her laughter echoing strangely as if recorded and replayed. My gut tightened: another glitch, another reminder that I was an anomaly here.
I ducked into a side street, where a line of delivery bots hummed in standby. Their polished exteriors reflected my silhouette, multiplied in rippling reflections. I studied the nearest unit—a model last seen in 2084—its manufacturer logo scratched away. A sudden pulse in my implant sent a soft buzz through my temple. I touched the side of my head, feeling the familiar interface port.
Signal incoming.
My heart hammered. A string of encrypted data scrolled across my internal HUD: fragments of code, a location coordinate, and a single word: "DECIPHER". I had no context—no key—but the message was unmistakable: someone was watching me, guiding me. The Trader delved into my neural link, leaving breadcrumbs.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the coordinate: 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E. Paris. My mind flashed to the city's landmarks: the Seine's winding embrace, centuries of stone cathedrals, the unspoken history buried beneath modern facades. I inhaled, letting the reality of my mission settle: find the truth behind the censored year, 2020, and use that knowledge to reclaim power.
A sudden clatter pulled me back. I opened my eyes to see a delivery drone collide with a hover-bike, sparks spraying into the alley. A man in a dark hood grabbed the bike's handlebars, wrestling it to a stop. He glanced at me, expression hidden behind a mirrored visor. For a moment, our eyes met through the reflection—mine calculating, his unreadable. Then he vanished down a side passage.
Another player.
I hesitated only a second before following. The passage was narrow and dimly lit, walls dripping with condensation. My boots echoed, and every footstep felt amplified. Halfway through, my vision wavered again—an eco of distant artillery fire, the roar of 2084's battlefield. I stumbled, clutching the wall.
No turning back.
At the passage's end, I emerged into a courtyard dominated by an abandoned fountain. The water had long since dried, leaving a basin of cracked marble. Surrounding it, ivy climbed ancient stones. In the center, etched into the marble, were words in Latin: "Tempus fugit." Time flies.
My internal monologue churned: a poetic greeting or a warning? Time had certainly flown for me—over sixty years erased in a flash. And now I stood in a world that had moved on without me, a man armed only with forbidden knowledge.
I stepped forward, brushing a hand across the inscription. My implant buzzed again, and a faint glow illuminated the fountain's basin. There, half-buried in debris, lay a small data module. Its casing was old, scratched with symbols I didn't recognize. I picked it up, feeling the weight of possibility.
This is it.
My pulse accelerated as I inserted the module's port into my neural interface. Data streamed into my consciousness: fragments of 2020's financial collapse, censored news feeds, eyewitness logs. The images were raw—buildings ablaze, panicked crowds, market graphs plummeting into oblivion. And beneath it all, a single phrase repeated in a looping echo: "RESET‑Ω."
My vision blurred, the courtyard melting away into a kaleidoscope of code and static. I clung to the marble edge as the data flooded my mind. When the torrent subsided, I was left gasping, drenched in sweat.
A final glitch—so violent it shook my implant—projected a holographic face above the fountain: the Mentor's visage, flickering like an old film reel. Her eyes held sorrow and defiance as she mouthed a single word:
"Awaken."
The projection shattered into shards of light. I stumbled backward, heart racing. My internal HUD displayed one last message:
"Decrypt RESET‑Ω. Your journey begins now."
The courtyard's shadows deepened as the setting sun dipped below the rooftops. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the weight of the secret I now carried. The world felt different—alive with danger and possibility.
Then, in the silence, a fragment of signal flickered on my neural implant's HUD:
[UNKNOWN SENDER]: READY TO GUIDE.
My breath caught. I had no choice but to follow.