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I swallow. “Science,” I say. “And…” The word dies in my throat.

Elara nods, satisfied. “They think the Forgetting erases the past. They’re wrong. It only erases the story. The skills, the muscle, the need—they linger like mold.” She taps her own forehead. “Every week, they send a patrol. The men in uniform. They pretend not to know what’s happening at the boundaries, but they keep me here because I’m the only one who remembers the Zone’s just another experiment. The real test is us.”

I feel the pulse of the pendant, faster now.

Maven edges closer. “Elara, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” she croaks, “that they want us to adapt. To build a human that can survive the new math. And when one pops up—” she points at me “—they send the Captain.”

I lean in, more than I mean to. “Kang?”

She nods, once. “He’s a survivor, too. They keep resetting him, but he always climbs back to the top. It’s his nature. Yours is to build. His is to destroy. They’re waiting to see which wins.”

I glance at my hands, stained with iodine and blood, and wonder how many other lives I’ve lived in this story. Elara’s words swirl around my mind, leaving me in a haze of confusion. For all I know, she could be talking out of her arse, spinning tales that have no grounding in reality. It’s all so bewildering, and I’m left questioning what, if anything, is true.

Elara picks up a jar, unscrews the lid, and pulls out a pinch of something black. She drops it on a square of gauze and folds it into a tight packet, then presses it into my palm.

“For the pain,” she says. “And for the next time you remember.”

I slide the packet into my sleeve, unsure whether to thank her or fear her.

She stands, the movement fluid for someone so old. “Don’t trust the uniforms,” she says, voice low. “Especially not the ones with memories of their own.”

She turns to Maven, and there’s a flash of affection—or regret—in her ruined face. “You take care of her,” she says. “Or next time, I won’t be so nice.”

We leave, the door clanging shut behind us. The two guards outside are gone. The air is colder now, the aurora above shivering with a faint, unnatural light.

Maven is silent as we walk. At the fence, they finally speak. “You okay?”

I nod. “She’s not crazy. Not even a little,” or at least that’s what my gut tells me, even if she does seem batshit crazy.

Maven almost smiles. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

At the hut, I roll the packet between my fingers and stare at the ceiling, piecing together the fragments. Every instinct says to run, but I know the only way forward is through. In the dark, the RadShield glows steady blue, but I swear I feel it shifting—learning, just like me.

The next morning, the settlement is hungover. Every surface slick with dew, every voice low and cautious, as if the market is afraid to jinx the fragile peace that survived the night. Maven finds me at the edge of the plaza, passing me a battered flask and a sandwich of bread and something that tastes like candied onion.

I swallow, then dive right into the matter at hand. “I want to see the old research site,” I declare, omitting any preamble of need or desire. “The one east of the hydro plant, with the perimeter still intact.” I had seen it marked on a map that Maven had at her place.

Maven tenses. “That place is a graveyard.”

“It’s data,” I say. “And I need it.”

They scan the plaza, as if someone might be listening, then lean in. “You know what happens if the Authority catches us out there?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We join the rest of the ghosts.”

Maven sighs, but there’s respect behind it. “Meet me at the gate in ten. Bring only what you can carry.” They vanish into the crowd.

I make a quick sweep through the market. Buy a coil of wire, a zip-tube of glucose tabs, and a single-use distress flare—stupid, but hope is a hard habit to break. At the tent, I strip down to essentials: the RadShield, a water flask, the bloodstained sample kit, and the packet Elara gave me. The rest stays behind. I leave a note in case they need to trade my gear to buy off the guards.

At the gate, Maven’s already waiting, backpack slung over one shoulder, a length of pipe in one hand. We exit through the east breach, the guards ignoring us—after last night, I suspect they’re happy to see us go.

The world outside is a physics experiment gone wrong. The ground is stitched with seams of glass, the air occasionally laced with a hummingbird-fast buzz as a drone passes overhead. We travel light and fast, only stopping to sip water and consult Maven’s battered PDA for coordinates.

The pendant at my neck is alive. In the city, it was just a status indicator; out here, it’s a guide dog. At every cross-current of wind or spike in background radiation, the blue glow flickers, warning me away from dips in the landscape or the still pools that dot the waste. Once, we see a pack of Ghouls in the distance—skinless, slick, moving on all fours—but they avoid us, maybe recognizing the tech or just unwilling to risk another engagement.

After two hours, the silhouette of the research site appears on the horizon: a low, sprawling rectangle of concrete half collapsed, the windows blinded by reflective tape. We take a wide approach, watching for tripwires or sensor clusters. There are none. Whatever defenses once guarded the place are long dead.