The session with Matsumoto leaves me reeling, like I’d been plugged into a faulty circuit. My mind, if you count the synthetic chorus currently humming in my skull, keeps looping back to that resonance. It isn’t just a frequency; it’s a sort of pulse, threading through everything in this place. I can feel it now, clearer than before, like Matsumoto flipped a switch.
Matsumoto or Papel? Tomato, tomahto. Either way, I’m not gonna sit here like a lab rat waiting for them to cram something up my synthetic asshole... I’ll keep some dignity thankyouverymuch.
While sitting here I notice the window behind Matsumoto’s desk that overlooks part of the garden is a tiny bit open. That’s handy. I slip out of her office before the nurse intercepts me with that creepy looking smile. I swear something is seriously off with that one. The facility’s corridors would also lose me and I’d get caught in no time.
I head for the garden, the one place that doesn’t feel like a sterile cage. If I am going to poke at this web, I’ll do it on my terms. No phases. No protocols. I don’t even know if I’ve been turned into a fucking doll and I’m an AI running amok, but hell if I’m gonna stick around to play robot.
I can see the full scope of the place from here. Matsumoto’s office is a few steps away from a viewpoint that’s inserted into the garden, which juts out like a concrete shelf from the main building slab. I’ll head there first. Might be the first place I can taste actual air.
Leaning on the railing, my fingers brush a sleek plaque embedded in the metal, probably meant for ‘wellness’ tourists. Etched in sans serif: ‘Welcome to Unity Atoll, the Global Initiative for Unity’s beacon of renewal. Born from the Mid-Atlantic Fracture’s ashes—’
Also known as the Atlantean Surge. I love the conspiracy theories around this place. Massive earthquakes spawned this island straight from bottom of the ocean seventy-something years ago. “They” say it was a Petrobras drill gone wrong. Gas pocket. Not convinced.
‘—this archipelago stands as a testament to human ingenuity. 800 sq km of innovation, where science meets the sea.’
More like a corporate fortress. They named it a vacation spot to hide the shit they’re doing.
The words glow faintly under my touch, beside them coordinates are etched: 35°N 40°W, right on the Mid-Atlantic scar, halfway between the Azores and Bermuda.
Now, the hospital itself is a brutalist behemoth: two raw concrete towers envelop the gigantic slab we’re on, blending seamlessly into Unity Atoll’s volcanic spine, as if the island had birthed it from black basalt. Vines climb façades that move with the light, masking solar arrays. Hyperloop lines snake below toward the central GIU tower in the highlands. The hospital is in the northern tip of the main island, facing eastward, where the Atlantic stretches endlessly. The main island is dotted with jagged satellite islets like afterthoughts from the Atlantean Surge. To the south, Shimura’s bio-domes gleam like emerald ziggurats amid vertical farms, they look like alien octopi landed on the island and never bothered to move; westward, Ergon’s geothermal vents steam from cliffs, powering the whole damn paradise, and at a distance of a ferry ride a pair of landmasses shaped like a yin yang. Never been there.
The ocean was barrier enough, isolated, secretive, alluring, and watching. The three biggest corporations’ idea of harmony. Concrete and science, holding back the wild. A fortress disguised. No wonder everyone calls this place Corponation.
From the viewpoint, the garden welcomes me with its artificial serenity. And so I’m back to the manicured paths, the soft gurgle of the koi pond, air scented with engineered jasmine. But the hum is louder here, resonating through the soil like a buried whisper.
I kneel again by the pond, watching the fish glide in lazy circles.
Eliza called them mindful. Hollow bitch probably meant brainwashed.
I extend my senses—God, that sounds pretentious.
My neural lace unfurls, parsing the environment like code... and there it is: the Schumann resonance, weaving into everything. The pond’s ripples pulse to that exact rhythm, the leaves rustle in sync, even the goddamn lighting panels flicker subtly. It isn’t random noise or something Matsumoto was using to test; it’s a grid, a network blanketing the facility. I trace it mentally, mapping the threads, air vents carrying it like veins, walls embedded with micro-emitters? Or does it emanate from the concrete and stone that this brutalist slab is made out of?
Cute. They’re marinating us in the Schumann sauce. But why? Is it some sort of control frequency?
I wonder if I’m either A. Hallucinating, or B. Hallucinating, as an AI model.
A glitter catches my eye near the place where Eliza had sat with her vacant eyes staring at the fish. That koi pez dispenser of hers. She left it there. I sit down and pick it up, it’s a chrome oval, very comfortable in my hands. Where is the damn button on this thing? I keep fidgeting with it, but suddenly something gives and a pellet comes out, ricochets on the ceramic ledge and rolls to the pond. Instinctively I attempt to catch it but my hand just bumps it into the water, a koi grabs it in a split second. Then I notice that the ceramic edge where my fingers now rest is etched. Subtle, like someone had pressed hard with a fingernail. Yeah, tough fingernail! I’m feeling it, there’s a pattern. Run the tip of my fingers over it a few times, I’m picking up grooves: letters!
“SWIMMING
IN
PAIRS.”
Shit, these are Eliza’s words, or what’s left of her. Pairs? Like the koi, always doubling up, or something more fucked? I glance at the pond. The fish aren’t random anymore, they move in mirrored duos, one shadowing the other perfectly, like echoes. That’s when it hits me. Shadows.
I scan the garden, really look this time. A couple of patients in front of me wander the paths, hollow-eyed integrates like Eliza shuffling through their “recovery.” But their shadows... they’re... wrong. Not just the way they fall, like in the nurse’s case, but doubled. Each one has a faint, secondary silhouette, flickering like a glitch in reality. Paired. Synchronised. One real, one... something else. A resonance, maybe, echoing from that frequency grid.
I check my own shadow, cast long by the sun. Flat. Singular. No pair. No echo. Special snowflake award goes to... me, again. First I was just the typical child prodigy freak, but now why am I the odd one out? I’m an anomaly Matsumoto won’t (can’t?) explain. My heart, synthetic pump or not, thumped harder.
This isn’t recovery. It is preparation. Pairing. And I’m glitching out of their perfect duet. The realisation hits me like a surge, but the garden responds.
The frequency intensifies and vibrates through my bones. The koi thrash in unison and the splashing water ripples in geometric patterns, hexagons, fractals, all syncing to that damned resonance.
Leaves rustle louder and the air thickens with a low drone. Something is activating. The ground beneath me trembles faintly like the earth itself was starting its engines. Oh, shit. Did I do this?
I hear footsteps approaching precise and unhurried.
Dr. Matsumoto emerges from one of the paths, flanked by two security guards in crisp black uniforms and well armed, but not ready for action... at least not yet. The nurse trails behind, her big eyes fixed on me with that magnetic detachment. They weren’t rushing. Matsumoto’s expression is almost approving.
“Ms. Marik,” she says, her voice carrying that odd dual harmonic, like two tones layered. “You’ve been busy.”
I stand slowly, fists clenched at my sides. Play it cool, Marik. “Just admiring the view. This spa is top-notch. Schumann’s greatest hits. What’s the playlist for? Doubling us up like dance partners?”
Matsumoto’s lips curve in that unreadable smile. “Observant, Ms. Marik. We left the door ajar for a reason. Your unique perception allows you to interpret patterns most simply feel as a hum. The frequency stabilises integration. For most, it creates echoes, vessel and shadow, swimming together.”
The note. The shadows. It clicked. “Pairs. Like the koi. Like the patients. But not me. No shadow. No pair.” My voice stayed steady, but inside, rage boiled. They hollow people out. What kind of sick experiment are they up to?
She nods and steps closer. Security is holding position, not advancing. Not trying to stop me? “Exactly. You’re not like them, Cibel. Your pineal anomaly resists the pairing. It preserves you, makes you a beacon. We didn’t choose you by accident.”
We?!
The garden’s hum peaked, the koi forming a swirling vortex in the pond, their scales flashing like signals. I felt it in my core, a pull, like the frequency was trying to sync me now. But it bounced off, leaving me isolated. Exposed. “Then what am I? Your pet project? A walking antenna?”
Matsumoto’s eyes gleamed, that hidden depth surfacing. “Bait. We’ve been waiting for someone like you, resonant, aware. The frequency calls, and you amplify it. Draws them out. And we need to know who’s listening.”
Them. The word hangs like a shadow I can’t see. The ones behind the accident, the integrations, the whole twisted show? Was it all Papel, or something else? Great. I’m chum for whatever sharks are circling. “And if I say no? Walk out?”
She gestured to the drones, who stepped aside. “We want you to investigate. Poke. Question. It’s why we left the clues, the note, the shadows. Your curiosity is the lure. Go home, Ms. Marik. Live your life. When they come... we’ll be ready.”
Matsumoto reaches into her suit’s breast pocket and walks towards me, she’s close enough I can feel her breath. She pulls out a small silver–My locket!—Her fingers brush its pine-cone shape then she grabs my hand and stealthily places it on my palm.
She whispers: ”A parting gift, Ms. Marik. A piece of your original self. Despite all our interventions, you remain untouched by the integration, a true anomaly. Consider this a memento of your previous life. The others... they don’t have such anchors.” Her voice was soft, almost sympathetic, yet there was something else I couldn’t put my finger on.
The locket feels cold in my palm, but the weight of it grounds me. I open it. Inside, it was rebuilt. They kept the photo of my parents, but on the left side now, and on the right side, nestled on a small velvet cushion, was a single strand of auburn hair, my hair. My own DNA. A sliver of the “human” that isn’t me anymore.
“The question isn’t what makes you special, Ms. Marik. It’s what answers your call.”
Jesus. Fine. Take the award for most ominous. And if I’m bait, I’ll be the kind that bites back. Find them before they find me.
I sink onto a nearby bench, the word 'bait' buzzing in my skull like a signal I can't jam. Matsumoto's parting shot hits hard, stirring up ghosts. My mother's laugh echoing in some half-remembered lab, my father's quiet nod when I swore at 12 I'd beat death with code and circuits. That vow hangs on me now, a chain masquerading as purpose, pulling me deeper into their game.
As I turned away, my chest felt heavy, a faint resonance, like eyes on my back. The facility doors loomed ahead, promising “freedom.” But I knew better. The web was just beginning to spin.
Matsumoto’s words echo as that bleached hair nurse escorts me out, her steps syncing unnervingly with mine. No cuffs, no threats, just that serene smile, like she was walking a prized pet back to its kennel. “Your residence has been prepared, Ms. Marik. We left it untouched, however we arranged to have it thoroughly cleaned and organized. We also prepared a fresh wardrobe based on your personal styling preferences.“ They really planned this out. Holy shit. And thanks for the backhanded compliment, you bleached vomit.
“Sweet.”
Home. The word tasted like ash. Not my cluttered, messy Barcelona flat with its dirty windows and half-read neural harmonics articles and books scattered around the place. Nope. This was Papel’s version of home: a catalog suite in another brutalist ‘green’ slab in the the Research District, assigned to me after my “promotion” to lead engineer, before I decided to go do my own thing. You can never get rid of corporations nowadays, it’s too easy to entice someone back with perks when they own everything... and everyone.
The nurse drops me off at the hyperloop in the lower levels of the facility. The capsule neatly arrives while my thoughts are bouncing all over the place but I snort loudly at the sound the pod makes when it comes to a stop. Interrupts my thought process and brings me back down to earth. Sounds exactly like a girl moaning. That can’t be accidental.
The doors hiss open to reveal I’m not alone. Three other passengers already seated: a middle-aged man in a crisp Shimura bio-tech uniform, a young woman with her face buried in a holo-display, and an elderly gentleman who looks like he stepped out of a pre-Event photograph. Weathered, real, human.
I take a seat across from them.
The Shimura tech turns slightly, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction too long, empty, like Eliza's, no spark of individual thought. But the woman? Her glance flickers with a micro-expression of... curiosity?
Their conversation continues, all productivity metrics and optimization protocols.
As the pod hurtles through the tubes, a faint etching catches my eye on the seat armrest, an eye within a pyramid, pulsing subtly with the hum. It vanishes when I blink.
I’m going crazy.
I shift my gaze to the window as the pod accelerates smoothly through the transparent tubes. Unity Atoll blurs past, and in the curved reflection of the nanoquartz, I catch my own image.
For a heartbeat, it’s not me. Eyes black as space, mouth moving in words I’m not speaking. Then it smiles. I blink hard, and it’s just me again. Perfect synthetic me with my perfect synthetic face looking perfectly fucking normal.
Batshit Marik.
The elderly man across from me hasn’t moved once. I watch him for thirty seconds, and he’s statue-still, looking beyond the window, but at nothing specifically. He looks to be in his eighties, maybe more. Quite a stylish fellow especially at his age, clad in linen and many years of barbell squats. It’s uncommon for men when enhancements are so easy to come by.
“Beautiful day,” he says suddenly, eyes snapping to mine, catching me off guard. His voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Though beauty is relative to the observer, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” I manage, caught off-balance. Not the creepy vibe I expected after today.
He smiles, and it’s grandfatherly, warm. “We all know each other here. Well,” his eyes look me up and down, “We used to. Do you need help?”
I’m still wearing the hospital gown. He probably noticed.
“No… thank you. I, um, had an accident recently.”
“I’m sorry about that my dear, you look like you’ll survive, but anything out of the ordinary—” he extends his arm adorned with rustling bracelets and gestures towards my body “—sticks out on this island.”
It does, doesn’t it? For once, a normal conversation. Feels... grounding.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, trying to disconnect from the storm in my head.
“Oh, I helped build this place. Contractor. Engineering. This island is a feat of nature and humanity. No costs spared. It’s a marvel.”
“What’s the single most interesting story you have from those days?”
“Hmm” He ponders for quite a bit, looking into the distance again. “Early days, drilling the geothermal vents for Ergon's power grid. We hit something impossible, a crystal formation rising from the ocean floor, perfect geometry, like it grew there during the Surge. Hummed at this low frequency, made our tools sync up weirdly, almost like they were alive. Team debated smashing it, safety hazard, but the corps suits said to leave it. Some nights, workers swore they heard whispers in the hum. Me? I think it was the island's way of welcoming us. Or warning.”
Whispers in the hum. Like what I'm hearing now?
“Here, look at this.” He reaches in his pants pocket and brings out something glistening “I saved a piece of it. They’d kill me, or sue me to oblivion, if they knew I took it. Honestly I think I’d rather get killed, ha!” He laughs with deep satisfaction, I can tell he was once a troublemaker. Maybe still is.
The pod begins to decelerate. The other passengers haven’t reacted to our exchange, they continue their surface conversations. The old man leans forward slightly.
“A word of advice, my dear.” He tilts his head, studying me with eyes that seem to see much more than what his words already imply. “Never forget you are human, and that accidents happen. It affects us more than we think they do, but we are resilient. Stronger than we think. Whatever you’re going through, don’t shy away from living.”
The pod glides to a stop. The doors open with that obscene sound, and the passengers file out in perfect order, except for the old man, who remains seated, watching me.
“This is your stop, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yup.” I stand. As I pass him, he whispers:
“Don’t allow yourself to fade.”
Fade. I look back at him and smile. He smiles back, warmly. I can’t help but feel he knows more than he let on. I feel his gaze following me onto the platform.
The station below the Research District high-rise is all polished stone and filtered air.
The walk from the platform to the residential tower is mercifully short, just a covered skybridge connecting the hyperloop station to the building’s lower levels. Through the transparent walls, Unity Atoll sprawls beneath the afternoon sun: pristine, engineered, and watching. Other pedestrians move past in the typical commuting dance. Nobody bumps into anyone. Nobody breaks stride.
The concierge at the lobby is an AI-run bot. After what I just experienced, even its artificial perfection feels like a relief. Looks human, if the human was designed by an alien robot race. An exaggerate, pleasant human face, with lifelike micro-expressions and—
“Good evening, Ms. Marik,” it says, breaking my inner dialogue. Its voice a smooth harmonic that pings my ears like a tuning fork. “Welcome back, it’s been twelve-hundred-and-seventy-seven days since your last check-in. You look optimally healthy, have you taken in sports? That’s a very stable resting heart rate if I’ve ever seen one. I went ahead and adjusted your apartment’s climate control to your preference. On your previous stay there’s a late-night charge for a science fiction novel and a bottle of Japanese whisky, we took the liberty to have a glass and the novel ready on your balcony; Shall I order dinner for today? Complimentary, covered by your Papel perks.”
I blink, staring at its too-perfect smile. Already three and a half years. Feels like a lifetime ago.
“No thanks,” I mutter. “I also like my queries private, so stop doing that. And skip the dinner. Just... open the elevator.”
“Of course. Privacy is paramount under GIU protocols, Ms. Marik. Your queries are anonymised and encrypted locally.” He says with that uncanny composure.
“Encrypted locally, huh? Tell me, do you ever wonder if you’re conscious? Or just a fancy algorithm pretending to care? What’s it like for you?”
The bot’s eyes flicker, a brief glitch, like static. “An intriguing query, Ms. Marik. I am designed to emulate human interaction with a high degree of fidelity, all based on neural models trained on language patterns. I assure you I may seem to understand, think, reason and even display emotion, however it is merely human language patterns and behavioural emulation baked into my programming. I can assure you I’m not conscious.”
Does that make me the latest iteration? “If an AI like you falls in the forest and no one’s around, does it make a sound? Or just logs it?”
“Amusing, Ms. Marik. Per quantum observer protocols, all events are logged, much like your twelve-hundred-and-seventy-seven-day absence. No sound required; it’s already in the network.” It says and pauses to look at me as if it’s thinking about something. “Would you enjoy an espresso, perhaps? Your favoured local double-strength blend is stocked, it’s down to 5 sats per cup.”
I snort. “Pass. Just the elevator. And skip the sales pitch next time.”
“Of course, Ms. Marik. Enjoy your evening.”
The elevator dings, a scrappy dude in a bowtie and his fembot step out, both giggling. I step in and can smell what they did in here. Ew. The doors close with a familiar chord progression.
When door whispers back open it reveals a space that screams “corporate success” to the unknowing eye. Ocean-view windows floor to ceiling, designer decoration, immaculate greenery around the spacious balcony, and AI terminals signalling their presence by pulsing softly on whatever mirrored or glass surface.
First things first. I’m back here and I’m paranoid, who can blame me? So, I start looking around thinking about monitoring devices. But then I realize it’s pointless. The real surveillance would be part of the sensor array. No real privacy here.
“Privacy mode,” I say aloud, testing.
The apartment’s AI responds with a pleasant chime. “Privacy mode is active by default, Ms. Marik. All recording functions suspended as per GIU Protocol 7.3, except biometric monitoring, which is encrypted and processed locally to ensure your safety and privacy.”
Right. And I’m Donkey-fucking-Kong.
I move to the bedroom, where they’ve arranged my wardrobe with obsessive precision. All my preferred styles, down to the brand of underwear I favoured… three years ago. But between the clothes, I find something else. A sleek tablet, Papel logo gleaming on its surface.
I power it on and check the apartment’s network, they kept everything intact down to the local server. I log into it and my old research fill the screen. Neural interface schematics, consciousness mapping algorithms, the theoretical frameworks I’d abandoned. But hold on… there’s more. Not only the theory, also test reports are here. It reads like I did this, down to the detail.
It reads as if I completed my research! Like someone used my own fucking brain patterns to train an AI model to finish what I started. What’s worse is that it’s just here for me to see. Like someone is bragging!
The files are all here. Project Ouroboros, the recursive consciousness loop. The Fibonacci resonance patterns I discovered by accident. Even my private notes on pineal gland anomalies. They took my incomplete work and pushed it to its logical, horrifying conclusion: refinements turning collaboration tools into control grids. Pairing protocols. The specs match the island's hum perfectly, protective stabilisation for integrations, or predatory overwriting of personalities? But, conflicting notes are also here, some pushing 'ethical safeguards', others demanding 'full resonance compliance'. This doesn’t make sense. And why leave this for me to find?
I set the tablet down, hands steady despite the rage building in my chest. Move to the kitchen. The fridge hums at the island’s frequency too, because of course it does. No escape.
“System,” I call out. “What do you know about me?”
The AI’s response is immediate: “Cibel Marik. Born July 8, 2092. Height: 170 centimeters. Current weight: 62.64 kilograms. Resting heart rate: 60 bpm. Brain activity: Anomalous. Last meal consumed: Unable to determine. Favorite breakfast: Coffee, black, with scrambled eggs. Would you like me to prepare—“
“Stop.” I cut it off. “How long have you been monitoring me?”
A pause. Too long to be processing time. “I have been assigned to this unit for 1,277 days, Ms. Marik. Active monitoring began upon your entry seventeen minutes ago and stopped when you requested privacy mode.”
Bullshit.
I spot something: etched into the wooden panel beside the fridge, like some sort of brand, subtle as a whisper, a small pine cone symbol. Like Petrov's old artefacts. Someone knew I'd spot it. Does that mean the symbol I saw in the loop was also real?
The balcony doors slide open before I reach them. Seven floors up, the drop to the manicured gardens below is approximately 21 meters. My synthetic body could survive it, the specs in my files suggested enhanced bone density, rapid self-healing, advanced shock absorption. But would I walk away? And more importantly, would they let me try?
I step out onto the balcony and climb the ledge. The ocean breeze carries salt and a deafening brown noise. Below, other residents move through the paths in the garden, enjoying their evening.
I climb onto the railing, balancing perfectly. No vertigo. No fear response. My body knows it can survive this.
“Ms. Marik.” The AI’s voice carries manufactured urgency. “Please step down. Your biomarkers indicate potential self-harm ideation. Shall I contact Dr. Matsumoto?”
So much for privacy mode, and why Matsumoto?
“Just testing my limits,” I say, but I don’t move. The wind whips around me, and for a moment, just a moment, I consider it. Suicide? Tempting but no, that’s just not me. Science, yes. What would happen if I jumped? Would this body reveal new capabilities, would it match the specs? Would hidden protocols activate? Would whoever’s watching finally show their hand?
But I already know the answer. Bait. But for what?
I step down, turning my back on the drop. “Relax,” I tell the AI. “I’m fine.”
“Confirmed. Alert cancelled. However, I should note that your integration protocols recommend avoiding high-risk behaviors for the next—“
I walk inside sliding the door shut on its helpful advice. Back in the living room, I notice something else. My old Nakamichi players and B&W speakers, yes, but also a new addition, a small metal box beside the cassettes, unmarked but with potential.
I open it. Inside: a neural interface crown, latest generation, probably worth more than this entire apartment. A note tucked beneath it in precise handwriting:
“When you’re ready to see what you’re truly capable of.
—A.M.”
Matsumoto. I laugh, sharp and bitter. Every choice mapped, every defiance anticipated.
But I put the note back anyway. If I’m going to be their antenna, I might as well know what I’m broadcasting and to whom.
I take a beer from the fridge, collapse on the couch and ponder, taking in the last bit of light and feeling the crash of the waves on the shore.
The sunset bleeds orange across the water, and I find myself ruminating its exact wavelength, 615 nanometers. Christ, I can’t even watch a sunset without my brain turning it into data. A second beer bottle sits untouched after a first sip. Pointless to drink, alcohol has zero effect.
When darkness finally claims the horizon, I abandon the pretence of relaxation and head to the bedroom. The king-sized bed waits like an expensive coffin, all premium memory foam that will perfectly contour a body that doesn’t need comfort anymore.
I place the locket on the nightstand, and… I pick it up again. The weight of it in my palm is the only thing that feels real after today. That strand of hair inside, messy, human, mine, just a tether to who I used to be.
The question is, who am I now?
I grip the locket tightly as I lie back, staring at the ceiling where smart-surfaces simulate constellations I can now name with disturbing accuracy. In the distance, outside, the ocean thrums and crashes, violently waiting.
Tonight, I just need to remember what sleeping used to feel like.
Next Part: Coming August 27th. Subscribe to follow Cibel’s journey.
Captivating.