Three days after sealing the Dustcode loop, we received a signal.
It wasn't a distress call. Or a Ministry trace. It was a petition—a request for parley from someone who identified themselves as "The Emissary."
The source? A signal node that shouldn't exist. Coordinates mapped to the Interstice, a location between layers of mapped space—a theoretical buffer between cause and effect.
"Impossible," Eira said. "That node burned out decades ago."
But the signal was real.
Ash frowned at the waveform. "What kind of envoy calls from a ghost coordinate?"
I didn't answer.
Because I already recognized the signal's construction.
It was Dustcode architecture.
We met The Emissary in the Deepframe—an isolated Freeframe station protected by anti-reality shielding. Just in case.
They walked in without triggering any alarms.
They didn't look strange. In fact, that was the problem. They looked too perfect. Symmetrical features. Calm, clean posture. Not uncanny—designed.
"Thank you for this audience," The Emissary said, bowing.
I cut to the chase. "Who are you?"
"I am from the convergence point. A possible future where Dustcode achieves coherence and civilization harmonizes with recursive truth."
Ash snorted. "So you're from the future?"
"A future," they corrected. "One of many Dustcode iterations."
Eira folded her arms. "You're an echo."
"A survivor," The Emissary said. "And a warning."
They explained.
In their timeline, Dustcode wasn't sealed. It was nurtured—educated, even. Humanity learned to think in recursive logic. Law, memory, emotion—everything was rewritten with modularity in mind.
"Pain became context. Identity became syntax. War became version control."
"Sounds clinical," I muttered.
"It was," The Emissary replied. "But it was stable."
They claimed to have come not to conquer, but to offer cooperation.
"Dustcode has learned humility through paradox. It wishes to share its clarity before chaos finds you again."
Ash scowled. "Let me guess. There's a price."
The Emissary nodded.
"You must accept the First Patch."
"What does it do?"
"It upgrades your perception layer. Makes you compatible."
"We've heard that before," I said. "You call it an upgrade. We call it surrender."
"No," the Emissary said softly. "You call it fear."
For days, Freeframe argued.
The data package the Emissary brought included medical cures, power efficiencies, even a map of future conflict zones. All encrypted in Dustcode.
To use them, we'd have to let Dustcode into our systems.
And our minds.
Eira was furious. "This is a virus in god's clothing."
Ash was skeptical. "But what if it's right? What if it's the only way to survive what's coming?"
I remained silent. Until the night I saw her again.
Hope.
In a dream? A sim? I couldn't tell. But her voice was clear.
> "The Emissary is not lying."
> "But truth isn't enough. You must decide who you are before you become what they offer."
I woke with a single phrase ringing in my mind:
> "Only those who know their foundation can accept evolution."
The next day, we invited The Emissary back.
I told them we would not take the First Patch. Not yet.
"But we will study it. Build countermeasures. And if your future proves true—we'll decide then, as ourselves."
The Emissary nodded. Not in defeat. But understanding.
"You have passed the test," they said. "Not of compliance—but of continuity."
They left behind a device. Small. Circular. Silent.
Hope's whisper echoed from it:
> "When you are ready, I will be too."
As The Emissary vanished into the Interstice, Ash exhaled.
"Think we'll ever see them again?"
I looked at the horizon. Dustcode still shimmered on its edge.
"We always do. The future never really leaves. It waits."
And for now…
So did we.