Chapter 12
Ash couldn’t sleep.
The dorm was too quiet, the kind of stillness that felt artificial—like the whole commune was holding its breath. The hum of the central systems, usually a comforting white noise, now sounded like the pulse of a watchful eye.
He slid out of bed and slipped his boots on quietly. The lights overhead buzzed in a low amber hue as he moved into the corridor. Every step echoed on the polished synth-stone floors.
The air outside the dorm was colder, drier. Processed. He passed long glass walls that overlooked the perimeter of the commune, where faint warning lights blinked in rhythmic patterns beyond the fence line. Farther out: darkness. The Killing Fields slept like a patient predator.
He walked without a destination, past the hydroponic tanks, past the education pods, until he rounded a utility corridor lined with cleaning drones docked for recharge.
Except one wasn’t docked.
It was moving.
The cleaning bot rolled slowly ahead of him, humming as it went, but something about its rhythm was off—too deliberate, too synced to his pace. Then it stopped. Its red status light blinked. Once. Twice. Then green.
A side panel clicked open with a soft hiss.
Inside, nestled between scrubber arms and a tangled power cord, was a cloth-wrapped object no bigger than a fist. Tightly bound. Clean.
Ash glanced up at the overhead cams. No motion. No lights tracking him.
He reached inside and took it.
The panel hissed closed.
The bot turned and rolled away without another signal. Back into the dark.
Ash stood for a long moment under the buzz of a flickering light. He turned the object over in his hand but didn’t unwrap it.
Not here.
Not yet.
He made his way to the outer quad, where the dead garden sat under a broken light. A few dried husks of once-approved plants crumbled under his boots as he sat on a low concrete barrier. The cool air carried the faint scent of rust and ozone. From this side of the commune, the walls felt closer. Less protective. More like a cage.
Above him, the main screen lit up without warning.
“Tonight, a special appearance—an interview with one of our youngest rising leaders, Corwin, on loyalty, legacy, and leadership.”
Ash’s pulse stopped.
Corwin.
He’d been on feeds before. They’d joked about chasing leaderboard spots when they were younger. But this—this was a broadcast. Prime time. State-backed.
The screen shifted to a pristine studio draped in obsidian tones and chrome. Corwin sat on a raised platform, framed in soft lights that gave him the air of a rising star. His jacket was sleek, lined in subtle gold at the cuffs, with a perfectly centered sigil of the Seven at the collar.
He looked calm. Composed. Polished.
The host beamed beside him, teeth too white under studio lights.
“You’ve quickly become one of the Director’s most trusted advisors, Corwin. But many citizens are wondering—how does that sit with you, knowing your own brother, Ash, has become a symbol of… unrest?”
Corwin tilted his head just slightly.
“Ash has always been passionate. And he’s my brother. I love him.”
His voice was smooth. Balanced.
“But passion without direction becomes chaos. And the Director? He’s given us structure. Discipline. Vision. He’s protected Ash more than Ash realizes.”
A close-up. Corwin’s eyes didn’t flinch.
“I still believe in my brother. I believe he can rise. That’s the beauty of our system—there’s always a path forward. Even for those who stumble.”
The host leaned forward.
“And what would you say to Ash if he were watching right now?”
Corwin’s smile came then. Soft. Measured. Just enough to seem sincere.
“Becoming upwardly mobile isn’t just a status. It’s a choice. A duty. And I hope Ash chooses to walk that path. I’ll always be waiting.”
The interview faded.
Ash stared at the now-blank screen.
His chest burned with something he couldn’t name—grief or rage or some hybrid of both.
He looked down at the object in his coat.
He didn’t know what it was.
But whatever this game was, it wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Chapter Thirteen – Quiet Weight
Ash waited until curfew.
The commune dimmed to its night cycle, the overhead lights shifting to a muted amber glow that barely reached the floor. Surveillance drones still patrolled, but slower now, like sleepwalkers.
He moved through the empty corridor behind the hydroponic wing, silent as shadow. Past the algae tanks and water pumps, through a rust-stained panel door that hadn’t sealed right in years.
The old maintenance closet hadn’t been used in a long time. A cracked mop handle leaned against the wall. The air smelled of mildew and synthetic citrus. Faint, but sharp enough to sting the back of his nose.
Ash slid the door shut and sat on the upturned crate in the corner. He reached into his coat, pulled out the tightly wrapped cloth, and slowly unraveled it.
The object sat in his hand, cool and unfamiliar.
A small rectangle of metal, matte black. Sleek. One edge flattened, the sides smooth except for a faint seam and a dull port at one end. It didn’t move. It didn’t glow. It simply… was.
He turned it over, examining every angle.
No insignia. No buttons. No interface.
It was nothing like the tech in the commune, with their bright screens and chirping alerts. This was quiet. Heavy.
Old.
Ash frowned, thinking back to something he’d seen once—a banned schematic, posted years ago on the side of a recycling chute before the monitors found it and had it scrubbed. He remembered the shape.
This was one of those things.
A device from the pre-collapse world.
A USB drive.
He didn’t know exactly what it stored—or even how to use it. But something about the way Corwin had passed it told him it wasn’t just some archive. It was a key. A seed. Maybe a weapon.
Whatever it held, he couldn’t access it here. Not in the commune, where every port was backtraced, every interface fed into the watchers.
He would need something old. Something disconnected. A relic system from a ruin. Maybe in the Fields. Maybe in New York.
He rewrapped the object in the cloth and tucked it inside the lining of his boot, beneath the heel pad. Tight. Safe.
Then he sat in the silence, letting the hiss of the pipes and the thrum of the night drones wash over him.
For now, he had a secret.
And a reason to survive.
The storm hadn’t arrived yet.
But it was coming.
And Ash intended to be ready.
Chapter Fourteen – The Reframing
Ash woke to the soft hiss of hydraulics.
A robot stood at the end of his bunk. It wasn’t one of the battered maintenance models. This one was sleek—chrome-plated, with a face like a blank slate and arms that ended in sculpted digits instead of tools. Its single optical lens blinked green.
“Subject. Reconditioning package beginning. Follow.”
Ash sat up slowly. Around him, the dorm stayed still. A few heads lifted, but no one spoke. The message was clear: he was being pulled into something that didn’t concern them.
The bot turned and walked. Ash followed.
The reconditioning wing wasn’t like the rest of the commune. It was polished, odorless, humming softly beneath his feet with unseen machines. The halls were wide and clean, lit by soft blue overhead bands. No noise. No echoes. Like the world had been padded to absorb resistance.
The room he was led to was square, dark, and featureless—until the lights dimmed and the walls lit up.
Screens flickered on. Dozens.
“Begin Phase One,” said a synthetic voice, female and warm but cold underneath.
The walls showed footage of Ash. From childhood to now. Clips edited and spliced—his scowls, his refusals, his clashes with guards. No context. Just a pattern of rebellion.
“Ash Danner,” the voice intoned. “Commune ward. Statistically above-average physicality. Below-average compliance. Resistant to guidance. Resistant to purpose.”
New footage replaced the old. Ember smiling, then Ember in a gray facility hallway, her file marked REASSIGNED.
Then came the part that made Ash freeze.
“Ash Danner. Emotional focus: Ember Rae. Romantic attachment confirmed.”
A montage followed—clips of Ember from her feed, soft glances, snippets of her voice singing. Then a still image of Ash watching one of her videos in his dorm, paused mid-expression. The implication was clear.
Ash’s stomach turned.
He’d never even really spoken to her. He’d admired her from afar, sure. Scrolled through her posts late at night. But this?
He wasn’t even sure if what he felt was real love—or just fascination. He’d always been shy. Awkward. Especially around girls. Especially around Ember.
And now the Director had packaged it. Narrated it. Claimed it as fact.
Which meant someone had been watching closer than Ash ever realized.
He felt sick.
Was all of this—his fight, his defiance, his pain—just content to them?
Just another storyline to control?
Mouse, before and after. Sickly and weak. Then enhanced. Glorious.
Corwin. Always watching.
Ash’s fists clenched, but the screens ignored him.
“Phase Two: Narrative alignment.”
The screens shifted again.
Now, Ash’s face appeared on posters, feeds, content channels. Some showed him heroic—THE NEXT HOPE. Others villainous—THE MISTAKE WE LEARNED FROM. His image on protest banners, on promo reels, on hollow ads selling bootleg nutrients and self-help tracks.
Each narrative contradicted the last.
Some praised him. Some mocked him. All claimed to know him.
Ash took a step back.
“Your story is already written,” the voice said. “This is what the people see. This is what they will see in New York. You may contribute… or be replaced.”
A final screen lowered from the ceiling. It showed the Director’s face.
Not a recording.
Live.
A door slid open. The Director entered.
He wore black armor that gleamed like wet stone, and his expression was carved from granite. Behind his eyes, something moved. Not warmth. Not thought. Something colder.
He circled Ash like a predator.
“This is the package,” the Director said. “For New York. Cleaned. Streamlined. Digestible.”
He stopped. Looked around the chamber with something like disgust.
“I’ve always hated this place. The commune. The damp halls. The recycled air. It was never supposed to be permanent. Just a stepping stone.”
His voice dipped.
“I’ve been waiting to get out. New York is where the real power is. Where the Children of the Seven actually live. This?” He gestured around. “This is a training ground.”
Ash said nothing.
“And your brother’s been watching,” the Director added. “He’s seen every second of this.”
That cut.
“You trust him, don’t you?” The Director stepped closer. “You think he’s on your side. Maybe he is. Corwin’s loyal to a fault. But loyalty… loyalty is a sword. One day, he’ll have to choose where it cuts.”
Ash didn’t move.
The Director smiled thinly.
Then he staggered.
His breath caught. He winced, eyes fluttering.
With a sharp grunt, he reached beneath his armor and pulled free a sleek vial—a tube filled with black, viscous fluid. He cracked the seal, tilted it back, and drank.
Ash watched in stunned silence.
The Director exhaled.
The light returned to his eyes. Stronger. Sharper.
“We all have our enhancements,” he said softly. “You’ll see more of that in New York.”
He stepped back toward the door.
“Rest while you can, Ash. The next phase begins soon.”
Then he was gone.
The screens flickered once more.
“Parents: Classified. Former elites. Charges: Subversion, distribution of unsanctioned media, refusal to comply with narrative alignment protocols. Status: Exiled to the Fields.”
Ash stared, every muscle locked.
This was more than they’d ever been told. More than whispers and half-glimpsed records. Official. Cold. And damning.
He didn’t know what to believe—only that he’d never stop looking for the truth.
The screen glitched again.
The Director’s voice returned, echoing almost playfully now:
“You know, it’s funny. I’ve guided you, molded you, watched over you since you were a child. In another life… well, some might say I’m practically your father.”
A pause. A smirk in his voice.
“But don’t get any ideas, Ash. I don’t do the heavy lifting. I leave that to myth.”
The screens cut to black.
And Ash stood in a room full of his own faces.
None of them real.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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