Chapter 8: What We Remember
POV: Rion
Four years, 362 days until Aloy's Proving
We'd only stopped to rest. Nothing strange. Nothing dangerous. Just a break in the path under the shade of burnt trees and twisted vine.
Then Sula froze.
Her spine straightened like a struck chord—shoulders tensing, eyes wide. A heartbeat later, she bolted.
"Sula!?" I shouted after her, but she didn't stop.
Branches whipped past my face as I chased her, boots hammering earth still warm from the sun. She crashed through a curtain of overgrowth, breath hitched not from exertion—but from something deeper.
When I caught up, the grove opened like a secret page, silent and ancient.
Sula was already on her knees.
But she wasn't praying to a god.
She was kneeling before a totem—twelve feet tall, carved from a single pillar of bleached wood. Its surface was scored with coils, claws, and spirals, wrapped around by long, flowing lines that looked like wind paths. At the top, the wood split outward into a crown of horns—part antler, part storm. The grooves were blackened with ash-stain. Some of the symbols looked like animals. Others like stars.
I turned on my Focus instinctively.
No match. Partial glyphs detected. Language structure incomplete. More data required
I frowned. It was rare that the Focus gave up. It was able to make some sense of the Kansani glyphs so this was something different
Sula's hand was pressed to the base of the totem, her knuckles white. Her other hand clutched something—a bead, ochre-red and worn smooth, looped on a thread of sinew. She pressed it to the wood and whispered something I couldn't hear.
I waited until the air felt less brittle.
Then I stepped forward.
"What is this?" I asked softly.
Her voice came back low. "The Lonaki."
She didn't look at me.
"Before the Derangement. Before the burning. Before the Legion came. This… was their marker."
"They were my mother's people. Before the Derangement. Before the machines turned violent."
Sula reached into a pouch at her belt and pulled out a bead—ochre red, looped on a thread of sinew. She pressed it against the base of the totem and bowed her head.
"The Lonaki were peaceful. Not weak—just… balanced."
She finally looked at me then—eyes rimmed with red but sharp, alive.
I stepped closer to the totem, letting my eyes trace the curves of the symbols, the burn marks, the strange script I couldn't place. The wood was old. Real old. But it had held. Weathered, sure—but not broken.She pulled her hand back from the totem and wiped her face on her arm—not hiding her tears, just clearing the way.
"They lived by rhythm. Wind. Silence. Seven clans, each with their own path. Wolf for warriors. Deer for scouts. Bird for lorekeepers. Long Hair for ritual and diplomacy. Blue for healers. Paint for the artists. Grain for those who built and fed."
She stepped around the base of the totem, tracing one of the spiral carvings with a fingertip.
"They made these totems as promises. Not borders. They didn't say 'keep out.' They said 'we were here. We listened.'"
I stayed quiet.
Because her tone shifted. Hardened. Like her memory was scraping against bone.
I asked quietly, "Why did they disappear?"
Sula didn't answer at first.
She just stared at the totem like she was seeing something else. Someone else.
Then, with a voice like stone being ground into dust, she said:
"Caesar's Legion."
I stiffened.
"They saw the Lonaki as a threat. Too independent. Too defiant. They didn't believe in submission. Didn't worship strength the way the Legion demanded. The Lonaki didn't kneel."
Sula swallowed. Her hand curled into a fist against her knee.
"They came during Skyfire," she continued, eyes fixed on a coiled symbol near the totem's base. "It's our sacred ceremony. Fire. Song. Masks. The clans dance through the night to honor the ones who came before."
Her hands clenched at her sides. "We were celebrating. Singing."
She swallowed hard.
"I was only a child. I didn't understand the fear at first. Just the smoke. The screaming."
She didn't look at me when she said it.
"I lost cousins that night."
Silence. Long and sharp.
"They struck from three sides. Used captured scouts to map the ridge. Set traps to hem us in. They knew when and where we would be most vulnerable."
Her voice turned to iron.
"They waited until we lit the seventh flame."
A chill ran down my back.
"That's when the killing began."
She knelt beside the totem again, not in grief, but to brush away the moss covering the Turtle Sigil.
"My mother escaped carrying me," she said, almost in a whisper. "But her sisters didn't. My cousins didn't. The Grain Clan's fire was the first to go dark."
She stood again, this time with steel behind her eyes.
"The elders used to say the Legion wasn't a real threat before the Derangement. Just an eastern war cult from the lands around the broken arch. Raiders in Roman paint, clinging to old myths they didn't earn.
Her jaw tightened.
"But when the machines turned wild, the weak tribes panicked. Some knelt in fear. Others bargained for protection."
She stared past me, toward the deeper woods.
"They flocked to New Rome. Not because it was strong—but because it offered something louder than the silence. Caesar gave them certainty, even if it was forged from cruelty."
Her voice dropped, cold and bitter.
"And when they found the Lonaki—matrilineal, spiritual, defiant—they didn't see a threat to defeat. They saw a people to erase."
"I thought they were all gone. That there were no markers left. But this? This means someone else remembered. Someone else survived long enough to carve this. Or return to it."
Her shoulders shook once—but only once. Then she drew in a slow breath and stood.
"Now I know," she said, voice firmer. "The Lonaki weren't erased. Just buried. And I will not let their memory rot beneath moss and silence."
She turned to me, eyes hard again.
"From now on, we walk quieter. This grove is sacred. And if the Legion ever comes near it…"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't have to.
Because I could already see the storm behind her eyes.
I looked back at the totem—its spirals, its carved faces, its twisted crown of horns and wind.
And something about it stirred a memory I hadn't touched in years.
The lines weren't identical. The symbols weren't the same. But the feel of it—the reverence, the rhythm of the carvings, the way it told a story without words—it reminded me of the Cherokee.
My sister—well, technically half-sister, but I never thought of her that way—she was part Cherokee. She used to tell me about clan stories and blood memory and how fire wasn't just warmth—it was a way to speak across generations.
I used to call her Sissy.
Short for sister. I think I started doing it because I couldn't pronounce my R's right as a kid. "Sister" came out mangled, but "Sissy" stuck. I said it so often that her other sibling—on her dad's side—started using it too. Eventually, her kids picked it up. Her oldest daughter was also Sissy, that's what my sister's other kids called her too.
The word became one of those weird little family things. A quirk. A nickname that got passed down like a hand-me-down sweater nobody questioned.
It was one of my contributions to the family lore.
And now, standing here in a world a thousand years removed from all of that, staring at a totem built by people I'd never known but who somehow felt familiar—I realized something.
Legacy wasn't always loud.
Sometimes it was just a word that outlived you.
Sula had gone quiet again, standing with one hand still resting on the totem. The breeze had picked up—soft but steady—stirring the edge of her braid and the bone charms at her shoulder.
I stepped closer and said, gently, "It reminds me of the Cherokee."
She blinked, turning just slightly toward me.
"They were a group of people where I came from. Tribal by choice. They lived in balance with the land, not because they had to, but because they believed in it. Harmony with nature wasn't superstition to them—it was a responsibility."
I let my fingers brush the edge of the totem's base, careful not to press too hard. "They told their stories through carved wood, song, fire rituals. They didn't take more than they needed. Didn't push the world out of rhythm. It sounds a lot like your mother's people."
Sula's jaw tensed. Her voice was low. "And what happened to them?"
I didn't answer right away. Because the truth was… too familiar.
"They were forced to leave their land. Broken apart. But they endured. Passed on what they could. The ones who remembered kept the stories alive."
Her eyes flicked back to the totem, then downward to the ochre bead she'd left there.
"So did we," she said quietly.
I nodded. "I know."
And for a few moments, neither of us said anything more.
We just stood there, two survivors from two different ends of time, looking up at the same carved face—and remembering the people who taught us what it meant to belong somewhere.
Sula's fingers brushed the totem one last time before she stepped back. Her gaze lingered on the carvings, her expression distant.
"My mother used to tell me stories," she said, voice softer now. "About how the first Lonaki found artifacts like this—totems, beads, old etchings—buried beneath collapsed stone or swallowed by the woods. Said they were different than our carvings. Way older. Like they came from a time even the machines forgot."
She glanced at me.
"Sometimes… she wondered if those people were the ones we came from. People like your Cherokee."
I blinked. "You think the Lonaki descend from them?"
Sula shrugged, but it wasn't a dismissal. It was thoughtful. Careful.
"No one knows for sure. The shamans say we rose from the wind—that the spirit carried memory across generations. But my mother… she believed memory could have bones too. Buried in red clay. Waiting to be uncovered."
She turned her eyes toward the ground, the soil at her feet—rich, dark, stained with centuries of iron and root.
"The Lonaki are nomads by heart," she said. "We walk, we learn, we return. But most of our settlements, the ones we built when we did settle… they were always in the land of red clay. Deep south and east of here. Ground that stained your skin and never let you forget it."
Red clay.
That clicked.
Oklahoma. Georgia. Parts of Alabama and the Carolinas. Territory tied deep into the lands the Cherokee once called home.
My chest tightened.
If the Lonaki were descended from them—or even from a memory of them—that would mean the flame hadn't gone out. It had just kept moving.
Sula crossed her arms, eyes scanning the grove like she might find more markers hidden among the trees.
"Maybe we forgot the names. Maybe we lost the words. But I don't think we ever lost the people."
Then she looked at me again—really looked.
"Maybe that's why you're here."
I didn't say anything right away.
Because biologically? She was probably wrong.
The Lonaki weren't descended from the Cherokee. Not directly. Not by bloodline.
I knew that. Knew what a Cradle facility was. How ELEUTHIA grew people from code and templates and genome packs. Maybe they included indigenous DNA. Maybe they didn't. I didn't have a breakdown of what went into the gene banks.
But none of that mattered right now.
Because standing here—beneath the totem, in the silence Sula called sacred—I realized something more important.
She wasn't wrong.
The Lonaki were their descendants.
Not through blood.
Through spirit.
Through the way they remembered the wind. Through the rituals. The reverence. The way they moved through the land without trying to own it. The way they let the earth speak first.
That kind of legacy didn't need matching chromosomes.
It just needed memory. And faith.
I glanced at Sula—at the way she stood beside the totem like it was speaking to her in a language only she remembered.
"You think I'm wrong?" she asked suddenly, catching my look.
I shook my head. "No. I think you're proof that they never really left."
She looked down, brushing her thumb against the bead she'd offered. Then she nodded.
"I'll take that," she said. "That's enough for me."
After a long silence, I asked, "So… if you're Lonaki, why are you with the Kansani?"
Sula snorted and rolled her eyes like I'd just asked if metal could bleed.
"I am Kansani," she said flatly, then added, "and Lonaki."
She crossed her arms, looking at me like this was basic knowledge I should've absorbed by now.
"The Lonaki and the Kansani weren't separate. Not really."
I turned to look at her.
She didn't speak like she was reciting a tale. She spoke like she was explaining a scar.
"We were sister tribes. Bound by oath and blood. We walked the land together after the world fell. Shared food. Shared rites. Fought side by side when the machines grew bold."
She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her hands. Her voice settled into something quieter.
"My mother was Lonaki. My father was Kansani. That was normal, back then. Intermarriage wasn't politics—it was family."
She looked toward the treetops, where the last hints of sunlight were curling into amber shadow.
"When a child was born of both, we called them Split-Braid. They were given two names—one to carry, one to choose. At ten, they picked which path to follow. But they never lost the other."
She looked at me now.
"I chose Kansani."
I nodded. "But you carry both."
Her jaw tightened, and she nodded once.
"When the Lonaki fell, we didn't just lose cousins or clans. We lost something quieter. Something... still."
She reached up and touched the white line of war paint under her eye.
"The Kansani believe in fury. We paint our faces in defiance, we roar to the sky. But the Lonaki? They taught us stillness. Silence before the fight. Listening to the wind before you strike."
She turned toward the totem again.
"The elders say the Kansani are the warrior side of the Lonaki. And the Lonaki... they were the peaceful side of the Kansani."
Her voice lowered.
"And we haven't had peace in a long time."
"But because of those Legion dogs, we haven't had a chance to embrace that side. The Lonaki part of us. Always fighting. Always bleeding."
She reached up, wiping at a streak of ash near her temple—not in frustration, but in mourning.
"The elders talk about it sometimes. When it's quiet. They worry that if we never get to live in peace… we'll forget. That the Kansani will forget what the Lonaki taught us. The wind. The silence. The stillness."
She looked back at the totem, her voice low.
"We know how to fight. But if we lose the part of us that remembers why we fight..."
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Sula stood there for a few more seconds, staring at the totem like she was trying to carry it with her—burn its shape into memory.
Then she exhaled hard and stepped back, the tension in her shoulders finally sagging.
"We should rest here tonight," she said, voice quieter now. "It's safe ground. Sacred."
I raised a brow. "You sure?"
She nodded. "I'd rather not walk into unfamiliar territory after dark. Not with our luck."
Her mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "We'd probably run face-first into a Deathclaw."
That got a short breath of dry amusement out of me. "Yeah. Again."
"Again?" Sula asked, looking at him.
"When I first woke up I ran into some bots, one was painting a wall and one of the other freaked out and set it on fire making it explode. Guess what that woke up?" he asked her.
"Ah, that would do it" She dropped her pack beside the roots of the totem and sat heavily, not collapsing—but something close. Like the weight she'd been carrying all day had finally asked to be set down.
I didn't argue. She was emotionally shot, and if I was being honest, so was I.
Sacred ground or not, I kept my revolver close as I eased down next to her, glancing up at the canopy overhead. The wind whispered through the branches in a way that didn't sound like words, but didn't feel like silence either.
This place… remembered.
Maybe it will remember us too.
I was just about to settle into that uneasy half-sleep I'd perfected over the last few days when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
Sula was rummaging through her pack.
Nothing unusual—until she pulled out a small bundle wrapped in waxed cloth.
Then the scent hit me.
Warm. Earthy. Faintly sweet.
She unwrapped it and set the bundle down between us.
I stared.
No. I gawked.
It was a chunk of cornbread. Big as a brick. Golden-yellow, a little uneven, edges slightly burnt—but unmistakable. Cornbread.
My eyes went wide.
"You have cornbread?" I asked, almost offended at the audacity.
Sula raised an eyebrow like it was the most normal thing in the world. "It travels well."
I blinked at her. "Sula… that's a treasure. That's a cultural relic. That's edible divinity."
Her lips quirked just slightly. "You're that hungry?"
"No. Yes. I mean—yes, but also—do you know how long it's been since I even smelled something like that?"
She tore off a piece and handed it to me. I took it like she was passing me the Declaration of Independence.
I bit in.
And immediately stopped chewing.
Not because it was bad—far from it.
Because it was different.
Not smooth and fluffy like the boxed stuff I remembered. This was coarse. Rustic. Textured like it had a story. Whole kernels of corn were baked right into it—sweet bursts of flavor that popped against the gritty body of the bread. It wasn't just cornmeal—it was cornbread, in the most literal, grounding way possible.
There was a hint of something richer, too—binding it together with just enough weight to make it satisfying.
"Wait," I said, mouth still half-full. "You used eggs for this?"
Sula nodded, breaking off another piece. "Bird eggs. Quail and something we call ash-tail. They nest near the hollows east of Ironwood Grove. Easy to gather if you know where not to step."
I shook my head, still chewing.
This wasn't post-apocalyptic ration bread. This was something passed down. Built to last. Meant to feed families around a fire after long walks and harder days. I could almost hear the stories that had probably been told while it was baked.
I finished the piece, licking my thumb without shame. "You know this qualifies as an act of kindness punishable by lifelong loyalty, right?"
She smirked. "It's just bread."
I looked down at the crumbling edge of the piece in my hand. The intact corn kernels. The yolk-rich texture.
"No," I said, "this is civilization."
I finished the last bite slower, letting the texture linger. The cracked grain. The corn kernels. The smoky hint from whatever primitive oven or flame she'd baked it over.
"You should be proud of yourself," I said, glancing over at her.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Cornbread was something we had in my time too. Real common in the South. Every family had their own version—some sweet, some dry, some dense as bricks."
I held up the last crumb between my fingers.
"The taste is different, sure. Not bad. Just…" I smiled faintly. "This might be more authentic. It's made with only things native to the land here. The eggs, the corn, the ash-wood smoke. It's like the land made it through you."
Sula didn't speak right away, but I saw the flicker in her eyes. That subtle shift when praise lands somewhere deeper than pride.
She didn't thank me. That wasn't her way.
But she passed me another piece without a word.
Which, in her language?
Meant everything.
She passed me another piece without looking at me directly.
Then, after a moment, she said, "My mother taught me."
Her voice was soft. Not fragile—Sula didn't do fragile—but quieter than I was used to.
Her voice was softer now. Thoughtful. The firelight made her look older—not in age, but in weight carried.
"She said the recipe was old. Older than the machines. I'm thinking…" She hesitated, eyes on the flame. "I'm thinking my ancestors must've seen something. Maybe an image. Maybe a memory of the Cherokee making it. Must've been found, somewhere. Given what you've told me."
She rolled a crumb between her fingers.
"Said the women of her clan used to make it for festivals. Ceremonies. Homecomings."
She offered a faint, sad smile. "We haven't had many of those lately."
I didn't say anything.
Just listened.
Because what do you say to a recipe older than collapse? Passed down by memory and hand, through war and silence?
She looked down at her hands, dusted with cornmeal and ash.
"We had to adjust some things, of course. Different birds. Wild corn. But the shape of it stayed the same. She made me learn it by heart."
I didn't speak.
Didn't want to break the thread.
"She used to say," Sula continued, "if the day ever came where we couldn't remember the names of our people… at least we'd remember the taste of what they made."
She looked up at me then—face steady, but there was something old behind her eyes.
"I didn't think it would mean this much to someone else."
I held the fresh piece in both hands, reverently.
"It does," I said. "More than you know."
Sula reached back into her pack and pulled out another small bundle—tight-wrapped in leather and twine. She unwrapped it and tore off a strip of something dark, dried, and glossy with rendered fat.
Jerky.
She handed me a piece.
I took a bite without thinking, then slowed down.
It was good. Lean. Chewy. Smoky, with a deeper taste than I expected—something rich, almost earthy.
Not deer. I'd had that. This was heavier.
I turned the strip in my hand and asked, "What meat is this?"
Sula glanced over the fire. "Bison."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
She nodded like it was obvious. "Herds migrate east of the Ironwood line. Hard to track, but worth the chase."
I stared down at the jerky, brain stuttering for a second.
Bison.
Of course.
I'd forgotten.
GAIA didn't just terraform the land. She didn't just reboot plants and soil cycles. ARTEMIS had access to Earth's full species catalog. Every bird. Every fish. Every hoofbeat. Every ancestor we almost forgot.
Of course there were bison.
Of course there were herds again.
I looked up at Sula, who was already chewing her second piece like this was the most normal thing in the world.
In her world—it was.
I held up the strip and muttered, "Right. Makes sense."
But inside, I was grinning.
Because for a second, I wasn't just eating meat.
I was tasting a world we thought we'd lost.
And it was still here.
I stared at the jerky for a moment longer, then looked across the fire at her.
"You know… the bison being free again, roaming the land like this?"
I gave a small, wistful smile.
"That's one of the good things that came out of the end of the Old Ones."
Sula raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"They were almost gone," I said. "Hunted to near extinction. Pushed off their lands. Penned in. But now…"
I gestured vaguely toward the dark beyond the treeline.
"They're back. Living wild. Living right. The way they were supposed to. The way we should've let them."
She was quiet for a moment, chewing on that as much as the jerky.
Then she said, "Maybe not all the Old Ones were foolish. Some of them must've known what was worth keeping."
I nodded. "Some did. Just not enough."
And with that, we went quiet again, letting the fire crackle between us while, somewhere in the distance, a wild world breathed like it had finally been given room.
I nodded slowly, my gaze drifting to the shadows beyond the firelight.
"It was too late in my time," I said quietly. "Some species… they were just gone."
Sula looked over, but didn't interrupt.
"We had videos. Pictures. Old recordings of what the world used to look like. But for a lot of animals? That's all they were. Ghosts on a screen. Memories of a time nobody could go back to."
I held the strip of jerky in my hand like it was a relic.
"But now? I think they're back. Not just the bison. The birds. The elk. The wolves. Maybe even things we thought were wiped out completely."
My voice caught for a moment, not with grief—but with something else.
Hope.
"GAIA must've restored them. Not just rebuilt the land—but repented for us. Gave everything a second chance."
I glanced over at her.
"You don't know how rare that is. To live in a world where the animals aren't just surviving—they're free. It's not a luxury. It's sacred."
Sula leaned back, propping herself on one arm. Her eyes were still on the fire, but her voice cut through the quiet.
"But with things like Deathclaws roaming now... isn't the balance off?"
I didn't answer right away.
Instead, I let out a short breath, then jerked a thumb toward my own chest.
"They balance us."
She glanced at me, brow furrowing.
I shrugged. "We're the problem species. We build too much, take too much, hunt for sport, mine what we don't need, and pave over the things that feed us."
I let my hand fall back into my lap.
"Deathclaws, machines, apex predators—they're nature's teeth. The world doesn't just need beauty and peace. It needs consequences."
Sula stared at me for a long second, then gave a single nod.
"Warriors need worthy enemies," she said, almost to herself.
I smirked faintly. "Exactly. If the world's going to heal, it can't just protect itself from weather or famine. It has to keep us in check too."
She didn't smile.
But her silence told me she agreed.
The wind moved through the grove again, soft and steady.
And somewhere far off, the night growled.
The fire popped, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.
But my thoughts drifted—back to that first day. That first breath of cold air. That ruined city. And it.
The Deathclaw.
I hadn't thought about it too closely at the time. I was too busy running for my life, vaulting over rusted cars and praying my legs didn't betray me.
But now? I remembered the way it moved. The way its muscles rippled beneath scaled hide. The way its claws dug into the pavement with each step—not like a mutant, not like a mistake—but like something meant to be.
It was the Fallout 4 model. 76, maybe. One of the newer breeds from back in my time.
That mattered.
Because those ones looked like they came from somewhere. Like nature had accepted them. Perfect symmetry. Evolved killing machines with terrifying grace. A predator sculpted for balance.
Not like the old ones.
Not like the Fallout 3 or New Vegas Deathclaws—those were bio-monsters. Misshapen, overgrown abominations cobbled together in a lab by people who thought DNA was a toy. They looked wrong. Felt wrong. Unnatural in every sense. All snarl and no soul.
But the one I saw?
That wasn't a glitch in evolution.
That was evolution perfected.
A cold reminder that the wild wasn't just back—it had teeth again.
And somehow, deep down, that gave me comfort.
Because if monsters like that were walking the earth again?
Then maybe it meant the world had finally gotten its claws back too.
Because as much as that Deathclaw had scared the hell out of me, it also reassured me.
Something that strong roaming free?
It meant the wild still had bite.
But the comfort didn't last long.
Because I knew what was out there.
The Deathclaws weren't the top of the food chain anymore. Not really.
Rion sat in the quiet of the grove, the fire's glow casting flickering shadows. The taste of bison jerky lingered, but his mind was elsewhere. He recalled the Deathclaw from his first day awake—a creature that, despite its terror, seemed a natural part of this world. But he knew that not all threats were so tangible.
He thought of the Zeniths—immortal beings from the Sirius system, returning to Earth not as saviors, but as conquerors. Their advanced technology and disregard for life posed a significant threat.
Then there was Nemesis. An AI born from the Zeniths' failed experiment to achieve digital transcendence, Nemesis had become a malevolent force. It destroyed the Zenith colony on Sirius and sent the extinction signal to Earth, awakening HADES with the intent to annihilate all life. Now, it was en route to Earth, aiming to finish what it started.
Rion also considered the Enclave—remnants of the old world, hidden in bunkers, their intentions unknown but potentially dangerous. And potentially something that can be used against Nemesis
He glanced at Sula, resting peacefully. She was unaware of these looming threats. But soon, she would need to know. Together, they would face the challenges ahead, striving to protect the world they cherished
...…..
Zenith Vessel on projected path to Earth
Estimated arrival 6 years.
Observation Deck 3
The ship pulsed with quiet, artificial life. Lights glowed cold blue down sterile corridors, but in Observation Deck 3, the world was warmer.
Beta sat cross-legged in front of a floating holoscreen, her Focus linked to the archives she'd salvaged from Earth's fractured data lattice. The projection was grainy, ancient by any Zenith metric.
But alive.
Chris Tucker was shouting. Jackie Chan was climbing a scaffold like gravity was just a suggestion.
She smiled.
Not much. But enough.
She'd found this in the Zenith archives, buried beneath six layers of override restrictions and media locks.
It wasn't meant for her.
The others had filtered out anything "non-essential"—comedy, art, old-world distractions. They wanted her focused. Obedient.
But she'd learned how to slip past those filters. Quietly. Precisely. She'd rerouted the permissions through an old admin port tied to a deprecated APOLLO node.
All for this something normal.
"Normal," she whispered to herself. "Whatever that meant."
She didn't turn when she heard footsteps behind her. They were soft controlled, she would have heard the steps if they were someone else.
"Enjoying yourself?" came the voice, calm and amused.
Kiryu Setsuna stepped into the projection glow, barefoot and silent. His robes hung loose, tied for motion not ceremony. He moved like a predator that had simply decided not to kill.
Beta nodded slightly. "It's from Earth. I had to breach three Zenith access gates to get it. They locked down most of the APOLLO cultural archive—said it was inefficient."
Kiryu's brow furrowed faintly. "Of course they did. The cowardly always fear distraction. You stole from tyrants. That earns my respect."
"It's not art," she said. "It's... normal. Timing. Trust. People stumbling through chaos together and still choosing each other."
He watched the scene for a moment—Jackie catching the vase, Chris shouting about his suit.
"Like sparring with emotion," Kiryu murmured. "Slips and counters. Missteps with meaning."
Beta looked at him. "You see everything as combat, don't you?"
"I see everything as a test," Kiryu replied. "Some tests are worth surviving. Others are worth destroying."
She looked down.
"I just wanted something that wasn't made to teach me. Or command me. Just something human."
Kiryu nodded once, quietly. "Then you chose well."
He turned toward the door. "But if you keep watching, Erik will begin shrieking about memory cycles and inefficiency."
"Let him shriek," Beta muttered.
Kiryu smiled—barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was real.
"Good," he said. "Hold on to that spine. It suits you."
He nodded once—simple, silent—and moved toward the exit.
But just before the door slid open, he stopped.
"Beta," he said, voice even. "When this ends, resume your lessons. What you're learning—the knowledge, the systems, the old tongues—that is your form of strength. Not theirs."
He turned his head just slightly.
"You can rest. But don't let yourself grow soft. You're too real for that."
Then he vanished into the corridor, robes whispering behind him like silk remembering violence.
The door hissed shut.
Beta let the clip play ten more seconds—Jackie leaping, smiling, dancing through danger with style.
Then she paused it.
And whispered: "I wasn't made for this."
But she didn't look away.
She thought of him—of Kiryu. The only one who had ever spoken to her like she was real. Not a function. Not a project.
She remembered the way Tilda's voice used to shift—soft, patient, surgical. Until Beta failed. Then it vanished. Turned cold. Cut off like it had never been there.
She knew what fake kindness looked like.
Kiryu's wasn't like that.
His words were sharp. His presence was terrifying. But his respect? That felt real.
He protected her, when she was ten she bluntly and rudely insulted one of the Zeniths Frank Meyers who was a part of Erik Visser's faction, Meyers struck her and broke her arm, Kiryu was enraged he beat Meyers half to death, dragged him into a council meeting an ripped Meyer's head off and tossed it at Erik feet. The next time she caught a glimpse of Erik he had now supported an arm made of Specter nanites.
She looked back at the frozen frame—Jackie Chan mid-air, off-balance yet fully in control.
She hadn't picked Rush Hour because it was a comedy. That part was a surprise. A good one. But she'd chosen it because one of the leads was a martial artist.
A man who used momentum, not brute force. Who adapted. Redirected. Survived with grace and defiance.
Beta stood quietly, mimicked the pose—arms wide, legs bent, one foot behind the other. Awkward. But closer than she'd been yesterday.
She practiced it again.
Because maybe—just maybe—she could make herself into something they hadn't planned for.