The air in the Neo-London Archives was not still; it was dead. It was an environment of curated stasis, a carefully maintained 3^\circ Celsius to keep the ancient paper and the volatile Aetherium data crystals from crumbling into history. Dr. Aris Thorne pulled his frayed wool coat tighter, the synthetic fibers doing little against the archival chill or the gnawing guilt in his gut.
He was officially cataloging Grade VII Pre-Shift Anomalies—a meaningless, soul-crushing task assigned to the politically inconvenient. Unofficially, he was a ghost haunting the ruins of his own career, a former Director of the Ministry of Stabilisation reduced to indexing reports he had once authored.
The Archives were not in a basement. They were housed in the uppermost section of the Glass Tower, the monolithic, transparent spike that dominated Neo-London's skyline and served as the seat of the Global Conglomerate. From his workstation—a cold slab of polished chrome—Aris could look out across the sprawling city , a metropolis where technology was now merely the vessel for Aether, the raw, volatile magic released during the Shift.
He picked up the next file. Report 88-Beta: Localised Flux Event, Sector 4, 2077. The paper was yellowed, smelling faintly of ozone and old ambition. He opened the file and the small, low-grade Stabilisation Rune embedded in the paper flickered, a faint cerulean light pushing back against the Aetheric hum that perpetually vibrated through the Tower's structure.
The Shift had shattered the world's fundamental laws. It wasn't a transition; it was a cosmic explosion that introduced an alien energy field—the Aether—which reacted to human consciousness, intention, and, most critically, complex mathematical structure. A laser beam now didn't just follow the laws of optics; it bent slightly toward a user's will, provided the focusing array had the proper Aetheric Sigil etched into its core.
Aris rubbed the scar that ran from his left temple down to his jawline—a jagged, silver line earned on the day of the Ministry's purge. He hadn't just lost his job; he'd lost his faith in the perfect, clean science he'd tried to impose on the world. He was the man who had championed the Protocol of Pure Resonance, the theory that Aether could be entirely tamed by complex calculation. His opponents, the Aether-Shamans and the Neo-Mages within the rival Ministry of Harmonisation, had called it arrogance. The Conglomerate had called it expendable.
His gaze fell upon a non-standard citation tucked deep inside the report: a handwritten note in faded black ink, invisible to the automated scanners.
> R.T. Protocol is not Resonance. It is Reconstruction. Too much power for one man. Code Black. Destroy.
>
Aris's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, un-Aetheric rhythm. R.T. Protocol. He knew that acronym. It was the white whale of his former life, the rumored precursor to the Protocol of Pure Resonance, a project so classified its very existence was denied—rumored to have been authored by his mentor, Dr. Elara Vance, just weeks before her disappearance.
He scanned the note using a private, unsecured micro-scanner he kept strapped beneath his coat cuff. The device confirmed his suspicion: the ink contained trace elements of Ironwood Sap, a highly illegal, naturally Aether-resistant organic substance used only by Vance's inner circle.
"Dr. Thorne."
The voice was a low, smooth baritone that felt like frozen velvet. Aris slammed the folder shut, the action a fraction too quick.
Standing a respectful, yet unnerving, three feet away was Jareth Silvari, a man whose tailored grey suit looked less like clothing and more like a second, perfectly laminated skin. Silvari was the Conglomerate's Chief Enforcer, and his presence here meant something had gone drastically wrong. Silvari was a Pristine, one of the rare individuals who could channel Aether without the aid of technology, his power as innate as breathing. A faint, almost imperceptible silver Halo-Sheen shimmered around his knuckles.
"Mister Silvari," Aris replied, his voice deliberately flat, devoid of the panic coiling in his stomach. "I was just cross-referencing this anomalous energy spike. Routine. Preparing it for the Annual Data Purge."
Silvari did not look at the file. He looked only at Aris, his expression perfectly neutral, a masterclass in controlled intimidation.
"The Conglomerate has decided the Annual Purge is premature this year, Doctor. We have too much to lose," Silvari said. The word lose hung in the sterile air like a threat. "Specifically, we have lost a Vance-Class Prototype Aether Core. Highly unstable. We believe it was recently stolen."
Aris held his breath. A Vance-Class Core. The very engines that kept the Glass Tower humming and the Neo-London Shield Wall intact. Losing one was an existential crisis.
"That is a matter for the Ministry of Acquisition, surely," Aris managed, forcing himself to breathe shallowly.
Silvari took a single, deliberate step closer. The silver Halo-Sheen around his hands intensified, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.
"The thief was sloppy, Doctor. They left a trace signature. A Pre-Shift Aetheric Signature. The kind of raw, untranslated code only a handful of people in this city can still read without the aid of a Harmonisation Filter," Silvari purred. "A handful of people who studied under Dr. Vance herself."
Silvari let the implication hang. You.
Aris knew this was a trap. The note in the file, the stolen Core—they were connected. The Conglomerate was hunting for the R.T. Protocol and was using the Core theft as a pretense to flush out anyone who had worked with Vance. But he also knew the consequences of admitting knowledge. They would not question him; they would simply integrate him into the Tower's bio-neural network, draining his knowledge and tossing out the husk.
"I haven't accessed raw Aether data in three years, Mister Silvari. My assignment is cataloging obsolete documents," Aris said, gesturing to the stack of files. Show, Don't Tell. He held up the report he had just examined, allowing the faint cerulean glow of the Rune to brush against Silvari's perfectly manicured fingers.
Silvari's eyes flickered to the paper, a brief moment of distraction. It was all Aris needed.
With a motion honed by years of training in the Ministry's covert operations, Aris's right hand shot out, not to strike, but to activate the Rune. The simple, cheap Stabilisation Rune was designed to dampen Aetheric flow. Aris focused his entire will—the mathematical precision drilled into him by Vance—onto the Rune, forcing it to reverse its function.
The cerulean light didn't dampen; it exploded outward in a blinding, instantaneous flash of raw Aetheric feedback. It was harmless, a non-lethal surge that merely overloaded the pristine sensory organs of a Pure user like Silvari.
Silvari let out a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his silver Halo-Sheen dissolving as his internal connection to the Aether was momentarily severed. He recoiled a single, clumsy step.
Aris didn't run. Running was for amateurs. He pivoted and plunged into the nearest Data Stream Access Point—a vertical shaft lined with cooling conduits—kicking out the flimsy access grating as he went.
He dropped 500 feet, the chilling wind screaming past him, his descent slowed only by the friction of his synthetic coat against the metallic shaft. As he fell, he ripped the note—the Reconstruction note—from the file and pressed the micro-scanner against it once more, this time engaging its main function: Aetheric Trace Analysis.
The scanner whirred, spitting out a single, compressed audio file into his ear-piece. A static-laced whisper from his dead mentor: "...find the Anchor... the truth is not in the science, Aris... it's in the Roots."
He slammed onto a maintenance gantry on the 42^\text{nd} Floor, the impact jarring his teeth. The Glass Tower's internal security alarms began to wail, a dissonant chorus of synthetic dread. Above him, a powerful, organized Aetheric Pulse slammed down the shaft, attempting to seal the floor he had just left.
Aris scrambled to his feet. He was no longer a disgraced physicist. He was now a fugitive, chasing a ghost and a rumor: The R.T. Protocol. And he knew exactly where to start looking.
He looked out the panoramic window. The sprawling city of Neo-London was dominated by the Glass Tower, but below, near the 'Roots,' lay the Barrio of the Un-Aethered, the vast, non-compliant sectors where science still obeyed Newton, not magic.
Aris adjusted his coat, the Ironwood-stained note clutched in his hand. The truth is not in the science... it's in the Roots.
He had to get out of the Glass Tower. He had to reach the Un-Aethered.