Syren froze, the words *Protocol Eclipse* echoing in his mind.
"NeuroDyne Industries… underworld… local natives?"
His thoughts swirled in a chaotic spiral, latching onto one another. He glanced at the overturned container by the wall, where blackened organs lay in a pool of blood, and his stomach churned.
"Are those… my insides?"
Revulsion mixed with shock, icing over in his chest like frost.
Memories of machines tearing into his body surged with terrifying clarity—the crunch of bone, the metallic tang of blood, the pain adrenaline had masked until the end. Now, that pain lingered as a taunting echo, dulled by alien implants.
"I don't want to die again. But follow orders from a hallucination? This… thing in my head?"
His gaze darted to the holographic figure, to the mask whose blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him.
"Her calm voice… like I'm just a tool to her. Am I not more than a slab of meat for experiments?" Anger flared, only to fizzle under the weight of reality. The truth was, Syren had no idea what he was dealing with. His life might well depend on the whims of a hologram.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, trying to anchor the rising panic. Taking a deep breath to quell the trembling, he nodded to himself, though uncertainty screamed within.
"First, I get out of here. Then I'll figure this out."
Draping a sheet over himself, he felt the fabric cling coldly to his skin, barely concealing his scarred, reassembled body. Syren gripped the edges of the cloth, steadying his shaking hands, when the sharp, impassive voice of *Protocol Eclipse* rang in his head.
"It won't protect you," her holographic form flickered, gesturing toward the door. "There's a storage room in the corridor. You'll find clothes there. Prepare while you can."
Syren shot her a wary glance, his bionic eye glinting in the dim light, contrasting with the doubt-filled living one. The sheet sagged, exposing pale skin.
"Why does she care? Or does she just not want me embarrassing her with my naked grandeur?" The wry thought eased the tension slightly. But there was no choice. He took a deep breath and headed for the door, his footsteps echoing in the grim room.
The door creaked open, revealing a narrow corridor where darkness clung like a living thing. A rusted sign reading "Storage" hung on the wall, faintly lit by an emergency lamp's dull glow. Syren pushed the door and stepped inside. The storage room was small, its bare concrete walls cracked and stained with mold. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old metal and dust.
Neatly arranged on wall-mounted shelves were transparent, sealed bags with folded clothes: dark jumpsuits, lightweight jackets, and sturdy boots. Nearby, boxes of tools sat in orderly rows, as if awaiting his arrival.
He ran his hand over one of the bags, the plastic crinkling under his fingers, and frowned.
"Who prepared all this? Her? Or do they run a boutique for the resurrected here?" Syren tore open a bag and pulled on a jumpsuit, the fabric hugging his body tightly. Zipping it up, he felt a flicker of confidence. He asked,
"How do I look?"
The cold voice of *Protocol Eclipse* rang in his head again:
"Marginally better than a clown. We don't have time for this. Hurry."
"Am I going crazy, asking for fashion advice from a voice in my head?" he thought with a faint smirk, stepping back into the corridor where the shadow of *Protocol Eclipse* waited, her blue eyes glinting in the gloom.
Her holographic form glided ahead, confidently turning corners, the blue eyes beneath her wolf mask glowing like beacons in the grim maze. Syren quickened his pace to keep up, finally breaking the silence.
"You said if I die, you die. How's that work?" he asked, his voice wavering with a mix of curiosity and unease.
*Protocol Eclipse* didn't slow, her holographic form smooth, as if untouched by the floor.
"Simple," she replied, her voice sharp as scraping metal. "My module overloaded because of your broken Sync-chain. Now I'm stuck in your head. If you die, the power source keeping me active dies too."
Syren stopped dead, his face twisting with indignation. *Stuck? She talks about it like I'm her personal battery! What the hell is she even doing in me?* Anger boiled, mingling with dread.
"If she needs me to live, maybe I'm not just a tool… or am I?"
*Protocol Eclipse* turned, her mask tilting slightly, thin wisps of vapor curling from its cracks. "Don't worry," she added, a hint of what might've been sarcasm in her tone. "I'm working on a way to extract the archive module from your brain. I'd rather not be trapped in your head either."
Syren narrowed his eyes, digesting her words.
"Extract? So she wants out too? That's… almost reassuring. But will it be safe for me?"
His thoughts tangled, but a spark of hope flickered. The idea that things couldn't get worse felt like a lifeline.
"Simple," *Protocol Eclipse* continued, noting his silence. "Once we're out, I'll request assistance from other labs. They'll extract me from you."
Syren frowned, his bionic eye flashing in the dark.
"Extract?" he echoed, voice tinged with confusion. "You mean… cut something out of my head? How does that even work?"
*Protocol Eclipse* stopped, her holographic hand rising as if illustrating.
"It's standard procedure," she said, her tone almost lecturing. "The archive module in your brain will be located via neural scanner. A surgical drone will make a precise incision at the base of your skull, where the Sync-chain connection is most vulnerable. The module will be removed under AI control to minimize nerve damage. The wound will be sealed with regenerative gel. The process takes an hour, if all goes well."
Syren swallowed, cold sweat beading on his brow. Images of spider-like claws in an operating room flooded his mind—bloodied blades, organs laid out like exhibits.
*Incision? Drone? No way I'm going under the knife again!*
He stepped closer, his voice trembling with worry. "Is it safe? What if something goes wrong? I don't want to end up a vegetable!"
*Protocol Eclipse* turned her head, her blue eyes flickering.
"There's always risk," she admitted flatly. "But with proper equipment, complications are unlikely—less than five percent."
Syren froze, his heart pounding. *Less than five percent? That's supposed to comfort me? That's a whole five percent! What even is that?* Flexing his fingers, he tried and failed to gauge the odds. Syren had never had an education. After his parents were gone, he'd been passed to slavers, sold for a hundred bucks.
He clenched his fists, resolve battling fear. He didn't know what *Protocol Eclipse* was capable of.
*What if I wake up one day and my body's not mine anymore? But trusting her blindly, hoping they won't just dispose of me after, isn't an option either.*
He was caught between a rock and a hard place, with no clear right choice.
*Do what I always do—push the problem off and hope it vanishes.* With a heavy sigh, he decided to follow the hologram's orders. For now.