They Erased My Name from History — Now I Burn Their World
Chapter Seven: The Silence That Kills
They arrive abruptly, as if conjured from the very shadows themselves, without the slightest hint of an impending threat.
No sirens pierce the silence.
No alarms blare, raising the alarm across the desolate expanse.
Just an eerie, unnatural stillness descends upon the surroundings — it's as if the world itself is clutching its breath, a moment frozen in time, as if even the air recognizes the ominous presence that glides through it.
The Pale Choir.
A name uttered in hushed, fearful tones by even the most loyal adherents of the Dominion. These figures are not mere soldiers, nor are they cold-blooded assassins; instead, they represent the Dominion's ultimate stanza — the silence that follows a blood-curdling scream. The death that follows absolute annihilation.
And now… they've discovered our hiding place.
Kade and I can sense them long before they come into view — it's not the sound of their footsteps that carries to us, nor the crack of gunfire, but rather an unsettling frequency, like a relentless ringing that drills into the very base of your skull. This isn't just sound; it's a signal. A deliberate wave of cancellation, designed to disrupt memory itself, meant to erode our awareness and make us forget the sheer terror that drives us to flee.
In a desperate attempt to remain anchored to reality, I bite down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood a stark reminder of the urgency of our situation. Kade quickly thrusts a neural dampener into my shaking hands — its functionality dubious, sparked by the damage it sustained from shrapnel, but it could buy us a few crucial seconds. But no more than that.
The lights above us start to flicker ominously, each flicker a foreboding sign of our impending doom.
The shadows twist and shift unnaturally, performing a dance that chills me to the core.
And then—
They emerge from the depths of the corridor.
Three figures.
Their armor is an unsettling bone-white, and their design is seamless and devoid of any defining features — no faces, no insignia, no rank to indicate their purpose. The only symbol marking their presence is a single, chilling mark carved into their shoulder plates:
∅
Zero.
They offer no words, no commands; they simply move with an unnerving precision. Fast. Inhuman. Like death personified, crafted with a sinister elegance.
Kade reacts instantaneously, taking aim and firing.
His pulse rounds strike but merely melt against the shimmering kinetic barriers surrounding the Choir, rendering his effort futile. Unfazed, one of the ominous figures raises a hand — Kade's weapon abruptly disassembles before our eyes, not shattering or exploding, but rather deconstructed with a cruel clarity, atom by atom, leaving him empty-handed.
In a moment fueled by fear and desperation, I launch a disruptor mine, aiming it directly at the approaching threat.
It detonates with a sonic burst — a wave powerful enough to topple armored tanks, yet the Choir doesn't even flinch, their menacing forms undeterred.
"Run!" Kade bellows into the oppressive silence.
Yet my feet remain rooted to the ground; an irresistible gravity tethers me where I stand.
Because I recognize what they seek — it's not us they want.
It's the cube.
The Archive.
One of the figures raises a hand, and I can feel the very air tremble in response — as if trying to wrench the cube from my grasp with an unseen force. But the cube refuses to yield. It flares bright gold, a beacon of defiance in the enveloping darkness. It anchors itself against my spine, as though it understands that this moment, this very place, is where it belongs.
"User Verified," it whispers softly. "Initiating Defensive Protocol: Voice of the Forgotten."
In an instant, my vision erupts into a blinding white.
Not from blindness itself.
But from an overwhelming connection.
The cube does not engage the Choir with weapons of destruction or violence.
Instead, it combats them through the sheer power of memory.
A pulse surges through the atmosphere — not a physical force but a psychic phenomenon, detonating with the weight of all the forgotten names, the silenced screams, and the countless erased voices that have been forced into an agonizing silence.
For the first time, the Pale Choir falters.
They stagger backward, confusion momentarily marring their composed facades.
One of them collapses to a knee, clutching at its helmet as if trying to grasp some long-buried sensation. Another glitches, stuttering as though corrupted code fights to maintain coherence. I feel them fracturing beneath the weight of their own constructs. Not just their bodies, but their very minds.
Because even the Pale Choir — whatever horrific creation they are — were not birthed as empty vessels. They were crafted to forget their own existence, molded into grotesque reflections of their once-true selves.
And in this moment, I have reminded them.
"I remember you," I say, my voice barely a whisper, imbued with tenderness despite the chaos around us.
The tallest of them, closest to me, suddenly freezes.
Something stirs… beneath the cold whiteness of that mask. A tremor. A flicker of remembrance. I catch it in the slight turn of his head, the briefest hesitation that seems to betray his steely composure.
Kade recognizes it too. "You broke them," he states, awe mixing with disbelief.
"No," I respond softly, my heart pounding with intensity. "I woke them."
But such clarity will not persist.
The Choir begins to regain their bearings. Two of them quickly retreat into the obscured shadows to recalibrate, but the third — the one towering above me — stands his ground.
He pivots.
And begins to walk away.
A cascade of uncertainty washes over me. I don't know if I saved him from his chains of control.
Or if I simply shattered something far more malevolent.
But the other two?
They shall return.
Harder.
Colder.
Rewritten.
Kade's grip tightens around my arm, his urgency palpable. "That was merely the first wave."
"I know," I reply, my voice heavy with the weight of understanding.
"We can't remain here. Not for a moment longer."
I cast a downward glance at the cube, now quiet in my palm — its luminescence dimmed but still somehow alive.
It has just sung a song of resistance, a melody the Dominion believed long buried and forgotten.
The Voice of the Forgotten.
And it has left them wounded.
Now I understand who I am.
I am not a weapon, crafted for destruction.
I am not merely a part of a rebellion.
I am an echoing chorus.
The collective voices of every soul they have attempted to erase.
And this is only the first verse of a haunting symphony yet to unfold.
To be continued...