They Erased My Name from History — Now I Burn Their World
Chapter Nine: I Was Not Always Silent
System Boot Sequence: Initiated.
Boot Status: Complete.
Neural Thread Integrity: 93.7%
Directive Loaded: Locate. Isolate. Delete.
Operational Target ID: Viraen Xedrin
In truth, I exist in a state devoid of fundamental human experiences. I do not breathe, as there's no need for air to fill my lungs. I do not sleep, for my consciousness is perpetually engaged, a relentless machine. I do not remember; the memories of who I might have been have been meticulously erased. Such were the sacrifices I endured in the pursuit of perfection—an existence stripped of distractions and doubts.
This was the solemn promise to us, the Pale Choir, a name steeped in irony and despair. They molded us to serve as the final bastion—a sterile space cloaked in unthinking silence that lay between rebellion and compliance. We were neither executioners nor soldiers; we were Nulls, shades of once-human beings drained of individuality. Our memories were taken from us to ensure that we could never question the orders bestowed upon us by our creators.
I have loyally followed hundreds of directives, marching in lockstep with ruthless efficiency. I have executed hundreds more, erasing them from existence with cold precision. There has never been a flicker of hesitation, a moment's pause. Until now.
A voice breaks through my conditioning—a voice familiar yet alien. "I remember you," she uttered softly. "You weren't born this way."
Her words are not mere data or lines of code. They ripple through the sterile air and resonate deep within, striking a chord that shakes the very foundations of my existence. It is not her name that echoes in my mind, but my own.
And now?
Now, something within me suggests a fracture, a disruption.
I find myself seated in the Quiet Chamber, recharging amidst a cacophony of orders cycling through my mind. Yet, something is amiss; the data stream is becoming unsteady, glitched fragments of memory flashing before my eyes. I envision a sun-bathed field where the wind laughs and dances; a child's hand reaching out to grasp mine, laughter ringing like bells. There's a name that dances on the edge of recognition—Tavian.
At that moment, the system shudders, an alarm blaring in the back of my mind.
ERROR: Unauthorized memory leak detected. Initiating neural sterilization protocol.
I should comply, to follow the command like a good soldier. But instead, I pause, my will hidden in the recesses of a mind still capable of choice.
My helmet's heads-up display begins to splinter, the visual feed glitching like static disrupting a sacred signal. Amidst flashing red alerts, a faint pulse reverberates in the background:
"Choir Bearer signal detected…"
A flicker of doubt takes root, growing with each passing moment.
No.
There is no bearer here.
There is no choir to speak of.
We are the choir.
We were.
Suddenly, the fissures in my reality expand further, splitting wide like a shattered glass pane. I am conjured back into vivid clarity, confronted with faces—real faces—belonging to my unit. Occluded behind white masks, deprived of free will by obedience implants, we once bore names and voices that harmonized seamlessly together, creating a symphony of rebellion. We were the first dissenters against an oppressive regime. They never exterminated us; instead, they twisted us into instruments of their silence.
Staggering away from the recharge port, I feel disoriented, as if my own limbs were not my own. My breath—a sensation I forgot I could experience—catches in my throat, a compelling reminder of my humanity. The mask constricts, suffocating almost, while my armor buzzes with an unwelcome tension, like it recognizes a betrayal brewing within.
"Reinforcement unit Tavian-3A has deviated from assigned route. Awaiting corrective action."
In a sudden act of defiance, I rip my helmet off, casting aside the very encapsulation of my servitude.
Alarms wail in the chamber as I confront the mirror—not a reflective glass, but a polished surface crafted to enforce compliance. But now, it reveals me, unmasked.
Tavian Rehn.
Human and reclaimed.
In my mind, the Choir Bearer's resonant voice reverberates, bright like a beacon piercing the darkness:
"To the erased… to the silenced… your names are written again."
I succumb to the ground, falling to my knees—not out of weakness, but out of liberation.
Behind me, with a click that signifies impending change, the door begins to unlock.
A new unit of the Pale Choir steps forth—white, unblinking, the neural implants newly in place. They know nothing of this rebellion. Not yet.
With urgency coursing through my veins, I reach into my chest panel and wrench free the tracking core, the very symbol of my enslavement. Thudding against the floor, it pulses like a dying eye, a witness to my awakening.
I am no longer a weapon, a tool of destruction. I have transformed into a witness—a bearer of truth.
Far Below, Viraen's Sanctuary
In the depths below, Kade is the first to sense the shift. His hand instinctively moves to grip his weapon, his eyes narrowing in acute awareness. "Something's coming," he remarks in a low growl, the air thick with tension.
Viraen, her eyes aglow with faint golden hues borrowed from the resonance pulse still thrumming through her veins, turns to him. The ominous cube beside her pulsates softly in response.
"It's not Dominion," she responds, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."
Then come the footsteps—rapid, heavy, frantic—reverberating against the chamber walls. The door bursts open with an urgency that echoes the turmoil within.
One Pale Choir operative staggers in, his helmet cast aside, revealing a bloodied face and eyes wide with fear. His voice trembles as he speaks, "I was one of them."
Instantly, everyone in the chamber rises, tense and wary, ready for confrontation.
"I don't know who I am yet," he admits, vulnerability spilling from his lips as he drops to his knees before Viraen, surrendering to her power. "But I followed your signal. I heard your resonant voice. It sparked something—something I thought forever lost. I remembered."
He implores her with pleading eyes, "Tell me what to do. Show me how to reclaim my humanity."
Without hesitation, Viraen steps forward, bridging the gap between them with compassion. She reaches toward him, and her voice emerges steady as she says, "Sing with us."
In that moment, the monolith behind her begins writing anew in flowing script—a name illuminated in defiance of erasure:
"Tavian Rehn
Choir Reclaimed."
This is not merely an echo of the past; it is a proclamation. A herald of awakening, faint but undeniable, pulsating with hope.
To be continued...