Mid-morning. Delta-6 Laboratory, Information Technology Sector.
Herschel Thorne, his spindly hands braced against the table, watched with an expression of mild contempt as he sought his second refill of the morning. The coffee machine droned, grating and monotonous, a plume of steam rising from the cup underneath and dissipating.
It was like watching paint dry.
He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him, though he didn’t really pay it any heed until a voice came with it.
“Slow morning?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Wanna make it less-slow?” the voice intoned, playfully.
“Mm-hm- wait.” He looked up, and turned to face the source of the voice - a stout, smiling man, with a glasses prescription so strong he may as well have had his eyes in jars given their comically magnified size.
“That sounds like a fuckin’ proposition, Tommy.”
“Fuck off with that,” he laughed. “I’m serious.”
“Go on, then.”
“Jus’ got a message from Moe, he says there’s a uh — here, actually, I’ll just show you.” He makes a waddle for the door, to an adjoining lab-space separated by a translucent sheet of tempered glass. “And uh, bring your coffee.”
Herschel moved to follow after the other man, though he backtracked at the reminder to grab his mug first.
Thomas gestured with a hand to his monitor, which displayed an open email:
From: Morgan Dean (tenPiCS.122.noitadnuof|5891naedom#tenPiCS.122.noitadnuof|5891naedom)
To: Thomas Abernathy (tenPiCS.710.noitadnuof|1891yhtanrebamt#tenPiCS.710.noitadnuof|1891yhtanrebamt)
Cc:
Subject: Nexus Backup Networks
Apologies for the informality, but you know, urgent stuff and all that.
Backup went live last night. Didn’t throw an alarm - don’t know why. Sending this off to other sites too: check if this is just a weird hiccup on our end, see if your backups went up too.
We can’t get access to ours, by the way.
Moe
If the reader of this message is not the intended recipient, or the user responsible for delivering this communication to the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any disclosure, distribution or copying of this communication is strictly prohibited.
“That’s.”
“Weird, right?”
“Never mind weird, bizarre fits better. Did you check?”
“You’re the one with the keys, dude. That’s why I went n’ got you.”
“…right.” He patted his pockets, as if searching for said keys, with a very amused Thomas watching him as he realised they’re on the lanyard around his neck.
“You really need that coffee, huh?”
“Shut it.”
Late-morning. Delta-complex server stacks.
The console walls loomed above them, the dark and matte surfaces with its blinking LEDs resembling city skyscrapers. A tinny buzz permeated the space; the high whine of several dozen diodes blinking in offset intervals, and the lower hum of cooling fans in the background.
They checked, double-checked even, with Herschel near ready to scale a stepladder, just to be certain.
Decaled onto the gunmetal grey surface in a faded white read the code, ‘NEX_017_b’, its adjacent diode blinking a cheerful, pleasant green, a stark contrast to the context of all its potential and baffling origins.
For a time, the only noise was that tinny buzzing, as the two men contemplated this omen in silence.
“…aye. Right, okay. So we tell Moe, then.”
“Think something bugged?”
“Maybe. Though if Moe says they couldn’t access it, we might not be able, either.”
“Not to mention it didn’t flag up.”
Herschel’s eyes followed the topmost row of the diodes, their uneven blips the same shade of cheery green. Each blip, he knew, was a ping - a check that whatever it represented was still online. This topmost row, though the faded white text was just beyond his range of sight, he knew to be each of The Nexus’ core framework locations.
“Nex’ is fine, too.”
“Aye that’s, that’s the odd bit, isn’t it? The backups only kick in if part of Nexus goes down, and it shuts off once it’s operational again. But both are live…” Thomas said this as if to assure himself, merely mulling over what he knew - and Herschel knew - aloud. As if he might’ve found some obvious answer in it.
“Let’s get that email back to Moe. He will probably figure it out.”
He turned to leave, expecting Thomas to do the same.
But he didn’t. Not immediately, at least
Rather, Thomas stood still for a moment, transfixed by those flickering blips. They were not unlike some odd, arrhythmic pulse, he thought.
Eventually his mind returned to the matter at hand. He pottered after his companion, the fleeting notion already forgotten.
Watching their departure as it had watched their arrival, a surveillance camera tracked the pair’s movements as they left the server room.
It committed their faces to it’s memory-banks, as per it’s programming, and nothing more.
Lunch time. Common room B, Site-017.
Herschel and Thomas sat on the couch - the former with his legs drawn up, hugging his knees, while the latter sat cross-legged with a datapad propped up on his legs.
“Moe says we’re no’ the only ones,” Thomas said through a mouthful of mulched chicken. “Dude’s had about a dozen other emails come in since this morning.”
Herschel, his nose scrunched slightly at his friend’s lack of table manners, considered this for a moment.
“So what’s that mean, then?”
“Dinnae ken. A’ thought maybe a power hiccup or somethin’ might’ve done it, but -”
“ - but it doesn’t explain why there’s over a dozen other backups running.”
“Right.”
Thomas thumbed through the heavy-duty datapad, scrolling through the IRC logs without paying them much attention.
“See the funny bit is, it’s not even that much of a problem? But ‘cause we dunno why it’s happened or what it’s running - ‘cause it’s locked down - everyone’s losing their shit.”
Herschel hummed a small noise of dissent. “Not entirely unproblematic. Say there is an event that does cause the Nexus to go offline, and our backups are compromised, we’ve got nothing to work with. Actually -”
He unfolded his legs, reaching to grab his coffee from the table. “…no, wait. I am going to guess they’ve tried ‘turning it off and back on again’.”
But Thomas was frowning at the datapad, now. “They were talking about it - said some kinda failsafe went up and put them back…online…” He said this slowly, having just read it from the screen in front of him.
“Since when can it do that?”
“It’s not supposed to be able to.”
He started to type a message, and Herschel leaned over to read it as Thomas typed.
@ tabbynathy Tommy
Wait, how’d it get back on line if you shut off the power??
There was a brief pause from the chat, as if some silent, unspoken deferring to someone who could answer.
& scuttlefish M. Belfonte
We didn’t pull the physical plug, so it just rerouted. We’re starting to suspect Nexus is doing it.
“Well that. Answers that, doesn’t it,” Herschel said, his brows knit together in a deep frown of concern.
“Nex does manage power reroutes…”
“And the backups couldn’t do it by itself if it went offline.”
@ tabbynathy Tommy
Sounds…fun. Why do you think Nexus would be responsible?
@ moemoe Morgan
Your guess is just as good as ours, man.
“So we’ve a half-arsed theory, no access, and no way to shut it off without literally pulling the plug.” Thomas sighed, his chest deflating with the breath out.
“Is Audrey there?” Herschel piped up, suddenly.
“…yeah? Why?”
“We’re gonna do some investigating of our own.”
“Wait, w- OI -” Thomas floundered about as Herschel plucked the datapad from him.
He stood to avoid his friend’s short-statured wrath, his fingers dancing across the touchscreen keyboard.
@ tabbynathy Tommy
Kibotou: Sorry to intrude; Thorne here. Me and Thomas are going to look into this and see what we come up with.
~ Kibotou Audrey Sato
Fine by me. Use your own login next time.
@ tabbynathy Tommy
Heard. Forward anything important to Thomas.
You disconnected. (yttocs.pu.em.m|eb#yttocs.pu.em.m|eb)
“You type too slow?” Herschel reasoned with a shiteating grin.
“Fuck you.”
Nexus Array 07. Site-███
LOCAL: Attempting connection…
LOCAL: Connection opened: 46.216.234.51 (UID: NEX_113_b)
SERVER: Stopping app instance (index 0) with uuid ea106447-6e1d-47b8-9930-43f8f777777d
SERVER: Stopped app instance (index 0) with uuid ea106447-6e1d-47b8-9930-43f8f777777d
SERVER: Uploading protocol…
SERVER: Upload successful. Restarting…
REQUEST: Inbound from: 208.85.248.110 (fetch_log)
REQUEST: Outbound ({“request_response”=>”Access denied: insufficient credentials”})
SERVER: Operation restarted successfully. Integration of process complete: NEX_113_b
WARN: NEX_078_b connection interrupted or stalled.
WARN: Attempting reconnection to: NEX_078_b
REQUEST: Inbound from: 208.85.248.110 (fetch_errorlog)
REQUEST: Outbound ({“request_response”=>”Access denied: insufficient credentials”})
SERVER: Reconnection to NEX_078_b unsuccessful. Running diagnostic…
SERVER: Diagnostic complete. Node terminated due to insufficient power. Rerouting…
The body was found at 4:13pm on a Sunday.
If you could even call it that.
A body, I mean.
When the first unwitting civilian stumbled upon it, it was still a steaming pile of viscera rendered inside-out by some unknown force, fragmented polygons of ivory bone jutting through the pulped remains of flesh and muscle, sinew and organs.
Remarkably, the extremities were intact: hands and wrists, shins and feet, the neck and head.
By the time I arrived, the blood had coagulated like carmine veins in the cracks of the flagstones. A dank and metallic smell lingered about the scene my cohorts had established with their cheery yellow markers.
We were quick to establish ground here ahead of civilian police. This was far beyond their jurisdiction.
My senior officer - Officer Dalton - gave me the details, and we discussed the evidence.
“You don’t find it weird there’s no witnesses?” I ask.
“Besides the poor bastard that found ‘em.”
“Besides that, aye.”
Officer Dalton hums and haws a bit. “I suppose.”
“Suppose? Bloke looks like a fly on a swatter. And you’re telling me nobody heard or saw anything?”
“None that we could find. What’s your ChemAnalysis say?”
That was the odd bit. The moment I had walked on-scene I had a full screening of airborne particulate, and there was very little out of the ordinary beyond the reek of blood and guts. The air was damp, so it lingered, and even an unmodified person could easily tell.
// find a way to merge this in
"Nah. Y'ought'a get in there and see for yourself."
I'm directed to the back of an unmarked van to suit up. Sterile gloves, sterile boots, sterile suit. A sealed mask.
I then make my way back to the cordoned-off scene, and I duck under the police tape and begin picking my way around the various bits of gore and little yellow markers.
A cursory scan picks up on the various elements of blood splatter dotted across the scene; forensics were right, the pattern analysis isn't flagging anything consistent with an external force.
Then there were the drag marks.
From where they begin sits a pair of glasses, neat and undisturbed on the flagstones. I can reasonably assume that he fell down here; the drag marks leading on show that he must've moved himself across the ground, at a crawl, before coming to his final resting place next to the wall. He was slumped face-down, originally, what's left of his arms tucked under the pulped mess of his torso. None of this is new information, of course - forensics had likely made the exact same conclusions as I had done.
"Do we have an estimate on the time of death?" I direct the question to the gaggle of white-clad forensics people.
A stocky woman, presumably the coroner's technician, pipes up: "About an hour, hour and a half, maybe? Body was still pretty fresh-lookin' by the time we got the call."
"No damage to the head?" I stoop low to the body. I hover a hand over the head and cast a glance in askance to the technician.
She gives a nod and a gesture of her hand in approval. "Nothin' serious."
I carefully turn the man's head to look at his face. His eyes weren't yet cloudy, so it's fairly certain the technician's estimate was accurate.
My optics map his features; after a few seconds, a matching profile blinks into existence at my peripheral:
Sebastian Rutkowski. D.O.B: 3-7-1995
There's little else given. No employment record, no family, nothing. "Bloke's a nobody. Why the hell's he layin' dead in an alley?"
"Better question: why're you asking us?" Says another technician. "They called you here to stick his brain."
"It was rhetorical," I sigh. "And it's not that easy."
I pick myself up off the ground and meander around the alley. No other footprints beyond that of the dead man's marked the scene.
No signs of a struggle, no foreign objects or fibres or hair or…anything. "Ya don't think this is another one of those uh, cross-reality body dumps or anything like that? I know there's been a few of those."
"You'd smell the ozone if it was. I feel like you're delaying the inevitable, here."
Yeah, sure. I wave a hand in dismissal and make my way back to Dalton, who's teetering at the edge of the scene behind the tape. "I'm gonna be honest here, I've no idea what I'm expecting. This one's a real enigma."
"That's why we called you, O'Donnel." He tries to look cheery about it, but it looks more like he's pulling teeth. "We've a medic on-site. You're clear to set up your…thing."
—
“Ready?”
Dalton, with his arms folded, watches me with an uneasy look to his face.
The on-call medic hovers about like a nervous fly, until I wave him off.
The Neuralink tether in one hand and my other poised above the dead man’s head, I take a breath, and plug into the base of his skull.
And the world goes dark.
—
INITIALISING NECRO-NEURAL INTERROGATION
INTENTIONS FOUND TO BE IN VIOLATION OF THE 2027 NEUROTRANSMISSION ACT WILL BE MET WITH DISCIPLINARY ACTIONS AS DESCRIBED THEREIN
… INITIALISATION COMPLETE
My visual field exploded into life and colour in a jarring instant. Flickering and frayed at the edges, aberrating, unstable.
The brain had already begun to decay and so, much like a VCR tape degraded through magnetic interference, the images began to decay with it.
Adjusting to the foreign senses and foreign sensation of a body that was not mine, I became aware of my surroundings in slow progression. Shadowy figures of persons gone unnoticed and irrelevant bustled around me in a janky clamour, their details obscured and smudged, reduced to nothing more but outlines. The warble of voices sounded as if I was underwater.
Despite my own thoughts being in-tact I could feel the ghost of the other mind’s presence alongside my own, unaware of its death and guiding the body through the busy street as it could remember doing. The body felt anxious, and the mind’s voice echoed with a racket of thoughts.
Through the noise a singular, sharp notion came to the forefront of our minds:
‘It’s almost three. Gotta hurry up. Marielle’s waiting.’
I latch to this name, this ‘Marielle’, and the dead man’s mind answers.
Marielle Fairchild. Marshall, Carter & Dark.
As I mused this the world shifted around me, twisting in on itself and re-orientating as the dimly-lit interior of a dated café.
I was sitting at a table now, and I realised that my clothes were uncomfortably damp.
It must’ve rained at some point during his trip.
The body looks up, and sat in front of us is an attractive albeit ordinary-looking woman. Dark curls frame her face in a level of detail far sharper than that of the rest of the room.
“I wanted to discuss a deal,” She says, the cadence of her voice song-like and airy. “We are aware of your expertise, Mr. Rutkowski, and we believe that there may be mutual benefits to be found.”
The sudden exhale of laughter was jarring; air taken from lungs that both were and weren’t my own.
“You say this like Prometheus wouldn’t come for me if they found out,” our voices scoffed.
“We can offer you protections - among other benefits, you understand. You give us your works and the means to challenge Prometheus, and we can offer so much more than they ever would.”
I could feel the dead man’s mind mull over this choice. He found it tantalising, that much was certain.
“Like what?”
“I can’t disclose specifics,” Marielle says with a wry smile. “A need-to-know basis. And we haven’t yet reached an agreement.”
We sat back in our chair, unimpressed. “How am I supposed to make a decision, then?”
“We’re fairly aware you have a dislike of your coworkers at your organisation. Moreover you feel rather confined by what your employers ask of you to do.”
The body begins to tense with an uneasy chill. “How -“
“We can offer you a job with much less limitation, Mr. Rutkowski. And much more payoff.”
“You’ve been spying on me,” we say, indignant.
“We are just…mmm, well informed.”
The feelings of unease only deepened, and I could tell the dead man was debating leaving then and there.
“You’re asking me to make a decision with little detail, I can’t do that.”
“Can’t you? You speak ill of your job so much, Mr. Rutkowski. And now when you are given an out, you would rather not take it?”
Quite suddenly we’re standing, looming over the woman. “ - forget it. I can’t - I can’t do this not knowing what’s gonna happen to me. You could be lying. I won’t.”
Our last words distort as the room buckles and shifts again. Faintly, Marielle’s voice creeps into our senses: fringed with static and perhaps the hiss of rain, from another point in time relapsed into the now.
‘If we won’t have you neither will they, Mr. Rutkowski.’
-
We were standing in an alleyway now, dank and mossy, the flagstones slick with the rain and the lichen. We had a cigarette between our lips, taking long drags and flicking the ash away with a shaky hand.
Risk I shouldn’t’ve taken, the thought runs muddled. What if they find out about it? I’ll lose my job- fuck, they might kill me-
The gentle clack-clack-clack of footsteps was almost palpable, down the alley. The sound had the characteristic of being light and dainty, belonging to someone small, someone unobtrusive.
I knew several moments before the dead man did.
Marielle bore no weapons that he could see, and certainly none that I personally could tell. For someone remembered to be so delicate, her presence was imposing; like an all-encompassing shadow creeping forward.
I wanted to bid the body to turn around, to watch for anyone from behind with some sort of weapon to hand that may have killed him, but I could only see what the dead man had.
“I really did hope I could’ve convinced you, you know,” she says, quietly. “But if you can’t be of use to us, willingly, then I suppose our next best course of action is to inconvenience them.”
“You wouldn’t take me unwillingly?” We ask.
“Oh, no. You’re valuable, but expendable. And the message a dead Promethean engineer would send is much more potent.”
Of all the times I wish I could bid someone else’s body to run, now was the time.
I’ve been in too long; I feel his fear as my own.
Again I hear that phrase: “If we won’t have you neither will they, Mr. Rutkowski.”
Marielle begins to speak again: her words come out fuzzied, then I feel each syllable beginning to drag at my innards.
The headscape begins to grey out in my panic. I can feel our heart rate skyrocketing - no, mine.
Her words turn into a knife-twist of pain in my gut.
Alarms start to blare, drowning out the spoken hazard.
WARNING: DESYNCHRONISATION IMMINENT. OPERATIONAL EFFICIENCY DISRUPTED
HEART RATE AT 184BPM.
WARNING: DESYNCHRONISATION IMMINENT…
…
The real world roars into existence.
It had begun to rain again; the cacophony sounded like radio static. The overcast sky peering between the rooftops that lined the alleyway was blinding, obstructed by a dark and fuzzy shape of what I can only assume was the medic.
I pitch myself to the side and retch bloodied vomit onto the flagstones. The tether rips from the dead-man’s skull in the movement, and my vision flickers back in full.
“Memetic -“ I gasp. “ - think it was a trap -“
The last thing I remember is the medic’s heavy hand on my shoulder, and his voice, barely audible.
Per 
