The deeper Nero and Helia ran, the colder the air became, as though the Archive itself were shedding warmth the farther they moved from its living systems. The familiar hum of machinery gradually faded behind them and was replaced by a silence so dense it pressed against Nero's ears, thick enough to feel intentional, like the facility was holding its breath and waiting.
The corridor they finally stumbled into looked abandoned in a way that went beyond neglect. A fine layer of dust coated the floor, undisturbed by footprints for years, perhaps decades. Faded holographic panels clung weakly to the walls and flickered in and out of existence while displaying fractured schematics of rooms that no longer existed or had never been completed at all.
Helia slowed first with her breathing sharp but controlled and her baton raised as her eyes swept every shadow and recess with practiced precision.
"We're out of the active sectors," she whispered. "That's why it's quiet."
Nero nodded, though his heart refused to slow. The Architect's voice still lingered inside him like a bruise beneath the skin, dull and aching and impossible to ignore.
"That thing behind us," he said quietly while breaking the silence, "the Reconstruction Unit... what does it actually do?"
Helia didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice was stripped of comfort.
"Locate. Restrain. Return."
She paused, then added softly, "It only exists for prototypes."
Nero felt his throat tighten. "Meaning me."
"Yes."
He swallowed hard. "Why would they need something that big to retrieve one person?"
Helia met his gaze. "Because prototypes are unstable," she said. "Even now, your core fluctuates when you're afraid or under stress. The Unit is designed to overpower that instability if containment fails."
She didn't soften the truth. She never did.
They moved on until the corridor widened into a larger room that had once been a workspace. Broken tables lay scattered like fallen ribs while datapads sat cracked and half-buried beneath dust. At the far wall, a massive holographic board flickered erratically with its surface crawling with static symbols.
Helia approached it slowly and brushed her fingers across the edge. The panel sparked and then stabilized, glowing faintly.
"Nero..." she breathed.
He stepped beside her.
The board displayed a diagram of a human body, faceless and nameless and reduced to lines and markers. Circles and annotations traced the chest, arms, spine, and skull. At the center of the diagram was a single glowing point.
Nero's chest tightened painfully.
"That looks like my core," he whispered.
Helia nodded. "Construction notes. Very old ones."
The symbols beside the diagram flickered and shifted between unfamiliar languages and fragments Nero could almost recognize, like memories hovering just beyond reach.
"All of this," he murmured, "was about me?"
"No," Helia said gently. "Not just you."
She pointed to the bottom of the display.
A sequence of numbers glowed faintly.
Zero. One. Two.
All the way to twelve.
Nero frowned. "What are those?"
"Batch identifiers," Helia said, her voice tightening. "Attempts."
Cold spread through Nero's limbs.
"So there were others."
Helia didn't answer. She didn't need to.
He stepped back and stared at the numbers as though they might explain themselves if he looked long enough.
"Helia," he said, his voice trembling, "how many lived?"
She hesitated.
Nero met her gaze with desperation breaking through his control. "Tell me."
Her answer came barely above a whisper.
"None."
The word hollowed the room.
Nero's breath hitched with his chest tightening until it felt impossible to draw air.
"I'm the only one?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Because the core killed them," he said numbly. "Like it almost killed me."
Helia stepped toward him. "Nero—"
"No." He backed away. "Let me understand this. They tried eleven times before me. Eleven children. Eleven failures."
Helia closed her eyes.
The room seemed to tilt. Nero braced a hand against the wall with his palm trembling.
"I'm not special," he whispered. "I'm just the last attempt."
"You're the first success," Helia said firmly.
"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Nero—"
He turned away sharply as anger and grief twisted together inside him.
The lights dimmed suddenly and flickered in response to the instability radiating from him.
Nero forced himself to breathe.
The lights flickered again, brighter this time.
Helia looked up sharply. "Nero, did you do that?"
"I'm trying not to," he said through clenched teeth.
The lights pulsed once. Then twice.
Then the wall behind Nero changed.
It didn't open or slide apart. It simply reconfigured, as if the concept of a door had been remembered and applied after the fact.
Nero froze.
Helia tightened her grip on her baton. "That's not a distortion," she said. "That's forced reconstruction."
"What does that mean?" Nero asked quietly.
"It means the Archive wants you to see what's inside."
That did nothing to calm him.
Something pulled at him nonetheless, a sensation halfway between dread and recognition.
"I'll go first," Helia said.
"No." Nero shook his head. "This is mine."
He stepped forward and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small and still, bathed in a soft teal glow. At its center sat a single stasis pod that was cracked, inactive, and coated in dust.
Nero approached slowly with his footsteps echoing too loudly in the confined space. Helia followed silently and stayed just behind him.
He brushed dirt from the nameplate.
Time seemed to stop.
NERO VALE — PROTOTYPE 12
Helia exhaled sharply. "Nero..."
"That's me," he whispered. "That's my pod."
She hovered close with her hand near his back but not touching, giving him space without abandoning him.
Nero placed his hand against the cracked glass.
A faint echo brushed his mind, fragile and cold. A child's voice. His own.
"It's cold... don't leave..."
He recoiled with breath shuddering. Helia caught his shoulders and steadied him as the sensation faded.
"This is where I woke up?" he asked hoarsely.
She shook her head. "Prototype pods aren't for waking. They're for containment."
"So I was locked inside."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"We don't know."
The weight of it settled heavily on his chest.
"If this is Prototype Twelve," he said slowly, "then where are Eleven... Ten... Nine..."
He didn't finish. He already knew.
Helia whispered, "Nero, we don't have to stay here."
"No." He gently pulled away. "I need to understand."
He pressed both palms to the pod.
The teal glow flickered and recognized him.
And for one brief moment, he felt another hand overlap his own. A memory. Someone standing outside and whispering softly.
"Stay alive."
Nero staggered back with his breath shaking.
Helia grabbed him firmly. "Nero. Look at me."
He did.
"You are not a failed prototype," she said. "You're alive. You're fighting. That matters."
"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered.
She touched his cheek gently. "You're Nero. And that's enough for now."
The corridor shook violently.
Helia's eyes widened. "We need to go."
Nero took one last look at the pod, his beginning, then turned away.
And he ran.