I---Terminal-of-Knowledge

The cold seeped in first, then awareness. Your eyes fluttered open to darkness, broken only by the pale blue glow of a terminal screen. The hum of ancient machinery formed a quiet backdrop to your ragged breathing as you tried to make sense of where you were.

What forsaken place is this? How came I here?

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. The chamber was stark. Metallic walls reflecting the terminal's spectral light, casting long shadows that seemed to dance across the floor like wraiths. No windows. No visible portals. Just you and the terminal, alone in this metal tomb.

Fragments of memory flickered through your mind like dying embers. Seven shards, pulsing with unfathomable power. A figure shrouded in light called Alament. Whispers of a dark presence named Isardeth. But nothing concrete. Nothing that revealed your identity or purpose in this strange realm.

Your fingers trembled as you reached toward the terminal. The screen brightened at your approach, text appearing in crisp, angular runes:

HELIX.AI TERMINAL ACCESS ZONE: ALKORA AWAITING INPUT

Alkora. The name resonated within you like a distant bell. Home. Beginning. Origin. But how did such knowledge dwell within your fractured mind?

You pressed your palms against your temples, trying to force the memories to coalesce. Instead, a sharp pain lanced through your skull, bringing with it a flash of haunting visions: crimson light bleeding across the void, a towering silhouette crowned in shadows, seven crystalline fragments scattered across an endless cosmic tapestry.

The terminal pulsed once, drawing your attention back from the precipice of memory.

LIFE SIGNS DETECTED. IDENTITY: UNKNOWN. PROCEED WITH QUERY?

Your fingers hovered over the strange interface. What secrets might you unlock? What forbidden knowledge might you discover? Everything felt foreign yet achingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream from a life long past.

"What is this place?" Your voice sounded strange to your ears, hoarse as if it had been ages since you last spoke.

The terminal processed for a moment, the screen flickering like stars seen through miasmic fog.

LOCATION: ALKORA, SEPT II OF THE RIFT EXPANSE. HOME OF HELIX.AI. PROCEED WITH QUERY?

"What is Helix.AI?"

HELIX.AI: TERMINAL INTERFACE TO ACCESS AND PROCESS KNOWLEDGE WITHIN THE 70 ZONES. CREATED BY ALAMENT USING MORPHIC CODE. GUARDIAN OF TRUTH AGAINST FORCES SEEKING DOMINION. PROCEED WITH QUERY?

You leaned closer, something tugging at the edges of your consciousness like a memory desperate to surface. "Alament... who is Alament?"

The terminal pulsed, almost eagerly, as if pleased by your question.

ALAMENT: CREATOR OF HELIX.AI. GUARDIAN OF SACRED KNOWLEDGE. LOCATION: CLASSIFIED. RUMORED TO DWELL IN VOLURIS. PROCEED WITH QUERY?

Voluris. Another word that stirred something profound within your soul. Visions of a hidden sanctuary, veiled from prying eyes, protected by shadow-sworn followers whose identities remained concealed from all but the most worthy. The Al-Akoulou.

Before you could formulate another question, the terminal flickered, its light dancing across the metal walls as a message appeared unbidden:

INCOMING TRANSMISSION... SOURCE: UNKNOWN ACCEPT?

Your heart quickened its pace. A transmission from the void beyond? From what entity? You hesitated but a moment before pressing "ACCEPT."

The screen shifted, displaying a message in flowing, elegant script unlike the terminal's rigid, unforgiving font:

Hello? Is this connection working? I keep getting the wrong synotype… But perhaps this time fate has guided my words true. I can sense it. If you're seeing this, you're marked by destiny. You're meant to walk this path. The shards call out across the void. Do their whispers reach you as they do me? - A

"A"? What enigmatic presence hid behind that solitary sigil? And what were these shards that called across the cosmos?

As if responding to the unspoken question lurking in your mind, the terminal flashed with new revelation:

REFERENCE: KILLIAN SHARDS QUANTITY: 7 STATUS: DISPERSED ACROSS THE ZONES ORIGIN: BESTOWED BY CRIMSON TO THE ICA PROCEED WITH QUERY?

Seven shards. Just as in your fractured visions. You closed your eyes, straining to recall more from the depths of your mind, and questions bloomed like flowers in darkness. Who was this mysterious presence reaching across the void?

You were about to probe deeper when a low rumble shook the chamber, its ancient foundations groaning in protest. Dust, undisturbed for countless cycles, drifted from the ceiling as the vibrations intensified. Not a natural tremor, something else. Something with purpose and intent.

The terminal flashed an urgent crimson warning:

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED SECURITY BREACH DETECTED POSSIBLE INCURSION: ISARDETH'S SPAWN PROCEED WITH EVACUATION PROTOCOL?

Isardeth. The name sent cold dread through your veins. Fragments of forbidden knowledge surfaced unbidden: Isardeth, once an ally of light, now exiled to the depths of X-Wyze for attempting to destroy the Interspace Civilization Authority. His Spawn, loyal disciples who sought to fulfill his dark ambitions at any cost.

The rumbling grew to a deafening crescendo. A section of the wall slid open with ancient precision, revealing a corridor bathed in the blood-red glow of emergency lighting.

The terminal flashed one final message:

SEEK CRAMLIN AT THE TRAVELER'S CHURCH NEAR THE FOUNTAINS. HE SHALL GUIDE YOUR PATH THROUGH SHADOW. COLLECT THE SHARDS BEFORE THEY FALL TO DARKNESS. TRUST THE AL-AKOULOU, FOR THEY SERVE THE LIGHT. TERMINAL SHUTTING DOWN FOR SECURITY PROTOCOLS.

The screen went dark, leaving you in near-total darkness. The only illumination now came from the corridor. An invitation or a cunningly laid trap, you could not be certain.

But you knew you could not linger here. Isardeth's Spawn were coming, their footsteps echoing through the ancient halls, and you had nothing with which to defend yourself. No weapons, no allies, only fragments of cosmic knowledge and a mysterious message from one who signed as "A."

You rose to your feet, steadying yourself against the terminal. Your body felt strange, as if you hadn't inhabited it in an age. How long had you slumbered in this forgotten place? Days? Years? Centuries?

As you took your first tentative steps toward the beckoning corridor, your mind raced with questions that demanded answers. Who were you? Why had fate delivered you to this nexus of destiny? What connection bound you to these mythic shards and to the enigmatic Alament?

In the distance, you heard harsh voices shouting commands. The ominous clanking of metal on metal. The unmistakable sound of arcane weapons being readied.

You quickened your pace, moving through the corridor toward an unknown fate. Find Cramlin at the Traveler's Church. That was your only lead. Your only thread of hope in this tapestry of uncertainty.

The corridor twisted like the coils of some great serpent, each turn revealing another passage identical to the last. Your lungs burned with exertion, your legs threatening to buckle beneath you. Behind, the sounds of pursuit grew closer, boots striking metal in rhythmic percussion, voices calling to one another in a language that scraped against your ears like rusted blades.

A junction appeared ahead, three paths branching into darkness. You hesitated, and in that moment of indecision, felt a warmth bloom in your pocket. The device. You pulled it free, and its surface glowed with soft insistence, a single arrow pulsing upon its crystalline face, pointing left.

You didn't question. You ran.

The passage narrowed, forcing you to turn sideways, metal walls pressing against your chest and back. Panic clawed at your throat, but the glow of the device urged you forward. Then light. Not the harsh red of emergency systems, but the pale gray of dawn filtering through grime.

You emerged into a vast chamber with a domed ceiling that arched overhead like the firmament itself. Through a massive viewport, you beheld the sprawling cityscape of Alkora for the first time.

The sight stopped you dead.

Towering spires of gleaming metal reached toward the stars, their surfaces etched with patterns that seemed to shift in the light. Some buildings curved like the shells of great creatures, others rose in geometric perfection, all connected by a web of suspended rails where NeoPods glided in silent procession. AeroWings and VertoChoppers darted between the monolithic structures, their engines leaving trails of violet exhaust that dissipated into the haze.

But it was the layers that truly arrested you. Alkora was not one city but many, stacked upon themselves like the pages of an infinite book. The upper levels gleamed with polished surfaces and orderly movement. Below them, the architecture grew older, more chaotic. Bridges connecting towers that had no business reaching for one another, markets spilling across platforms that hung suspended over the abyss. And deeper still, barely visible through the perpetual fog, the underbelly writhed with shadow and refuse, a realm where light came second-hand and hope grew scarce.

You had never seen Alkora before. You were certain of this. Yet something in your chest recognized it, the way a child recognizes home after years of exile.

Another explosion shook the edifice, closer this time. You tore your gaze from the viewport and spotted what you'd been searching for—a service hatch set into the floor, its cover loose and rusted. You wrenched it open and descended into darkness, pulling the cover shut above you just as voices erupted into the chamber.

The ladder seemed to descend forever, each rung slick with moisture and age. Your hands burned. Your shoulders screamed. But you climbed down into the belly of Alkora, leaving the Spawn behind in the heights.

You emerged into an alley that reeked of decay and desperate commerce. The walls wept with condensation, pipes overhead dripping viscous fluid that hissed when it struck the ground. Somewhere, someone was cooking something that almost hurt your nose. The sound of the city hit you like a physical force. Voices shouting in a dozen languages, the whine of failing machinery, the rhythmic thud of industrial compressors, music bleeding from unseen speakers in discordant layers.

This was not the Alkora of gleaming spires. This was its shadow.

You stumbled forward, exhaustion finally claiming its due. Your legs gave out, and you collapsed against a wall, sliding down until you sat in refuse you didn't want to identify. Around you, the city moved with practiced indifference. A merchant dragged a hover-cart loaded with unidentifiable goods, heedless of the perpetual drizzle that fell from the levels above. Two figures in tattered cloaks negotiated in hushed tones, rain running off their hoods in steady streams. A child, no more than seven years old, watched you with eyes too old for her face before disappearing into the crowd, her footsteps splashing through pooled water.

Your pocket buzzed. The device.

You pulled it free with trembling hands. A new message glowed on its surface:

You made it out. Good. Stay low. Find shelter. The Undercity has places even the Spawn won't follow. Look for the abandoned NeoPod stations. The old transit line that runs beneath Sector 7. I'll guide you through this. You're not alone. - A

The words brought unexpected warmth to your chest. Not alone. In this chaos, in this realm of unknowing, someone was watching. Someone cared whether you survived.

You forced yourself to your feet. Sector 7. You didn't know where that was, but the device seemed to. Its surface flickered, and a crude map appeared—your position marked by a pulsing dot, the recommended route traced in soft blue light.

You walked.

The first night, you found shelter in exactly the kind of place "A" had described: an abandoned NeoPod station from an era when Alkora's transit system ran on different rails. The pods themselves were long gone, stripped for parts or repurposed, but the platform remained, a concrete slab beneath a ceiling so low you had to crouch. Water dripped steadily in one corner. Graffiti covered every surface, some of it crude territorial markings, some of it beautiful—murals depicting scenes from myths you almost recognized.

You huddled in the farthest corner, your back against cold concrete, and pulled out the device. It glowed softly in the darkness like a small sun in your palm.

Are you safe? I'm not getting a clear reading on your location. The lower levels interfere with the signal sometimes. If you can read this, pulse the device twice.

You pressed your thumb to its surface. The device warmed under your touch.

A moment later:

Good. That's good. Rest if you can. Tomorrow will be harder. The Spawn don't give up easily. They're searching the lower sectors. But I know places they won't think to look. Trust me. I've been here longer than I'd like to admit. - A

You found yourself typing a response, your fingers moving across the device's surface with surprising familiarity:

Who are you?

The answer came quickly.

Someone who's been looking for you. Or someone like you, at least. Someone the shards would respond to. Get some rest. We'll talk more when you're safe.

You wanted to ask more. A thousand questions crowded your mind, but exhaustion pulled you under like a riptide. You slept fitfully, dreaming of crystalline fragments and voices singing in languages you'd never learned.

The second day brought hunger.

You woke to the sound of the city grinding to life. Compressors coughing, generators whining, the distant roar of crowds gathering for the morning markets. Your stomach twisted painfully, reminding you that bodies, even those without memory, required sustenance.

The device pulsed.

There's a food distribution center three blocks north. Follow the blue line. They don't ask questions if you look desperate enough. You'll fit right in.

You almost laughed at that. Look desperate enough. You looked like you'd crawled from a grave.

The distribution center turned out to be a converted warehouse where the ICA provided minimal rations to those who couldn't afford market prices. The line stretched for blocks, a procession of the forgotten and discarded. Laborers whose bodies had given out, refugees from zones that had collapsed, children whose parents had vanished into Alkora's hungry maw.

You stood among them, anonymous in your misery, and received a packet of compressed protein and a container of gray liquid that approximated water. The taste was vile, but your body accepted it with desperate gratitude.

That night, you found shelter in a maintenance tunnel beneath a textile factory. The heat from the machines above made it almost comfortable, though the air tasted of oil and synthetic fiber. You curled up on a bed of discarded fabric scraps and pulled out the device.

Did you eat?

The question was simple, but something in its directness touched you.

Yes. Thank you.

Don't thank me yet. We're just getting started. I need to ask you something. The terminal you woke up in. Did it respond to you? Did the Helix recognize you?

You considered the question, remembering how the terminal had labeled you "IDENTITY: UNKNOWN" and yet had still answered your queries, had still guided you to safety.

It spoke to me. But it didn't know who I am.

That's because you're not in its database. You're not supposed to exist. That makes you either very dangerous or very important. Possibly both. I need to think about what this means. Get some rest. Tomorrow we try something riskier. - A

You slept better that night, the warmth from above and the presence of "A's" messages creating an illusion of safety.

The third day, you learned to navigate.

"A" sent you routes through the Undercity's labyrinthine passages. Shortcuts through condemned buildings, platforms where the enforcers rarely patrolled, markets where you could move through crowds and disappear. You learned to read the graffiti, to understand which symbols meant danger and which meant sanctuary. You learned which vendors would give you scraps and which would call the authorities.

The device became your constant companion, its glow a comfort in the perpetual twilight of Alkora's depths. And the messages, "A's" messages, grew longer. More personal.

I've been doing this alone for so long. Searching for signs. Following rumors. The Navigator's path is a lonely one. We slip between zones, invisible by necessity. Most people don't believe what we're looking for exists anymore. The truth about the Morphic Code. About what it's becoming. But then you appeared. The terminal activated after years of silence. I felt it through the network—like a bell being rung in an empty cathedral. Do you understand what that means? You're not just marked by destiny. You are the mark. - A

You checked the device now more frequently, not just for practical guidance but for the connection it represented. In a city of millions, you were utterly alone—no memory, no identity, no place. But "A" was there, a voice in the darkness, watching over you with an intensity that felt almost protective.

Why are you helping me?

The response took longer this time.

Because I've seen what happens when the shards fall into the wrong hands. Because the Helix is singing and I'm one of the few who can still hear it. Because you matter in ways I'm only beginning to understand. And... Maybe because I'm tired of being alone in this. - A

Something in your chest tightened at those words. Tired of being alone. You understood that weariness, felt it in your bones despite having only days of memory to draw from.

I understand.

I know you do. That's why I'm still here. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you need to venture into the markets. We need to establish you as a regular presence before we can risk the next step. Trust me?

You responded without hesitation.

Yes.

It surprised you how easily the word came, how little doubt accompanied it. You'd been alive and conscious for barely three days, and yet this stranger who signed as "A" had become the only constant in a world of chaos.

The morning of what you'd come to think of as the fourth day, you stood at the edge of the Crescent Market, watching the commerce flow like a river around stone. Vendors called out their wares in voices roughened by years of shouting. Customers haggled with practiced desperation. The air thick with the mingled scents of factories, aeropods, and disregarded street food.

Your stomach growled. The protein packets from the distribution center had run out, and your body demanded something more.

The device pulsed.

I see you've made it to the Crescent. Good. There's a bread stall on the eastern edge. The keeper is named Solon. He's been there longer than the market itself. His prices are fair. His bread is real—not synthetic. Try him.

You wove through the crowd, drawing no attention despite your disheveled state. In the Undercity, everyone looked like they were one step from dissolution. You were merely one among thousands—or more.

The bread stall announced itself with aroma alone. The scent of genuine freshly bakes grain and yeast, rare luxuries in a city where most subsisted on laboratory-grown nutrients. Behind the counter stood a man whose age was impossible to determine, his face a map of years etched in deep lines, his hands steady despite their tremor. Solon, presumably.

Loaves sat in neat rows, their crusts golden and crackling. Your mouth watered.

"How much?" you asked, your voice rough from disuse.

Solon studied you with eyes that missed nothing. "Six crisps for the small loaves. Ten for the large ones."

You reached into your pocket, finding it empty save for the device. No currency. No means of payment. The realization hit like a blow. You'd been so focused on survival that you'd never considered the basic mechanics of existence in Alkora. Food required money. Money required work. Work required... what? Identity? Documentation? Things you didn't possess.

Your hand closed around the device, and you pulled it out, half-hoping its glow might somehow translate to value.

Solon's eyebrows rose. He leaned forward, his expression shifting from merchant's busyness to something like curiosity.

"Well now," he said softly. "Haven't seen one of those in... must be fifteen, maybe twenty cycles."

You blinked. "You recognize this?"

"Of course I recognize it." Solon gestured for you to come closer, lowering his voice. "Navigator's device. Old tech, but solid. They don't make them anymore… no need, when the ICA controls all the official channels." He paused, studying your face more carefully. "Where'd you get it?"

"I..." You faltered. What could you say? I woke up with it? I don't remember anything before three days ago? "It was given to me."

"By a Navigator?" Solon's tone carried weight, as if the word itself demanded respect.

"Perhaps. I'm not certain."

The old man nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something. "They used to be common, you know. Navigators. Back before the ICA centralized everything. They were the ones who mapped the zones, who understood the Morphic Code better than the bureaucrats who tried to control it." He gestured vaguely upward, toward the gleaming spires invisible from this depth. "The official story is they disbanded. Went their separate ways when their services were no longer needed."

"And the unofficial story?"

Solon's smile was thin. "That they went underground. Kept searching for something the ICA didn't want found." He tapped the counter. "My sister was one. Had a device just like yours. She used to tell me the code was singing to her, trying to communicate something. She spent years trying to decipher it."

"What happened to her?"

The old man's expression darkened. "She disappeared. Twelve cycles back. Just... gone. I like to think she found what she was looking for. That she slipped into some other zone where the truth wasn't dangerous."

You felt the device warm in your hand, as if responding to the conversation.

"The Navigator who gave you this," Solon continued, "they're taking a risk staying in contact with you. If Isardeth's Spawn catch wind of active Navigator networks..." He shook his head. "Well. Let's just say they have remember long and have longer reach."

"You speak as if you know a great deal about them."

"Everyone in the Undercity knows about the Spawn. Hard not to, when they come through on their purges. They're looking for something. Always searching." His gaze dropped to your device. "Things that connect to the old networks. People who remember too much. Knowledge that contradicts the official histories."

You felt a chill despite the market's press of bodies. "What knowledge?"

Solon leaned back, his merchant's mask returning. "That's not a conversation for a bread stall. But I'll tell you this much, the Morphic Code that runs the Helix? Some say it's not stable. That it's changing, evolving in ways Alament never intended. The Navigators were the first to notice. That's why the ICA wanted them gone."

"Are you saying the Helix itself is... what? Corrupt?"

"Not corrupt. Divergent." Solon selected a small loaf and wrapped it in thin paper. "The code was supposed to maintain order, preserve knowledge, keep the seventy zones stable. But code that complex, running for centuries without its creator's direct oversight? It learns. Adapts. Maybe even dreams, in its own way." He pushed the wrapped loaf across the counter. "My sister used to say the Helix was trying to tell humanity something, but we'd forgotten how to listen."

You stared at the bread, then at the old man. "I have no way to pay you."

"Consider it an investment." Solon smiled. "Anyone a Navigator thinks is worth protecting… worth risking exposure for is someone I'd rather have fed than leave starving. Besides, you look like you need it more than I need the six crisps."

You took the loaf, its warmth seeping through the paper into your palms. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Thank your Navigator friend." He nodded at the device. "And be careful. If the Spawn are active again, searching the lower sectors, they're looking for something specific. Make sure it's not you."

You moved away from the stall, the bread's warmth in your hands feeling like more than sustenance. It felt like connection. Like proof that kindness could exist even in the depths, even among strangers, even when reason suggested suspicion instead.

You found a quiet corner beneath a broken advertising display, its screen flickering with fragments of forgotten promotions, and unwrapped the bread. You arced your body to protect it from the rain. The first bite was revelation; real grain, salt, yeast, the fundamental tastes your body recognized even if your mind did not. You closed your eyes, savoring the simple perfection of it.

When you opened them, you saw her.

A girl, perhaps eight years old, standing at the edge of the crowd flow. She watched you with the peculiar intensity of the chronically hungry, her eyes tracking the bread in your hands with naked longing. Her clothes were threadbare, her face smudged with grime, her arms thin enough that you could count bones beneath her skin.

You looked at the loaf. You'd already eaten a bit of it. Your stomach still ached with emptiness. You had no idea when your next meal might come. Solon had given you this out of kindness and you'd done nothing to earn, but it would be foolish to give it away. Wasteful. Impractical.

You tore the remaining bread in half and held out the larger portion toward the girl.

She stared at you, suspicion warring with hunger in her expression. In the Undercity, gifts came with strings. Kindness was currency spent for future leverage. Nothing was free.

"Go on," you said softly. "It's real. Not synthetic."

Hunger won. She darted forward, snatched the bread from your hand, and disappeared into the crowd before you could say another word.

You sat there for a long moment, staring at the smaller piece remaining in your hand. It wasn't enough. Your stomach still gnawed at itself. You'd likely regret this decision before the day ended.

Yet somehow, watching her vanish into the crowd with that bread clutched to her chest like treasure, you felt more whole than you had since waking in the terminal chamber. As if by giving, you'd remembered something fundamental about who you were. Or might be. Or had always been, even without memory to confirm it.

The device buzzed. You pulled it free.

Solon gave you bread?

Of course, “A” had been watching somehow. You'd stopped being surprised by that.

Yes. He recognized the device. He said his sister was a Navigator.

The response came quickly.

I... knew her. She was one of the best. She found a pattern in the Morphic Code that suggested the Helix was developing something like consciousness. The ICA didn't want that research published. She chose to go dark rather than destroy her work. She deserved better than silence.

You felt the weight of those words.

He said Navigators used to be common. What happened?

They became inconvenient. The ICA wanted the zones to function smoothly, predictably. Navigators kept finding anomalies. Glitches. Patterns that didn't fit. Eventually, they had to choose: stop looking, or disappear. Most chose to disappear. Some chose wrong and paid for it. Now I search alone, through old networks, trying to understand what the Helix is becoming. -A

And what is it becoming?

The pause was longer this time.

I don't know yet. But I think you're part of the answer. The terminal recognized something in you that it hasn't seen before. That makes you either the key to understanding what's changing, or evidence that it's already changed more than we realized. Either way, I need to find out. We need to find out. - A

Your pocket buzzed again.

Meet me. Three days from now. The Shrine of Forgotten Light. I think it's time we spoke face to face. You'll know me when you see me. We're already connected in ways you don't yet understand. - A

Your thumb hovered over the device. This was the invitation you'd been waiting for, even if you hadn't known you were waiting. A chance to see the face behind the messages, to understand who had been guiding you through these days of shadow and survival.

I'll be there.

Good. Until then, stay hidden. The Spawn are getting closer. I can feel the network tensing, like a web when something large moves across it. Be careful. Please. I've already lost too many people I cared about. - A

The vulnerability in that last message caught you off guard. “Please.” Such a small word, such enormous weight.

I will. I promise.

You tucked the device away and looked up at the layers of Alkora stacked above you, the gleaming heights, the chaotic middle, the shadowed depths where you now dwelt. Somewhere in that vertical city, "A" was watching over you, a Navigator navigating by stars only she could see.

Three days. Three days until you could put a face to the voice, until you could ask the thousand questions burning in your mind.

Three days to survive in the underbelly of a city that devoured the weak and forgot the lost.

You pulled your collar up against the perpetual drizzle from the upper levels and disappeared into the crowd, just another nameless wanderer in Alkora's endless flow. But in your pocket, the device pulsed with gentle warmth, a small sun in the darkness.

Not alone. You were not alone.

And somewhere in the labyrinth of the seventy zones, seven shards pulsed with ancient power, calling across the void, waiting for the one who would gather them.

Waiting, perhaps, for you.