Log Line: A young officer for a clandestine intelligence agency that monitors the supernatural must secure a weaponized, sentient memory, while navigating a deadly conspiracy and an unexpected bond with the vessel who contains it.
The monsoon rain over Chandigarh wasn't falling; it was attacking. It hammered the sleek, black solar-panel roof of the Intelligence Organization's Sector-10 safe house, sounding like a thousand frantic drummers. Inside, the air was cool, sterile, and smelled of ozone and old paper.
Dan Singh, 20, traced a finger over the case file's holographic display, the glyphs casting a pale blue light on his focused face. His profile—Officer, Intelligence Organization, Psychic & Anomalous Threat Division—felt less like a title and more like a brand sometimes. A brand for those who saw the cracks in the world.
"Target is codenamed 'Echo,'" said his superior, Commander Vyas, her voice a dry rustle in the dim room. A map of rural Punjab shimmered into existence. "It's not an object. It's a concentrated, sentient memory—specifically, the last moments of the Saint of Malerkotla. A memory of such profound peace and forgiveness, it was weaponized."
Dan glanced at the ancillary data. Historical records showed the Saint's martyrdom in 1947 should have caused a localized spiritual cataclysm. It didn't. The memory of that sacrifice was somehow extracted. "Weaponized how, ma'am?"
"In the right—or wrong—consciousness, the 'Echo' can rewrite emotional states on a mass scale. It could pacify a battlefield into a prayer hall, or render an entire city catatonic with bliss. The Black Bazaar has a buyer. Our job is intercept."
The mission was straightforward: infiltrate the exchange at the abandoned Sirhind Canal pumping station, secure the vessel containing the Echo, and extract. But the I.O. lived and died in the details others missed.
"The vessel?" Dan asked.
Vyas's lips tightened. "A local girl. Kiran. 19. Unwitting. The Echo attached itself to her during the last solar eclipse. She's… asymptomatic, but fragile. The memory is using her life force as a shield. Rip it out carelessly, and you erase her."
A vessel. Not a weapon. A person. Dan filed the cold reality away, deep down where it wouldn't interfere with the operation. He was good at that.
---
Six hours later, Dan was no longer in Chandigarh. He was a shadow in the rust-and-concrete guts of the pumping station, the air thick with the smell of stagnant water, diesel, and something else—a faint, sweet incense that didn't belong. His tactical suit, woven with faintly glowing naqsh patterns to dissipate psychic energy, clung to him silently. In his ear, the comms were a static-laced whisper.
"...three hostiles, main chamber… armed, conventional ballistics… the girl is in the central pit, on the old valve platform…"
Dan moved, a ghost in the machinery. He saw them first: three mercenaries, faces hard under the glare of portable work-lights. And in the center, on a platform above a dark, circular abyss that once housed massive machinery, sat Kiran.
She wasn't bound. She was curled into herself on a frayed mattress, wearing a simple salwar kameez, shivering despite the humid heat. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a hollow, overwhelming awe, as if she was watching a universe unfold inside her own skull. The air around her shimmered. Not with heat, but with transient, ghostly images—the shadow of a hand offering water, the faint echo of a multilingual prayer, the scent of roses and blood.
Dan's orders were clear: wait for the buyer to show, confirm the transaction, then strike. But as he watched, one of the mercenaries, a hulking man with a cybernetic eye, grew impatient. He stalked towards Kiran, grabbing her arm. "Stop this glowing nonsense, girl. Make it quiet for the boss."
The moment he touched her, the shimmer around Kiran solidified.
The cybernetic mercenary screamed. Not a sound of pain, but of absolute, gut-wrenching remorse. He dropped his rifle, falling to his knees, clutching his head. "I'm sorry… the boy in Srinagar… I'm so sorry…" he sobbed, his voice raw.
Emotional contagion. Proximity effect, Dan's training supplied, even as his heart thudded against his ribs. The other two guards raised their weapons, not at Kiran, but at their comrade, panic on their faces.
The deal was collapsing before it began. Dan moved.
"Echo is active! Going in!" he hissed into the comm.
He dropped from the gantry, landing in a roll between two giant pipes. A silenced round from his pistol took the nearest guard in the thigh. The second spun, firing wild bursts. Concrete chips exploded near Dan's head. He returned fire, forcing the man behind cover.
He had to reach the platform. As he sprinted, the wave of the Echo hit him.
It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling. A vast, oceanic forgiveness that washed over his own hidden ledger of sins—the lies to his family, the targets he'd neutralized with cold efficiency, the childhood friend he'd failed to protect. A warm, seductive voice inside him whispered, Let it go. You are forgiven. Just stop.
Dan gritted his teeth, the naqsh on his suit flaring brighter as it struggled to neutralize the psychic wave. He focused on the tactical data streaming in his visual overlay: heart rate, ammo count, exit vector. He clung to the numbers. They were real. The forgiveness was a weapon.
He reached the platform