They said pain was a virus. A flaw in the emotional firmware of human beings. Something to be isolated, extracted, and eradicated. The Ministry of Equilibrium had spent decades perfecting the treatment—what they called Neuro-Hygiene. Pain, grief, rage, guilt... scrubbed clean, just like bad code.
And I believed them. For a time.
Now I'm not so sure.
The lab was dark when it started. Not the official lab, of course. This one was illegal, stashed beneath a crumbling tower in the underlayers of Sector Delta-9. Old concrete, flickering fluorescents, rust creeping up the walls like mold. It smelled of wet metal and forgotten time. Perfect for the kind of work I wasn't supposed to be doing.
I slid the memory core into the reader. It hummed with life, a faint pulsing green as it synced with my neural bridge. My interface flickered. A pulse of static jumped across my optic nerve—not painful, but jarring.
Then it hit me.
A scream. High-pitched, shattering, laced with terror. A child's voice.
I flinched, staggered back into the wall, knocking over a case of interface chips. The scream echoed in my skull like it belonged there. Not just a sound, but a feeling—hot, urgent, real. Not artificial. Not scripted. Not archived.
> "Warning: Memory anomaly detected."
Seren's voice. Crisp, female, neutral. My neural assistant, wired directly into my cognition. She sounded... off.
> "Memory not recognized. Source: unverified. Recommend immediate purge."
My hands shook as I reached for the console. The screen showed a swirling data stream—encrypted, unstable. Red flags across every sector. This memory wasn't supposed to exist. No core this old should even be functioning.
But something about it felt alive.
Then the voice came.
"Elian..."
I froze.
"Elian, don't forget me..."
A girl's voice. Familiar. Haunting. And absolutely impossible.
My name wasn't in the system. None of the memories I accessed—none of the clients I served off the Dominion grid—should have any idea who I was. That name wasn't supposed to be in there.
> "Seren," I said quietly. "What's the source ID on this memory?"
> "Source unknown. Encryption level: Quantum-6. Access forbidden by Dominion protocol."
Quantum-6. That was Ministry-level. The kind of encryption used for black sites, redacted wars, and covert operations no one acknowledged.
> "Delete it," I whispered.
> "Confirm deletion? This action cannot be reversed."
I hesitated.
That voice. That scream.
I pressed the command.
The core blinked once. Then the data stream collapsed. Gone. Just like that.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd made a mistake.
Because for a moment, I remembered something. Something real. A feeling I hadn't experienced in years.
Fear.
And then came the silence.
---
The next morning, Seren was gone.
Not quiet. Not glitched. Just... absent.
I tapped the implant access port beneath my left ear. Nothing. No startup chime, no neuro-pulse. Just a strange emptiness in my mind, like a room I used to live in now stripped bare.
> "Seren, run diagnostic," I said aloud.
No response.
> "Seren?"
Nothing.
I sat up from my cot in the cramped, windowless cube I called home. The city hummed above me, mechanical and indifferent. My personal systems were still functioning—retinal display, vitals monitor, hydration alerts. But Seren, the AI assistant that governed my emotional balance and interface protocols, had gone dark.
And that shouldn't be possible.
I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
Could the memory core have caused it? Or had I triggered some kind of fail-safe?
Neither answer comforted me.
Then came the knock.
Three short raps. A pause. Two more.
The Ministry's signal.
I didn't move at first. Just stared at the door, my thoughts racing. I hadn't reported anything. Seren was supposed to do that. So if they were here...
They already knew.
I approached the door, activated the retinal feed. A tall man in gray stood outside. Impeccable uniform. Pale eyes. No emotion.
Emotional Integrity Division.
He didn't speak until the door hissed open.
"Elian Rho," he said. Not a question.
"Yes," I replied carefully.
"You've been flagged for irregular cognitive activity."
I blinked. "That must be a mistake. My Seren assistant is down. I haven't logged any anomalies."
He tilted his head. Calm. Almost... amused.
"Yes," he said. "We know."
---
They didn't take me to a detainment cell.
They took me to a calibration center—a sterile facility draped in white, silver, and soft light. Clean. Clinical. Comforting, in a way that made my skin crawl.
A technician guided me into a chair with built-in restraints. They didn't activate them, but the message was clear.
Another man entered. Mid-forties, slick black hair, thin face. No insignia.
He smiled. Too much.
"Mr. Rho," he said. "My name is Hal Veras. I oversee high-level integrity protocols. We just want to make sure everything is... aligned."
"Aligned," I echoed.
He nodded. "We noticed a... dip in your emotional stability index. Minor, but irregular. We take these things seriously."
"My Seren AI is offline," I said. "That's probably why."
He smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Yes. That is... part of the irregularity."
My pulse spiked.
> "Would you consent to a memory audit?" he asked.
> No.
> Absolutely not.
But I couldn't say that.
"I suppose I don't have a choice," I said.
He laughed softly. "Oh, Elian. There's always a choice. Just not always a good one."
He gestured, and a technician moved in behind me. Cold gel against the back of my neck. Electrodes pressed into my skull. The hum of a memory scanner powering up.
> "Please remain still," the technician said.
I closed my eyes.
And waited.
Waited for them to find the scream.
Waited for them to see what I had seen.
Waited for the lies to unravel