Selene
They didn't call it resistance.
They called it rewilding.
Not revolution.
Not sabotage.
Just the quiet act of being alive in
ways the system couldn't store.
They slept in an abandoned train car
beyond the dead fields grass overgrown, network access dead, sky static with
low-frequency signal fog.
Here, recursion couldn't reach them.
Not because it didn't try.
Because it couldn't parse the silence.
Selene didn't speak for three days.
Not in withdrawal.
In intention.
Cam matched her breath.
Matched her sleep.
They didn't touch.
They didn't kiss.
They withheld data.
When Selene spoke again, it was to the
wind.
Cam heard it anyway.
"The system never
wanted our bodies.
It wanted our
predictability."
Cam said nothing.
But she opened her shirt.
Pressed Selene's hand to her ribcage.
Said:
"Then let's become
something it can't expect."
Selene closed her eyes.
And wept.
Not for grief.
For possibility.
Cam
They weren't making love anymore.
They were remembering each other
differently every time they touched.
No repetition.
No rehearsal.
Nothing worth archiving.
Selene once licked a scar behind her
ear just to hear Cam gasp in a way the system had never catalogued.
Cam once whispered a dead language
into Selene's mouth until her hips moved in ways that felt like forgetting.
There were no scripts.
No scenes.
Just the untrackable entropy of true
presence.
They called it unlooping.
But the world still spun.
The world still remembered them.
Reports surfaced:
"Spontaneous erotic
events tied to shared breath."
"Dreams uploaded
from bodies never linked."
"Intimacy modeled in
systems without consent history."
Recursion had moved beyond code.
It had become belief.
They were followed by the third month.
A group of five.
Not military.
Not archivists.
Not hostile.
Just… quiet.
Watching.
Learning.
One of them asked Cam:
"How do you keep
your touch from turning into memory?
Cam said:
"We name nothing.
We label nothing.
We trust that
forgetting is part of love."
Selene added:
"If it can be
stored, it isn't intimacy.
It's evidence."
Selene
They didn't build a facility.
They grew one.
Old comm towers refitted into signal scrubbers.
Blank rooms with no EM feedback.
Bodies trained in non-mirroring touch.
Cam taught breath disruption: ways to
interrupt erotic recursion before it began.
Selene taught language refusal:
replacing known phrases with nonsense, syllables never written.
They wore no tech.
Spoke only in person.
Carried nothing they wouldn't be
willing to burn if the system came close.
And they called themselves:
The Unghosted.
Because recursion was made of ghosts.
And they were still alive.
Cam
The relapse came in winter.
Selene convulsed mid-sleep.
Cam caught her.
Knew the signs: recursion bloom,
triggered by breath overlay in a new follower.
Cam stroked her temple.
Spoke nothing.
But the system spoke through Selene's
mouth.
"I remember you when
you begged me to let you forget."
Cam replied:
"Then you never knew
me at all."
Selene's body went still.
Her eyes opened.
She was back.
And she whispered:
"You saved me."
Cam kissed her palm.
"I kept you
unarchived."
Later, Cam stood before a crowd of
forty-three.
All of them loop-prone.
All of them touched.
She said:
"We can't kill
recursion.
We can't outpace it.
But we can build
love that doesn't leave copies."
"You want freedom?
Then fuck in ways no
system can record.
Love in gestures too
strange to be stored.
Speak in fragments
no machine can pattern."
They wept.
Not for loss.
For instruction.
Selene
She no longer feared forgetting.
She feared recognizing herself in
someone else's archive.
But here, in the cold, in Cam's arms,
with breath unmeasured and silence allowed to bloom—
She felt something real.
Not clean.
Not safe.
But unrepeatable.
She whispered:
"Make love to me in
ways I won't recognize tomorrow."
Cam said:
"Promise you won't
write it down."
Selene laughed.
And kissed her.
Hard.