Rain hissed against the battered holo-screen above the alley, each droplet sizzling like a miniature spark. Kyren Sable stood beneath the dim neon glow, coat collar pulled high against the chill. His breath formed ragged clouds in the damp air, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—he allowed himself to believe he felt something warm brushing the emptiness inside him.
He didn't.
A discarded data-pad crunched under his boot as he shifted weight to his other foot, listening for the drone that never came. The projector flickered half dead, spitting out advertisements for MemoryReboot serums and dream-harvest vacations—luxuries for those who could afford to buy back their own past. Kyren remembered them once, not all of them, but enough: laughter in a sunlit courtyard, his sister's voice cracking as she sang karaoke, the smell of rain on asphalt. That life looked like a memory belonging to someone else now—someone with hope in their eyes.
He tapped the cracked visor over his temple. The static hiss gave no answers. His own thoughts bounced off the hollow chamber of his skull, echoing louder than any holo-siren. Since when did forgetting hurt more than remembering?
A sudden scuff behind him. Kyren's hand went to the grip at his hip—an android-blade sealed in a holo-sheath. His fingers found only cold air. He jerked around, motion-cancelling coat sweeping past to reveal the empty stretch of grime-walled corridor. Nothing but dripping pipes and flickering lights. "Beautiful city," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. "Makes a saint into a sinner."
He exhaled and sheathed his nonexistent blade. Leaning forward, Kyren let his eyes adjust. For a brief moment, the world felt weightless—until the phantom touch returned. Soft, like fingertips running along his spine. He jerked again, scanning for movement. The alley was empty, but the hairs on his neck stood on end. The glove on his left hand itched, as though remembering too.
Memoryglitch. Fragment dream. Whatever it was—too many half-truths, too many corrupted files swirling in his head. His temple HUD pinged. A message blinking in low-priority red: "TRACE: REMORA TECH SWARM DETECTED." The word "swarm" made his chest seize. He'd seen Remora drones neutralize psychic operatives with one burst—turned flesh into nothing but screaming smoke.
Kyren ducked into the shadow of a service door, hazy flickers of neon dancing across the rivets. He thumbed the latch release. The door groaned at the hinges, revealing a cramped maintenance cubby lined with pneumatic tubing and flickering coolant. Damp insulation dripped. The kind of place a stray cat wouldn't linger. Perfect.
He sank against the metal wall, gloved fingers resting over the holopad at his waist. Just in case. Kyren closed his eyes, inhaled. Rainfall. Thunder. Footsteps. The cubby's air was rank with coolant and rust, but it felt safer than the streets. Maybe safer than his own mind.
A soft click outside. Remora drone? Or just the wind. His HUD pinged again: "TRACE: SWARM PROTOCOL INCOMING."
He opened his eyes and touched the wall to steady himself. Breathe. Think. The mission had been simple: tail a data courier with supposed dream-grid schematics. Extract information. Get paid. Move on. He'd done hundreds of those jobs—none worth writing home about. But something about this courier's route struck him as wrong. Too many blind spots, too many code shifts mid-transaction. When the courier disappeared into a back alley on Level E-47, he'd followed—and almost immediately regretted it.
The sound came again: a soft scrape, like metal claws on concrete. Kyren pressed his back closer to the cool wall panels, hand hovering over the holo-sheath. If it was a swarm drone—no hope. They hunted in packs, triangulated psychic signatures, and vaporized anything with a thought. His last mission ended with a team of three operatives incinerated in seconds.
The door handle clicked.
Kyren tensed. The door edged open. A woman slipped inside, barely making a sound. Calf-length boots, dark leggings, a tactical vest with pulsing filament lines. She paused in the cramped space, eyes wide in the dim light. She looked—startled—at him.
"Who—?" Her voice cracked.
Kyren shook his head, heartbeat galloping. "Who are you?"
The woman pressed herself against the opposite wall, twisting her coat collar like an unconscious habit. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, and as she cinched her jacket closer, Kyren realized her cleavage was visible in a pale lace top—an impractical choice for a courier. She must have known how to move unseen—and distract.
She swallowed. "Name's Celestine. Celes, if you like. I—I thought this was a safe spot."
He studied her. Blue-tinged shadows under her eyes. The locket at her throat glinted in the neon drizzle: a tiny mechanical daisy. "Courier… schematics?" he asked, voice flat.
She blinked. "Not what I thought they were."
He raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
Celestine's eyes darted toward the door. "They're not just tech drawings. They're blueprints—to rewrite the Dreamgrid core itself." Her voice trembled. "They want to—" She swallowed again, knuckles whitening as she gripped her descender bag. "They want to reset all memory fragments. Everyone's. Wipe them clean. Start over."
Kyren's jaw twitched. "You're joking."
She shook her head. "I wish I was."
He swallowed hard, chest tightening. Reset? That was genocide—of identity. If Remora succeeded, they wouldn't just control memories; they'd erase souls. The city would wake tomorrow like newborns, but who would they be? Who would he be?
A whirring started, faint at first, then a low hum crescendoing. The space trembled. Celestine's breath caught. "They found me."
Kyren pushed off the wall, pulling his holo-blade into existence in one fluid motion. The energy edge shimmered teal-blue, humming. "Stay behind me."
She nodded, eyes wide but resolute.
The door blasted inward—fractured glass raining down—revealing two Remora Swarm units. They hovered on insectile arms, lens arrays scanning. A soft hum of layered circuits. One emitted a Psi-Null field, dampening psychic resistance. The other charged its memory-lash coil—a weapon that would terrify victims into silence.
Kyren crouched, pivoted, and slashed. The holo-lash cut through the first unit's outer shell in a flash. It disintegrated in a burst of sparks. But the second fired first: a red whip of crackling energy arced toward him. Kyren dove, the whip slicing a ragged tear through his coat. He landed on one knee, holo-blade sputtering as the Psi-Null field shattered its energy matrix.
Celestine's hand flew to her locket, eyes wide as she murmured something under her breath. A soft chime rang, and a faint glow radiated from the daisy. The second drone paused, lens focusing on her. Kyren forced himself upright, raising his remaining arm as though shielding her.
For a heartbeat, everything froze—the rain, the neon, the broken cubby walls. Then Celestine stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "Stop."
The drone hesitated. The locket's glow pulsed.
Kyren glanced at her, surprised. "What—?"
She extended her hand, fingertips vibrating with translucent light. The drone's coil unspooled, then retracted. The hum died.
Kyren stared, heart pounding. "You—"
She shook her head, breathing hard. "I didn't know I could—"
The drone's lens flickered, then tilted downward as if bowing. The mechanical insect hovered before them and backed out of the cubby. The second one followed. Both paused at the threshold, then shot away into the rain.
Silence.
Kyren stared at Celestine's trembling hand. Rainwater dripped from her lashes into the glowing locket. "What did you do?" he whispered.
She closed her eyes, voice quavering. "I… saved us."
Kyren holstered his flickering holo-blade. He reached out, gently brushing the glove on her cheek—half to reassure himself she was real, half because he couldn't stop himself. Her skin was warm, wet with rain.
Her breath caught. Blue luminescence from the locket washed over them. Kyren felt something stir inside him—an echo of warmth, a long-forgotten ember.
Behind them, the holo-screen crackled with a Remora advert: "Erase your pain—start anew."
He frowned. Turned off the visor. "No," he said, voice low. "No one erases me."
Celestine met his gaze—steady now, her idealism tempered by fear and resolve. "Then let's make sure they can't."
Somewhere between the hiss of rain and the echo of holo-sirens, Kyren realized two things: the city had just grown a nightmare bigger than he could have imagined, and this woman—this chaotic light—was the only answer he had.
He offered a crooked smile. "Alright, Iris. Let's go crash their party."
She returned the smile, trembling but fierce. Together they slipped from the cubby, vanishing into the neon night.
In that moment, Kyren Sable decided that forgetting wasn't an option—if only because he'd remembered she might still find a way to save him. And if he wasn't worth saving, then he'd damn well fight for his last spark of humanity.
The storm swallowed their silhouettes as they disappeared into the fractured reflections of the city—their rebellion just beginning.