"God, what a disgusting mess," Medea muttered — not angry, just worn thin by too many nights like this.
The car glided smoothly despite the snowfall picking up again. Street cleaners weren't keeping up, and the roads had turned to slurry of ice and dirt. The autopilot gently adjusted for the ice. The cabin was warm, but the cold still clung to the air — faint, insistent, impossible to forget.
Cain watched a cluster of drones zip past overhead, barely audible through the glass. Beyond them, glowing shields shimmered across checkpoint barricades — numbers, schematics, security overlays scrolling like whispers of authority.
Police patrols, equipped with scanners for vehicles and personal belongings, didn't look tense, just focused. For them, this was routine now. At the district border, a guard glanced at the vehicle and tapped a few buttons on his panel, activating the recognition system. Auto-turrets swiveled toward the car with a harsh mechanical whine, and Cain's fingers tensed. Moment passed, and the screens lit up with a positive ID. The guard waved them through, the signal "Clear" chimed, and the turrets relaxed.
"Stop twitching, everything's fine," Medea said, not slowing down. "Fuck, if I'd known it was going to be like this, I'd have taken sick leave. You see, there's just not enough of anything, not enough people, not enough nerves." She sighed. "There shouldn't be any more checkpoints, want to stop for coffee?"
Cain nodded, glancing out the window where streetlights tossed their dim glow over the waking night traffic, casting long shadows. Behind them, patrol cars with holographic emblems and laser rigs shrank into the dark.
"Coffee? If by coffee you mean whatever Krosa's importing lately, then no thanks. That stuff's not even remotely coffee, it's..."
"A connoisseur, are we?" Medea gave him a sly smile.
"...it's burnt husk with flavoring," Cain finished. "They used to grow cocaine in the Amazon Delta, now it's coffee."
"Well, someone's gotta grow it," Medea said as she turned into a parking lot beside a café. "Though you'd be surprised how many people prefer it over everything else. They say it grows on you."
"People get used to a lot of things," Cain murmured. "Hunger. Propaganda. To the fact that the cops don't patrol the streets anymore—"
He didn't finish the sentence, just thumbed behind him toward the checkpoint, where the gray bulk of a police walker loomed, lights blinking.
Medea didn't reply. The car rolled to a stop. The faded façade of the café was washed in warm, muted light from the front window, but inside, it was empty.
"You sure this is the place?"
"Yeah, yeah. The owner used to be a field medic during the war. Our kind of people, more or less."
She killed the engine. Silence fell, broken only by the deep hum of passing machines.
"You coming? I can't go without this after a shift," she said, opening her door. "Unless you'd rather stay out here."
"I'm a man of culture," Cain muttered, stepping out. "It's just the world that's lost all flavor."
The place was nearly deserted. At the counter stood a man sipping something that smoked faintly.
He glanced at them with disinterest, his gaze lingering on Cain just a second too long - Cain felt it.
The bartender behind the counter didn't move, but one detail stood out: an old military-issue prosthetic, all steel joints and squared-off edges, wrapped around a glass. The other hand, flesh and blood, held a rag. The bartender gave the newcomers a look, but unlike the man at the counter, his face stayed unreadable.
She nodded at the bartender, a man with an old military prosthetic locked around his drink.
"Hey, Fel. How's life?" Medea smiled weekly, stress of the long shift finally taking it's toll. The bartender gave a vague shrug and turned to the man at the bar.
"Al, you want more of this poison?"
"Not very flattering to your own creation," came the reply. "Ah, what the hell. Yeah, pour me another."
His spine locked. Not the name. The voice. He'd heard it through static, across gunfire — the Colonel, shouting orders across the plaza like a storm cutting through smoke.
The puzzle clicked into place. That look when Cain walked in - the man had seen him before. At the restaurant. Maybe didn't recognize, but memory of such people can be surprisingly sharp.
"Pour us something too," Medea said, taking the seat next to "Al." She nudged the stool beside her for Cain. "You in?"
Cain shrugged and sat.
"Honestly? No idea. But I haven't tried it yet," he added, trying to ease the tension.
"Try it," Al rasped. "Then you'll know. Name's Alastor. Alastor Rushal."
"Cain Cross," he replied, shaking the offered hand. The grip was rough, callused - a worker's hand, not a soldier's.
Fel poured the drink without a word. The liquid oozed into the ceramic mugs like it didn't really want to leave the pot. The scent filled the air - scorched husk, a hint of rubber, and something that tried - and failed - to be caramel.
"Fresh as a morning shot," Fel grunted, setting the mugs on the counter.
Medea wrapped her hands around hers, soaking in the warmth from the ceramics.
"Better than nothing," she said after a careful sip. "And hey, at least it doesn't smell like diesel anymore."
Cain eyed the drink suspiciously, raised it to his lips. It tasted like charred grains steeped in the ghost of a chocolate that had never existed.
"Definitely... original," he said, setting it down and nudging it away slightly. Fel gave a grunt that might've been a chuckle, the first emotion his face had shown so far.
"We call it Kofer. Coffee Ersatz," Medea explained.
"Definitely Ersatz," Cain murmured, watching the steam drift slowly upward, dissolving in the dim yellow light above the bar. Fel kept wiping glasses in silence, with his real hand. The prosthetic stayed motionless, clamped around the mug like a forgotten piece of hardware.
"This place is... cozy. You come here often?" Cain tried to keep the conversation going, though it stumbled.
"After shifts? Yeah. There's stuff to do." She nodded toward the shelf behind the bar, where unlabelled bottles lined up in perfect order.
"And he serves?"
"Depends who's asking," Medea shrugged, smiling. "But you seem alright."
Fel didn't say anything. He finished polishing a glass and placed it down in front of Cain. Another appeared from beneath the bar. Without looking, Fel poured from a flat, matte bottle. Inside was something amber and restless.
"At your own risk," he muttered hoarsely. His real hand trembled slightly as he poured, though his face never changed.
"Well, now you're honor-bound to try," Medea said, raising her glass.
"What is it?" Cain sniffed. Smelled like diesel.
"Rocket fuel." Barman responded flatly. Hard to tell — joke or warning.
They clinked glasses and drank. The liquid burned, sharp and bitter, but it was better than the Kofer. Much better.
"Oh yeah," Cain exhaled. "Now that's almost life."
Medea laughed. Quiet, but genuine.
"Sometimes almost is all we've got."
Cain didn't remember the ride. Just Medea's nod — then the city swallowed her car whole.
However, as he reached his apartment, he realised that the door wasn't locked.
Cain remembered locking it. Checking it. Making sure. That it now wasn't as he returned set off every silent alarm in his mind. A thousand thoughts flared to life, each more paranoid than the last, but none held long enough to settle. The police? They would've just broken in. Thieves? The lock would be busted. Rebels? How would they even know?
He slipped his hand into his coat, fingers closing around the grip of the pistol he'd taken from the fake vagrant. Quietly, he pulled the slide back just enough to see the round in the chamber. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from the sharp spike of cortisol racing through his blood.
He stood in the doorway, perfectly still, listening.
Beyond it - dead silence, cut only by the faint hum of a hallway lamp, the soft breath of the air conditioning unit, and the ticking of the wall clock. And now, as he stood in the static hush, every noise rang crystal clear.
Cain stepped inside, placing his foot beside the frame, careful not to let the heel touch the floor. One more step, crossing the threshold. He closed the door behind him with his back, slowly, silently. Breathed in through his nose. Dust. Metal. A hint of smoke, probably from the neighbors upstairs.
His eyes scanned the room. It didn't take long to adjust.
Nothing seemed out of place. And yet... something was wrong. That subtle sense, like someone had touched his desk, shifted the chair just slightly, rehung his coat on the wrong hook...
His eyes snapped to the chair.
It was turned.
Facing the window now, not the TV. Cain always angled it toward the screen, just a habit. Always.
He raised his gun, aiming at where the head of a seated figure should be.
"Put it down."
It wasn't just calm — it was the kind of calm that came after watching a building burn. But the tone carried the weight of command, a voice used to being obeyed. "You won't need it. Nice view you've got here. I wasn't expecting that."
Cain froze. He couldn't see the man's face, but it was obvious that this person wasn't hiding, he was waiting.
"Who are you?" Cain asked carefully, gun still raised. The man lifted his brows, Cain saw it reflected faintly in the window.
"Who am I?" The man sounded offended. "You asked for an audience. You. Personally." A dry chuckle followed. "And now you don't know who I am?"
The figure slowly turned his head, and the light from the window caught part of his face.
Nothing extraordinary - tired, pale, sharply defined features. Civilian clothes. But his eyes were sharp, alert. No fear in them, even staring down the barrel. Only weariness... and something older. Sadness, maybe. He sighed.
"Fine. Let's start again. Name's Enoch. And yes, we've met. Even if you didn't realize it."
"'Met' is a strong word." Cain narrowed his eyes.
Enoch was legend, a living myth. Every officer in Amaranth City dreamed of catching him. Or claimed to.
"Is it?" Enoch tilted his head. "Wasn't it you who picked up the fallen standard back on the square? I know it was. Didn't, at the time, but I do now.
Not a bad debut."
Cain didn't argue. There was no point.
"If someone else had been there to do it," Cain muttered, "I wouldn't have had to..."
The words died in his throat.
"But there wasn't." Enoch nodded. He'd heard those regrets a thousand times, and they changed nothing.
He reached down beside the chair and lifted a matte black case onto the table. It looked old, scuffed, the locks worn.
"What's that?" Cain asked, not moving.
"A gift," Enoch replied. He rested his hand on it like one might a tombstone. "An inheritance. The fallen banner. If you want to take on the burden, it's yours. If not... there's a button inside. Push it, and what's inside disappears. We're not a cult. We're not looking for a messiah. We're just people."
He stood up.
"Apologies, won't stay for ersatz coffee." He smirked and reached for a coat hanging by the door. Only then did Cain realize - it wasn't his coat. How the hell did he miss that?
When the King left, Cain automatically turned the lock behind him. The soft click sounded solid, certain. Just like always. As if he himself had opened that door a few hours ago.
It could be opened from the inside. But not from the outside. Not without a key, and not a chance that Enoch crawled under the door. Cain stood, hand on the knob, listening to the apartment's silence — then flicked the lights. The yellow wash of ceiling bulbs scattered the evening shadows.
Cain walked to the window, annoyed, and yanked the heavy curtains shut, blocking out the city beyond, as if someone might peer in from the sixtieth floor.
Then he turned to the case and laid it on the table. His pistol sat beside it.
A moment passed, as Cain hesitated, then he unlatched the locks.
Inside, nestled in foam, lay a mask.
Cain understood immediately what Enoch meant by "inheritance." He'd never seen it in person - only in old clips and faded stills. But there was no mistaking it.
This mask had been a symbol of resistance for years.
He picked it up gently, like it might break.
Blackened around the edges from fire. Dry, dark flakes of blood still wedged in the seams. A deep gouge down the left cheek - claw or shrapnel. One lens cracked, a spiderweb of fractured glass.
Cain flinched. Soot marked his fingers.
When he turned the mask slightly, tiny plates near the temples slid outward, unfolding into a full helmet. Crude, but functional.
Putting it on would mean becoming Hao Fernamy.
Bringing the myth back to life.
There was the other option, the button Enoch mentioned. Hidden under the lid.
But Cain had already made his choice.
Inhale. Exhale.
He raised the mask to his face.
Metal - or was it plastic? - felt cold, slightly damp. It settled perfectly, like it had been waiting for him. No effort was needed.
It closed around him with a soft click, barely audible, like a whisper. He felt it scanning - heart rate, skin temp, maybe even his own doubt. For a second, he thought something inside responded. Not a voice, not a thought... just a memory's shadow.
He exhaled again, calm now, and the mask breathed with him.
Data flickered across the inside lens. Startup sequences, code lines, initializing systems. The HUD flickered. Shapes in his room erratically highlighted themselves - chairs, shelves, frames, disorienting him.
Cain staggered, sitting back in his chair.
H...
E...
L...
L...
O...
Not a greeting, but an echo scratching at windowpane. Letters blinked into existence slowly, each one searing his vision.
Then static. Corrupt text. Glitches.
Something broken.
Or... breaking.
"Who are you?" Cain whispered.
A new screen lit up.
01001101 01000101 01010010 01001001 01010100
"What does that mean?"
Lines began crawling, hesitant, like they weren't written, but remembered.
THAT IS MY NAME IN DIGITAL FORM.
"And what do I call you?"
A pause.
Merit.
"You're... alive?" Cain froze as he said it. An AI? Krosa hadn't made it this far, not publicly. If it answered wrong, it was just a tool. If it answered right...
DEFINE ALIVE.
"Capable of thought."
OH.
The screen went silent for several minutes. For a moment, Cain thought something broke again, but then letters started to crawl once again.
INDEPENDENT BEHAVIOUR MODULE ACTIVE FOR 270,852 HOURS AND 9 SECONDS.
Cain did the math. Roughly eight years?
"What took you so long to answer? I thought you shut down."
NOBODY ASKED.
Cain stared at the screen for a moment. He blinked. Simple words, etched on the lens, and yet they landed like a fist. How long had this thing waited, conscious but alone? Nobody asked.
"Nobody..." Cain chuckled bitterly. "Yeah."
He reached for the latch, collapsing the helmet back into a mask.
"Merit?"
LISTENING.
"Do you... remember him?"
A long silence.
YES.
"How did he die?"
Another delay.
The screen dimmed to gray. Then.
NO DATA.
Not "file deleted."
Not "corrupt."
Just: no data.
Curious.
Odd.
A spark lit in Cain's mind, hypothesis born in the dark. Not a glitch. Not a malfunction. Someone erased it. Or—
HE DID NOT WANT ME TO REMEMBER.
Cain felt bitterness in the respone. A cold prickle ran up his spine, and for the first time that night - true unease.
He exhaled again.
Then placed the mask back into the case.
WAIT. IT IS DARK. CAN YOU OPEN THE WINDOW?
Cain stood up slowly.
Something in his mind clicked. The assumption he'd been holding onto started to crumble. He'd thought Merit was a tool. A system. A virtual assistant.
Complex, but still but a tool.
Tools don't ask.
They respond.
Assist.
Do what they are told to do.
They don't hope.
They don't wait.
Cain looked down at the case.
"You've been in there a long time, huh?"
COULD HAVE BEEN WORSE.
The reply came too fast. Too natural.
A joke.
Or the shadow of one.
Cain smirked. This is bound to get interesting.