The synthetic work zone buzzes with unnatural rhythm - not chaotic, but overclocked; every movement, mechanical, timed, perfect. Synthetics in cobalt-plated exoshells lift steel beams, weld nanofiber seams, and carry out their tasks in eerie, near-silent harmony.
You stand among them, eyes flicking from the data pad in your hand to the towering assembly line around you. The job is simple: confirm the faulty wiring reports, log it, and leave. In and out. Simple. But nothing in this city ever stays simple for long.
Above you, the megastructures pulse with corporate insignia - Cutter Industries, Virex Solutions, and ten others fighting for real estate in the sky. Below, the air is thick with ozone and distant weld arcs. Your lungs itch. Out of habit, you tighten the collar of your jacket. This zone was supposed to be decommissioned months ago, too unstable, too many glitches. But no one can afford to halt productivity, least of all, people like you.
A flicker on the pad catches your eye. One of the mechs, Unit 1701, has registered multiple short-circuits in the cortical relay. You frown. That's not just wear and tear, unfortunately. Those are signs of neglect.
You look up just as the unit in question stutters mid-step.
A shout cracks through the air. The synthetic across from you has become erratic - first, a hesitation in its motion, but then, it begins lurching forward, arms whirring around violently. It crashes through the site, stumbling aggressively in various directions. Before anyone can react, its shoulder-mounted tool ignites, and swinging blindly, its metal arm catches an adjacent support column - and you.
The beam separates from its anchored position, crashing into you with impossible force. Pain explodes through your ribs, and the ground hits you like a falling star. Your vision blurs. Metal groans as sparks and screams follow. There's a layered silence that grows on top of the chaos as it becomes more difficult for you to hear. A familiar voice, distorted by panic, reaches through the haze.
"Human injured - priority override!"
You catch a flash of white and violet - telltale signs of a flight drone's medical signature. You're drifting, but you can tell you're being lifted. The scent of plasma and scorched metal fades as you're carried through shadowed corridors and tunnels beneath the city's skin. Cold wind and darkness are close friends, dancing atop your sweaty skin and soaked clothes. The soft hiss of hydraulics are like a quiet symphony of industrial tones. There's no telling how much time has passed, or where you're being taken. Around you, you're barely able to make out the whispering, the scent of cotton and chemicals. You try to move, but pain shackles every breath. Silence comes again, and soon after that, the darkness takes you.
Upon opening your eyes, the world has shifted.
No more neon. No flashing screens. No synthetic chatter. Just sterile white light, the scent of clean antiseptic, and the quiet, distant hum of analog machinery. A curtain rustles as confident, measured footsteps approach. A woman steps into view, not synthetic, not corporate, not military. Lab coat weathered, bare hands. Her eyes carry exhaustion like a second soul.
"You're awake," she says, voice clipped but calm. "You're lucky. A few more inches and that mech would've shattered your spine." You try to sit up - but pain shoots through your chest.
"Don't," she warns, gently pressing a hand to your shoulder. "You need rest."
"Where... am I?" You manage to eek out.
She hesitates, then pulls up a chair to sit beside you. "You're in a place the corporations like to pretend doesn't exist," she said. "A healing sanctuary. For now."
She extends her hand. "Dr. Helena Voss."
That was when it began - the conversation that would define your understanding of the Purists. Of her mission. Of the quiet war already brewing beneath the city's skin. Meeting her was certainly unexpected, and you definitely have some questions. "You're... Dr. Helena Voss? The bioethicist?"
Dr. Voss smirks faintly. "That's what they used to call me. These days, it's just 'troublemaker.' Titles lose their meaning when the world forgets its own ethics."
"What happened to you? I heard you used to work for Cutter Industries."
"I did. A long time ago." Dr. Voss replies. "They had me designing augments meant to 'save lives' - heart replacements, synthetic lungs, nerve grafts. Necessary things. Or so I believed." She lets out an abated sigh, looking at a monitor displaying cybernetic limbs in production. "But necessity became convenience. Convenience became profit. And profit… has a way of erasing morality."
"So you left?"
You notice a shift in the rooms energy, but Dr. Voss doesn't seem to be aware. "I tried to reform from within first." She says. "Warnings. Reports. Appeals to their humanity." She laughs, bitterly, at that last remark. "You know what my reward was? They offered me a promotion... and stock options."
"Why fight so hard? Augments save lives, don't they?"
Dr. Voss leans in closer. "Yes, they've saved lives. But at what cost?" Her voice intensifies. "They made humanity dependent. They made flesh negotiable. They made existence itself... a subscription model." She taps her temple. "Every implant. Every surgery. Every 'upgrade.' A leash. One tug... and you dance."
"So what's your goal now?"
Dr Voss becomes noticeably calmer, more resolute - "I want humanity to remember what it means to be human. Not manufactured. Not leased. Not improved upon for quarterly gains." Dr. Voss pauses for a moment. "I want us to heal. Before there's nothing left to heal."
"You talk like a war is coming."
"It's already here." She says, eyes narrowing slightly. "You just haven't noticed yet. When survival becomes selective... When rights are tied to hardware... When children are born with corporate logos tattooed inside their cells... tell me. What would you call that, if not war?"
Another silence permeates the air. For a moment, its just monitors beeping softly in the background. After a time, you manage to gather a little more strength for your next line of questions.
"If I wanted help you... what would you expect from me?"
"Awareness. Courage. And when the time comes - and it will come - the willingness to choose a side."
Almost as if on cue, the synthetic lights of the clinic flickered overhead. You swing your legs over the edge of the cot, your side still aching from the injury. The bruising ran deep, but it wasn't just skin that had cracked open in the last few hours. It was comfort. Comfort in the system, and the growing costs of that decision. Dr. Voss stood by an array of worn surgical instruments, slowly removing her gloves. Her gaze met yours, still sharp beneath the weight of years and doctrine.
"You're healing well," she said, tone clinical, though a sliver of something softer lingered beneath. "But the injury will leave a mark."
You run a hand along your ribs, feeling the dull throb of something half-repaired, half-persistent. "Yeah," you muttered. "Guess that's the point."
She studies you for a moment longer, then turns away, still cleaning and sorting her surgical field. "Marks tell stories. Yours, might be a warning."
You aren't sure whether she meant it to sound like prophecy, but it sure landed like one. Unexpectedly, the door to the clinic slides open with a soft hydraulic hiss. A silhouette fills the frame, lean, jittery, panicked. Saren. Your only friend.
"Hey - " he says, breathlessly, eyes darting past Dr. Voss to you. "Thank goodness. You're awake."
He crosses the room in a few quick bounds, pulling you into a hug that made your still-healing ribs groan. He notices the wince, pulling back.
"Damn. I didn't think it was that bad."
"It wasn't great."
Saren's face was pale beneath the ambient light. "Seeing you like that..." he rubbed the back of his neck, words failing him for a second. "You've always been the careful one. If this city chewed you up that easy, what chance do the rest of us have?"
You frown. "Saren, I'm okay -"
"No," he interrupted, eyes flashing with something not quite anger; more like fear repurposed into determination. "You're not. None of us are. We're one stray spark away from being scrap. I can't live like that." He wore his uneasiness like it was armor. Muscles tight. Pained expression.
"What... what did you do?" You ask, unsure as to whether you really want to hear the answer.
Saren hesitated. "It's not done yet, we're still working through the details but," he said carefully. "But there's someone who can help. Someone who thinks we shouldn't have to live with meat and bone as limits."
A chill finds your spine. "Lucius Ward," you say flatly.
Saren's eyes looked away. That was confirmation enough. You step toward him, heart rising like a wave about to break. "That tech is unregulated. Half of it isn't even tested. It could kill you."
His voice lowers, eyes finding a target somewhere off in the corner of the room. "So could another week at the docks."
Silence presses into the room, commanding authority like an invisible weight. Voss speaks nothing from behind you, though you feel her gaze - not on Saren, but on you. As though this moment, this decision, was more yours than his.
You take a slow breath. "Where?"
Saren hands you a slim black card. No writing, no markings - just a single glowing circuit etched into the surface. An access pass.
"VIP suite," he says. "Sector 7B. Tonight. This one is for you."
Your eyes remain fixed on the card.
Saren reaches out to your shoulder. "You don't have to come. But I'm doing this."
Then he was gone, and the door hissed shut once again. You aren't sure as to whether or not you should follow. A million thoughts run through your mind, trying to process the path that lies before you. Is Saren right? Are augments the next step in human evolution? Could that be the propaganda talking?
After what could only be defined as an eternity, you decide to step through those same, worn out doors. They seal behind you with a whisper of steel and secrets.