In the quiet room, the tick of a HoroGraph clock echoed.
It was 12:00 a.m., the date glowing faintly: Third of Proto, 5678 Unified Calendar.
Rain murmured constantly against the polyglass windows, weaving its rhythm into the darkness. A storm that never quite stopped.
Hung just above the floor, Galen Xarotar rocked gently in his VertiCradle, a bioengineered chair attached to the ceiling by StratoCords, moving to his balance like muscle to breath.
Galen's body was still, snugged in a thermal-reactive blanket, worn from years.
A faint blue pulse glowed beside his left temple
Moon, a memory-integration chip implanted at birth. All Homonexis possessed one.
It was named after the man who had given his life to end the Dubeon Rebellion centuries earlier.
Moon wasn't code; it was heritage.
Galen's aug-encrypted, low-light-enabled eyes scanned the darkened chamber with ease. In front of him hung Brody, a projection mid-air via SpectraGlass, a floating holo-panel that subtly shimmered as it displayed a series of archive images.
Brody's voice, low but serious, dictated the sequence:
"He was arrested for the murder of his best friend, Bayuq.
Lured into a fantasy… set to catch him in the act.
Your father Oguxn sought revenge.
But he didn't take the right path.
They tortured him alive… and he smiled while they did.":
Galen did not respond. He moved slightly, letting the blanket fall over half of his face.
"It's been years since your father passed away," Brody continued.
"I know hearing his story every night has become a ritual.
But you have to ask yourself:
Is it memory, or is it a cage?"
Galen was silent, eyes shut now, lost in the quiet between memory and sleep.
Brody stood. With a wrist flick, the SpectraGlass dissipated, merging with the darkness. The Wall Nodes implanted inside followed, powering down the house lights into deep night.
He walked to the door.
"You were his Dubeon-in-trust," Brody said softly, halting at the door.
"But you weren't there when he killed his friend.
You weren't there when he stood on death row.
And yet you think you believe everything you heard… "
Galen opened one eye, burning coals beneath lids heavy with fatigue.
"Did you say I manipulated this? You have to realize—" Brody began, but Galen cut him off mid-sentence.
His voice altered, mocking, rehearsed, the same refrain he'd heard too many times.
A bitter mockery of Brody's own words:
"I'm always with him, but I'm at the building for hours, working to feed our families."
He snorted softly. "Same story. Every time."
He pulled the blanket tighter around him.
"My family. You should go, Brody. Good night."
Brody hesitated, but said nothing more; only shadows followed him out the door.
Brody hesitated a moment longer… then vanished, his projection flickering like a candle in the wind.
Galen sat, the Moon chip still softly glowing against his temple. Outside, the storm clawed at the windows with old rain, indifferent to human history.
The rain's sound echoed through the city, steady and implacable. Galen's mind
was its own storm, shifting and mercurial.
Was Lefex one of the oldest provinces of the great Afrovia, a continent where happiness was performed like drama and suffering was hidden like contraband.
Far to the west, beyond the floating Sky Cities that sailed over seismic fault lines, was Lukopem, the promised continent of the Homonexis, the last faithful remnant of mankind.
Their city was built of mudbrick, wood, and steel, a patchwork city clinging to nature as it withered season by season.
There had not been rain in twenty-one years. Not flood, but steady enough to fill a bucket over days, enough to seep into the morale of a people whose fate, the Forfeihuman, now hung on a weakening thread.
Before one of these houses, Habituh stood waiting in the shelter of a pillar. She was young, but carried herself with the dignity of one born to wait. Her almond eyes traced the silver lines of lightning, reflecting them like dark water pools. Her face was bound by long braids that fell down a figure sculpted by the rhythms of daily labor. Her unpainted, gentle lips were neither smiling nor frowning, but in the stillness of meditation.
A metal bucket rested at her feet, half-full from days of careful gathering. Tonight the rain was harder, drumming the tin until it nearly overflowed before slacking again.
Her mother, Solenne, stood in the doorway, wrapped in a warm graphene-fiber blanket whose fine gold filaments glowed with captured heat. She draped it over Habituh's shoulders, the fabric humming gently as it powered up.
"You should come inside," Solenne said softly.
"You once said there were seasons… rain and dry," Habituh went on, still looking up at the moon through the cover of clouds. "That the sun would rise for days without hiding. I wonder what that is like."
"It was," Solenne said softly. "And it will be again when the Messiah arrives."
"But why do we feel like we're the last of our kind? Why does everybody feel it?"
Her mother's hand moved to her back, gentle but firm. Solenne didn't react. She took her inside instead. Their door had a small wooden cross, a dim LED shining behind it.
Within, the scent of cedar oil and musty wool filled the air. Brought from the Sky Cities long after they were driven out, the family had transported civilization into the terrestrial dwelling chairs, a faded couch, and a table worn slick by generations of use. All of it spoke of a world in which the rains had inundated.
"You need to sleep," Solenne said. "In the morning, the bucket will be full."
"Good night, Mother."
Habituh remained by the window after her mother had left. On her lap was a massive cat, twice as large as its ancient ancestors, fur as dense as winter moss wrapped in her arms. Its low purr calmed her thoughts, even as the thunder dipped lower outside.
Then a bolt of lightning tore through the night.
Habituh rushed to the window. Across the street, blue light streaked across walls as Forfeihumans stumbled into the open, spasming. Their attackers rode in on sleek, four-legged exo-mounts genetically engineered bonobo apes with bio-armor, each carrying a shock lance that spat arcs of ionized air. Others came, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, herding the humans into submission.
The lights in the house turned on. Her father stood in the doorway, and her sister and little brother were on either side. The three stared at Habituh, and she saw the same horror mirrored in her eyes.
"The devil's creatures are among us," she whispered, her voice trembling.
They did not deny it. They simply stood, poised between fight or flight.
"What are we going to do?" she said.
The tick of a HoroGraph clock sounded like a memory in the quiet room.
It was 12:00 a.m., the date burning faintly: Third of Proto, 5678 Unified Calendar.
Continuous rain murmured against the polyglass windows, weaving its rhythm into the darkness. A storm that never quite stopped.
Suspended just above the floor, Galen Xarotar swayed gently in his VertiCradle, a bioengineered chair fastened to the ceiling by StratoCords. The chair swayed to his balance like a muscle to breathe.
Wrapped in a thermal-reactive blanket, worn and frayed from years of use, Galen's body didn't stir.
A soft blue flash appeared beside his left temple
Moon, a memory-integration chip implanted at birth. All Homonexis possessed one.
It's named after the man who, centuries ago, surrendered himself to stop the Dubeon Rebellion.
Moon wasn't code; it was heritage.
Galen's aug-encrypted, low-light-capable eyes swept the darkened room with ease. Opposite him hung Brody, a projection mid-air held by SpectraGlass, a floating holo-panel that undulated gently as it displayed a series of archive images.
Brody's voice, muted but weighty, commented on the sequence:
"He was arrested for killing his best friend, Bayuq.
Lured into a fantasy… set to catch him in the act.
Your father Oguxn sought revenge.
But he went the wrong way.
They excruciated him alive… and he smiled as they did."
Galen said nothing. He moved slightly, letting the blanket hide half of his face.
"It's been years since your father passed away," Brody continued.
"I know hearing his story every night has become a ritual…
But you have to wonder:
Is it memory, or is it a cage?"
Galen was still, eyes closed now, lost in the quiet between memory and sleep.
Brody stood. With a wave of his hand, the SpectraGlass muted, blending into the room's dark surroundings. The Wall Nodes integrated into the house followed, powering down the lights into deep night.
He walked to the door.
"You were his Dubeon-in-trust," Brody said, pausing at the door.
"But you weren't there when he killed his friend.
You weren't there when he was executed.
And yet, you think all you heard…"
Galen opened one eye, burning fire beneath lids heavy with fatigue.
"Did you say I manipulated this? You have to realize—" Brody began, but Galen cut him off during the sentence.
His voice became mocking, practiced, the same sentence he'd heard once too often.
A bitter spoof of Brody's own words:
"I'm always with him, but I'm at the building for hours, working to feed our families."
He sneered slightly. "Same story. Every time."
He pulled the blanket closer around him.
"My family. You should go, Brody. Good night."
Brody lingered, but said nothing more; only shadows followed him out the door.
Brody hesitated a moment longer… then vanished, his projection flickering like a candle in the wind.
Galen sat, the Moon chip still softly burning against his temple. Outside, the storm clawed at the windows with primeval rain, uncaring about human history.
The rain's steady noise drifted through the city, unchanged and ongoing. Galen's thoughts
They were a storm in themselves, churning and unpredictable.
This was Lefex, one of Afrovia's oldest provinces, a continent where happiness was played out like drama and suffering hidden like smuggled goods.
Far to the west, beyond the floating Sky Cities that surfed atop seismic fault lines, was Lukopem, the promised continent of the Homonexis, the final faithful remnant of humanity.
They built their capital from mudbrick, wood, and steel, a patchwork city clinging to nature as it shriveled season by season.
Rain had not stopped in twenty-one years. It was not a deluge, but relentless enough to fill a bucket over days, enough to dampen the spirit of a people whose destiny, the Forfeihuman, now hung on a fraying thread.
Before one of these homes, Habituh waited beneath the shelter of a pillar. She was young but conducted herself with the elegance of one destined to wait. Her almond eyes seized the silver linings of the lightning, reflecting them like dark water. The long braids cascaded around her face, falling over a figure honed by the rhythms of everyday labor. Her soft, unplastered lips arched neither in smile nor frown, but in the stillness of reflection.
A tin pail was at her feet, half-full from days of patient gathering. Tonight the rain was more intense, drumming the metal until it nearly spilled over before slackening again.
Her mother, Solenne, stood in the doorway, bundled up in a warm graphene-fiber blanket whose slender gold threads glowed with trapped warmth. She draped it over Habituh's shoulders, the fabric humming quietly as it powered up.
"You should come in," Solenne said.
"You said there were seasons once… rain and dry," Habituh continued, still staring at the moon through the cloud cover. "That the sun could rise for days on end without obscuration. I wonder what that is like."
"It was," Solenne said softly. "And it will be again when the Messiah arrives."
"But why do we feel we are the last of our kind? Why does everyone feel it?"
Her mother's hand moved to her back, gentle but firm. Solenne did not react. Instead, she took her inside. Their door bore a small wooden cross, a dim LED shining behind it.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cedar oil and used wool. The family, which had been displaced from the Sky Cities generations before, had introduced civilization to the earthy abode: chairs, a worn couch, and a table smoothed by generations of use. Everything spoke of a world the rains had consumed.
"You need to sleep," Solenne said. "In the morning, the bucket will be full."
"Good night, Mother."
Habituh remained by the window after her mother left. A massive cat twice the size of its ancient ancestors, with fur as dense as winter moss, was cradled in her arms. Its low purr focused her thoughts, even as the thunder lowered outside.
Then a bolt of lightning tore through the night.
Habituh rushed to the window. Across the street, blue light arced over walls as Forfeihumans stumbled into the open, writhing in torment. Their attackers came after on lean, quadruped exo-mounts bio-armored bonobo apes, genetically modified, each carrying a shock lance that spat arcs of ionized air. Others were bounding from rooftop to rooftop, herding the humans into submission.
The lights in the house came back on. Her father stood in the doorway, flanked by her sister and little brother. The three stared at Habituh, their fear mirrored in her wide-eyed surprise.
"The devil's minions are present," she breathed, trembling.
They did not contradict her. They simply stood there, caught between fight and flight.
"What are we to do?" she asked.