The clone didn't wait for an answer.
He moved fast—toward the wall, fingers sliding along the seamless paneling until they found a groove. A click. A hidden door eased open. Hale followed instinctively, eyes flicking between the clone and the hallway behind them where boots were pounding closer.
"Security will sweep this whole level in under two minutes," the clone said. "We go deeper."
"Deeper into what?"
"Truth," he said. "Or whatever's left of it."
They descended into the belly of Black Hollow—an access tunnel beneath the observation cells, narrow and dimly lit. The clone moved with purpose, like he'd traced this path before. Hale stayed behind him, gun still drawn, pulse hammering. His skin crawled with every flicker of motion. He didn't trust this version of himself—but the questions were louder than the danger.
After ten minutes of silence, they reached a steel hatch marked with faded black letters:
ARCHIVE B-7: GHOST LOGISTICS / PROJECT MARIONETTE
"Here." The clone palmed a hidden panel, and the hatch unlocked with a hiss. The air inside was cold. Heavy. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you remember things you weren't supposed to.
Rows of old server towers lined the walls. Analog files stacked in reinforced cabinets. The hum of machines. The clone moved to a terminal, began typing commands faster than Hale could follow.
"This is where they kept the old logs," he explained. "Before the upgrades. Before they started erasing paper trails."
Hale paced, eyes scanning for danger. "What exactly is Project Marionette?"
The screen lit up.
Dozens of file names populated the feed:
M-001
M-002
M-003
…all the way to M-014.
Fourteen subjects.
Fourteen versions of the same man.
He stepped closer. One file was labeled: "Marionette: Subject M-008 – Hale, Matthew"
The clone didn't look at him. "That's you."
Hale clicked the file open. Data spilled across the screen—biometrics, neural imprint patterns, memory constructs. And then, a word stamped in red across the page:
STATUS: Expendable
His stomach twisted.
"This... this isn't a military experiment," he muttered. "This is mind control."
"No," the clone said quietly. "It's worse. It's replacement. They weren't building weapons. They were building obedience."
He pulled up another file: GHOST PROTOCOL
It detailed the implantation of fabricated memories into genetically matched assets. Trigger phrases. Emotion simulations. Entire identities built to mimic real people who had been silenced.
Including the original Matthew Hale.
Hale stumbled back from the screen. "I'm not even real."
The clone's voice was quiet. "You're as real as they made you. Just like me."
A loud buzz filled the air—an alert from the facility's central command. Hale looked at the screen:
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED – ARCHIVE B-7 LOCKDOWN INITIATED
"Time's up," the clone said. "We have to move."
"Where?"
"To the core. Where they stored the backups. If we don't wipe them, they'll rebuild us again."
Hale hesitated. "Why help me?"
The clone's expression darkened. "Because I remember what they did to me. And what they're planning to do to you."
As they ran, the lights cut out. A mechanical voice echoed through the tunnels:
"Marionette Protocol: TRIGGER ENGAGED."
And then Hale's knees buckled—vision blurring—his own body turning against him.