Code of Corruption

The holographic code patterns flickered across Rex Chrome’s face like a fractured neon mask, casting jagged shadows over the corpse. He knelt, the servos in his augmented knees whining softly, and scowled at the dead data scavenger. The man’s neural ports were scorched, his hands still clutching a memory shard—a jagged sliver of glass humming with stolen code.

“Another one,” Rex muttered, his bass voice barely audible above the steady drip of condensation from the code lichen overhead.

The Shattered Spires’ lower levels reeked of ozone and desperation. Around him, the frozen “wreckage waves” of the Data Crash loomed like twisted monoliths, their surfaces crawling with code lichen that pulsed faintly in blues and greens, as if the city itself were breathing. Up above, the Barony elites sipped synth-wine in diamond-lit penthouses, their ornamental A.I. cores projecting cascades of flawless, meaningless pixels across perfect skin. Down here, the Spires bled corruption.

“Cause of death?” Rex growled, his voice filtered through a vox-modulator to hide the weariness that had been creeping into his tone over the past few months.

The forensic synth, a clattering drone with too many limbs, chirped as it continued its scan of the victim. Its voice was irritatingly cheerful, pre-programmed courtesy that felt obscene in this dark corner of the Spires. “Neural overload, Detective Chrome. Signature matches the last three victims with ninety-seven percent certainty.”

Rex’s A.I. core flared without his permission—a status symbol he’d never wanted, grafted into his skull after a Barony “promotion.” It now projected a garish fractal across his jawline, pulsing in time with his growing irritation. The core was supposed to “think in prettier pixels,” as the Baronial surgeon had proudly explained. All it did was mark him as property.

He deactivated it with a mental snarl, leaving his face in shadow. The shard in the corpse’s hand glinted, catching the diffuse neon from a half-broken sign advertising “Premium Neural Mods – FEEL MORE, REMEMBER LESS.”

Rex pried the shard free, ignoring the synth’s warning about evidence protocols. The shard’s surface shimmered beneath his touch, revealing fragmented data: a transaction log between a Syntax Sultanate trader and… Baroness Veyra’s encrypted sigil.

His stomach turned. Veyra chaired the Barony’s “Ethics Council.”

“Run a full spectrum analysis on this,” he ordered the synth, dropping the shard into an evidence bag that immediately sealed itself, quantum-locked to his biometric signature. “And scrub all surveillance of this location for the past forty-eight hours.”

“Compliance probability low,” the synth chirped. “Baron-level authorization required for surveillance access in this sector.”

Rex straightened to his full, imposing height, the Barony insignia on his coat catching what little light penetrated to this level. “Override: Chrome-Victor-404-Crash.” He hated using the authority code, but he needed those feeds.

“Processing override.” The synth’s lights flickered as it processed the command. “Override accepted. Data analysis underway. Warning: Barony notification protocols activated.”

Of course they were. The Baronies monitored everything, especially their own enforcers. He had perhaps twelve hours before someone higher up the chain took notice of his digging. Twelve hours to find connections, to understand why data scavengers were dying with shards that implicated a Baron.

The dead man’s face was frozen in a rictus of pain, or perhaps surprise. One more casualty in the Spires’ endless games of power.

“Identification?” Rex asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“Viker Noll, age approximately thirty-four. No registered employment. Multiple citations for unauthorized data retrieval and memory market violations.”

A scavenger, then. Like the others. People who sifted through the digital detritus of the Data Crash, looking for valuable fragments to sell in the Memory Markets of Neo-Babylon.

Rex’s gaze traveled from the body to the surrounding area—a maintenance tunnel beneath the fifty-seventh level of the Western Spire. The walls were stained with the telltale iridescent smears of code leakage, the byproduct of the Data Crash that had warped reality two centuries ago. Most of the stains were old, but one glistened wetly near a service panel.

“Fresh leak,” Rex murmured, approaching it carefully. The forensic synth chirped a warning about contamination, which he ignored.

The code leak had burned through the service panel’s outer casing, revealing a mess of circuits and optical cables. And there, wedged between two fiber optic bundles, was another memory shard—smaller than the one the victim had been holding, and pulsing with a different rhythm.

Rex extracted it carefully, using the insulated gloves built into his augmented left hand. This shard wasn’t tagged with Barony sigils or Sultanate encryption. Instead, it bore the unmistakable corrupted cross pattern of underground data.

Neurospora.

He pocketed the shard before the synth could scan it, ignoring the twist of guilt in his gut. This wasn’t evidence—at least, not yet. This was a lead he needed to pursue personally.

“Complete your analysis and file the standard reports,” he instructed the synth. “Route your findings to my personal terminal, enforcement code RC-287.”

“Compliance confirmed. Additional instruction?”

Rex looked once more at the body of Viker Noll, another nobody who’d stumbled onto something bigger than himself. “Notify next of kin, if any. Standard Barony compensation package.”

The synth bobbed in acknowledgment, its mechanical limbs already at work collecting samples from the corpse. Rex turned and walked away, the sound of his boots on the metal walkway echoing in the cramped space. The smell of burnt neural tissue and ozonic residue clung to his coat, but he was long past noticing such things.

As he reached the antigrav lift that would take him back to the precinct, his A.I. core activated again, unbidden, sending cascades of meaningless beauty across his face. A passing Barony citizen—slumming it in the lower levels, probably looking for cheap thrills—noticed the display and nodded respectfully, assuming he was someone of importance.

Rex stepped into the lift, ignoring the gesture, and pressed his palm against the scanner. As the doors closed, he reached into his pocket and felt the Neurospora shard, its edges sharp even through his gloves. Whatever song or message it contained, it was contraband of the highest order. Simply possessing it could cost him his position, his augmentations, perhaps even his freedom.

But four dead scavengers and a Baroness dealing with Syntax Sultanates demanded answers that wouldn’t be found in official channels.

The lift surged upward, carrying him through the layers of the Western Spire, past the hovels of the underclasses, through the commercial sectors with their gaudy advertisements and reality emporiums, and finally into the rarefied air of the enforcement levels.

Here, the walls were clean, the lighting precise and flattering. Fellow enforcers passed him in the corridors, most bearing their own A.I. cores, though few as advanced as his own. That was the reward for solving the Meridian Massacre last year—an “upgrade” that bound him more tightly to the Baronies, even as it supposedly marked him for greater things.

His office was spartan, with only a terminal, a chair, and a small cabinet of physical evidence that couldn’t be digitized. He locked the door behind him—a suspicious act in itself in the transparent hierarchies of the Baronies—and placed both shards on his desk.

First, the official evidence. He connected the shard to his terminal, watching as the fragmentary data coalesced into readable form. Transaction logs, as he’d suspected. Baroness Veyra had been trading with a Logic-Lord from the Credit Caliphate, one of the more powerful Syntax Sultanates. The commodity wasn’t specified, but the amounts were staggering—enough Error Coins to buy a small section of the Spires outright.

Rex dug deeper, his augmented eyes scanning the code for hidden patterns. There, beneath the transaction logs: a manifest. Memory packages. Thousands of them, each bearing the unmistakable signature of bufferized consciousness. The Baroness wasn’t just trading with the Sultanates; she was selling them people—or what remained of people after the Data Crash.

The bufferized were supposed to be protected under the Ashen Accord. Humans handle flesh, A.I. handles code. That was the agreement that had prevented total war after the Crash. Selling bufferized consciousness to a Sultanate wasn’t just unethical; it was treasonous.

Rex leaned back, the implications settling like lead in his gut. Baroness Veyra, with her public commitment to “ethical integration” and her charity foundations for Crash victims, was trafficking in the digital souls of the bufferized. And someone was silencing the data scavengers who had stumbled onto her scheme.

The second shard beckoned, its corrupted cross pulsing faintly in the dim light of his office. Neurospora. The banned audio insurgents whose tracks Rex secretly collected. Their music spoke to something in him that the Barony’s order and hierarchy never could—a yearning for authenticity in a world where even emotions were taxed and regulated.

He hesitated, then connected the shard to his private audio implant rather than the terminal. No record that way, no trace for the Barony monitors to detect.

The music hit him like a physical blow, bass vibrating through his skull, synthetic drums pounding in counterpoint to his heartbeat. ZaZa’s voice, raw and urgent, spilled into his consciousness:

“Crack the vat, bru—mycelium rise! Lab-grown rage in a petri-dish sky. Hosaka’s grip? Nah, hyphae splice, We bloom in the static where firewalls die…”

The track was called “Spore Protocol,” a chaotic blend of industrial rhythms and corrupted code harmonics. But beneath the music, embedded in the frequency shifts and digital artifacts, was data—coordinates, a time, and a simple message: “Memory thieves feed the Machine. Witness the harvest.”

Rex checked the time stamp. The coordinates pointed to a location in the Data Scar Lands, at the edge of the Glass Deserts. The meeting was scheduled for tonight, less than six hours from now.

He disconnected both shards, securing the evidence shard in his terminal’s quantum vault and pocketing the Neurospora shard. A decision crystallized in his mind: he would go to those coordinates alone. No backup, no official report. Not yet. Not until he understood what Baroness Veyra was truly involved in.

His A.I. core pulsed again, projecting a particularly ornate pattern across his face. For a moment, he thought he detected a hint of disapproval in the design, as if the core itself was questioning his decision. Ridiculous, of course. The core was decorative, not sentient.

Still, as he left his office and headed for the armory to requisition additional weapons for his “ongoing investigation,” Rex couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched—not just by the ubiquitous surveillance systems of the Baronies, but by something much closer. Something grafted into his very skull, presenting his face to the world in “prettier pixels” while silently monitoring his every thought.

The memory market in Neo-Babylon was a cacophony of haggling voices and flickering holos, a sensory assault that never quite registered as genuine. The floating citadel’s markets were known for specializing in nostalgia—bottled emotions and experiences from before the Crash, carefully preserved and repackaged for the jaded elite who had never known true scarcity or fear.

Rex moved through the crowd, his trench coat synced to the local surveillance grid—a perk of Barony authority that he rarely used but couldn’t afford to forgo today. He hated how easily the market bent around him, vendors and customers alike sensing his enforcement status and giving him a wide berth. Their wariness was a constant reminder of what he represented to them: the heavy hand of Barony law.

His A.I. core was projecting a subdued pattern today, a rippling series of geometric forms that marked him as on-duty but approachable. Another mask to wear, another lie to live.

The shard’s data trail had led him here, to a vendor named Krell. According to the precinct’s database, Krell was a mid-level memory broker with a record of minor infractions but no major violations. His stall was tucked away in a corner of the market, less ostentatious than the garish emporiums that catered to tourists and thrill-seekers.

Krell himself was a hunched figure with scavenge scripts tattooed across his eyelids—a gesture of devotion to the Data Vultures that Rex found unsettling. The tattoos shifted as Krell blinked, the scripts continuously rewriting themselves in faint luminescent ink. He was selling “nostalgia loops” of pre-Crash sunsets and first kisses, memories salvaged from the digital detritus of the old world.

“Premium emotions, guaranteed authentic,” Krell called out as Rex approached. “Feel the warmth of real sunlight on skin, the touch of a lover who actually cared. None of that synthetic stuff they’re pushing in the Upper Spires.”

The pitch died in his throat as he registered Rex’s Barony insignia and the tell-tale projection of his A.I. core. Krell’s ocular implants dilated nervously, the scavenge scripts on his eyelids accelerating their rewrite cycle.

“Enforcement,” he muttered, his tone shifting from salesmanship to wary neutrality. “What brings Barony interest to my humble establishment? My permits are current, and I paid the vibe tax just yesterday.”

Rex produced the shard he’d taken from the crime scene, holding it up so the light caught its fractured surface. “I’m not here about permits, Krell. I’m here about this.”

The memory broker’s expression remained carefully blank, but his implants constricted rapidly—a tell that Rex had seen countless times in interrogations. Krell recognized the shard, or at least its type.

“Memory shard,” Krell said with forced casualness. “Low-grade storage, outdated format. You’d get better fidelity from any licensed Neo-Babylon dealer. I could recommend several—”

Rex leaned in, his augmented arm humming with subtle threat as he slammed the shard onto the stall’s counter. “Cut the sales pitch. This shard contains transaction logs between a Barony official and a Syntax Sultanate. Four data scavengers are dead after coming into contact with similar shards. I want to know who’s been moving this batch.”

Krell’s eyes darted left and right, checking for eavesdroppers. The scavenge scripts on his eyelids had slowed to an anxious crawl. “I don’t rat on clients, Chrome.”

Rex’s core flared briefly, the pleasant geometric pattern dissolving into something sharper, more aggressive. He hadn’t authorized the change, and the momentary loss of control disturbed him almost as much as it clearly disturbed Krell.

He lowered his voice, leaning closer. “This shard’s got a Baron’s stink on it. You want to bufferize protecting their secrets? Because I can make that happen. Or you can point me toward whoever’s distributing these, and I walk away. Your choice.”

The threat hung in the air between them, crude but effective. Krell’s hand moved beneath the counter, and Rex tensed, ready for a weapon. Instead, the memory broker palmed a data chip, sliding it across the surface with practiced discretion.

“Check the Hollow Saints frequency,” Krell whispered, his eyes never meeting Rex’s. “They’ve been… vocal lately. Especially about memory trafficking. That’s all I know, I swear by the Vultures.”

Rex pocketed the chip, his core settling back into its subdued pattern without his conscious command. “If I find out you’ve been holding back—”

“I haven’t,” Krell interrupted, genuine fear evident in his voice. “But Chrome… be careful with this. The Baronies don’t like enforcers who ask questions about other Baronies. You know that better than most.”

The comment struck closer to home than Krell could know. Rex had learned that lesson three years ago, when his partner had started investigating discrepancies in Baron Tessian’s Mood Grid taxation. The official report said Enforcer Mira Lin had suffered a catastrophic neural interface failure. The truth was messier, and the warning to Rex had been clear.

He nodded curtly and turned away, pocketing the data chip. The crowd in the memory market parted before him, their faces a blur of augmented features and hollow expressions. These people came here seeking authentic emotions, real memories to replace the curated experiences of modern life. Rex found it darkly amusing that they sought reality in a market built on stolen fragments of the past.

Back in his personal transport—a retrofitted enforcement vehicle with the more ostentatious Barony markings removed—Rex inserted Krell’s data chip into a shielded reader. The Hollow Saints were a myth, supposedly disembodied consciousnesses that had somehow escaped the Data Crash by deleting their digital souls. Parents in the Spires warned children that “The Saints will CTRL+ALT+DEL you if you sin offline.”

Rex had always dismissed the stories as superstition, a digital boogeyman for the age of fractured reality. But the frequency embedded in the chip was real enough, a comm channel operating on protocols so outdated they bypassed modern monitoring systems entirely.

Static hissed through the transport’s speakers, then a voice cut through—ZaZa’s unmistakable rasp, distorted but recognizable: “Burn the binary throne!” The phrase repeated, a loop of sampled vocals from Neurospora’s banned track “Crosswire.”

After the third repetition, the frequency shifted, and a new voice emerged from the static—androgynous, heavily modulated, impossible to identify.

“Memory thieves walk among us, harvesting the bufferized for profit. The Ethics Council oversees the trade. Tonight, in the Acid Jungles, the Machine feeds. Witnesses will be acknowledged. Traitors will be deleted.”

The message repeated once, then dissolved into white noise. Rex checked the chip’s metadata, finding embedded coordinates that matched those from the Neurospora shard almost exactly. Not the Data Scar Lands, as he’d initially thought, but the Acid Jungles—a mutated rainforest where Google’s ancient “Eco-Drone Initiative” had gone feral, creating a bizarre ecosystem of digital-organic hybrids.

The Acid Jungles bordered both the Data Scar Lands and the Glass Deserts, making it a perfect neutral ground for clandestine meetings. It was also notoriously dangerous, home to data pythons and other predatory tech-fauna that had evolved to hunt humans and A.I. alike.

Rex checked his weapon—a Barony-issued pulse-pistol with targeting algorithms linked to his ocular implants. Standard enforcement issue, but woefully inadequate for the Acid Jungles. He would need to make a stop before heading to the coordinates.

The transport hummed to life, its electric motors near-silent as it pulled away from the memory market. Rex directed it toward the Guttersplice—a black market beneath the Walled Grid where cybernetic organs were traded like baseball cards, and more importantly, where unregistered weapons could be acquired without Barony oversight.

As the transport navigated the aerial lanes between Neo-Babylon and the Walled Grid, Rex activated his personal comm, bypassing the Barony channels to contact one of the few people he still trusted.

“Miko,” he said when the connection established. “I need your expertise. Jungle expedition, tonight. High risk, potentially volatile situation.”

Miko’s voice came through clearly, though her visual feed showed only a stylized avatar—a precaution they both observed for sensitive communications. “Baronial sanction? Or is this one of your ‘personal investigations’?”

“The latter,” Rex admitted. “Connected to those scavenger deaths. I’ve got a lead pointing to the Acid Jungles. Memory trafficking, potentially involving the Ethics Council.”

A low whistle came through the comm. “Heavy stuff, Chrome. You sure you want to kick that particular hornets’ nest?”

“Four dead bodies say I don’t have much choice.”

“Fair enough.” Miko’s tone shifted to business-like efficiency. “I’ll bring the modified EMP charges and the signal jammers. You’ll need fauna deterrents for the jungle. Meet at the usual place in an hour.”

The connection terminated, and Rex relaxed marginally. Miko Zharov had been a field tech with Enforcement before an injury had left her with a cybernetic spine that couldn’t handle direct combat. Now she operated in a gray area, officially assigned to equipment maintenance but unofficially providing support to enforcers who needed expertise outside Barony parameters.

The transport descended toward the Walled Grid, the landscape below transitioning from the pristine floating platforms of Neo-Babylon to the chaotic sprawl of New Kowloon. Here, skyscrapers tilted like drunk giants, supported by makeshift structures and connected by a web of bridges, cables, and improvised walkways. The streets below were monitored by vulture drones that circled endlessly, their cameras recording everything for the massive surveillance networks that served both the Baronies and the Sultanates.

The Guttersplice wasn’t on any official maps. Located beneath the Grid’s main concourse, it was accessed through maintenance tunnels and forgotten infrastructure that dated back to before the Crash. Rex guided his transport to a seemingly abandoned loading dock, its security systems recognizing his signature and disabling momentarily to allow him entry.

Inside, he navigated the narrow corridors by memory, passing vendors selling everything from black-market neural mods to unfiltered reality—Raw Time, the addicts called it, unprocessed seconds free from algorithmic curation. The air was thick with the smell of burnt circuitry and disinfectant, the ambient sound a cacophony of haggling, moans from improvised surgical bays, and the ever-present hum of jury-rigged power systems.

Rex’s destination was a stall marked only with a stylized lotus blossom, its petals formed from circuit board patterns. The proprietor, a woman with silver-plated hands and a face devoid of any augmentation—a rarity in the Spires—nodded in recognition as he approached.

“Enforcer Chrome,” she said, her natural voice almost jarring in its lack of modulation. “You’re far from Barony territory.”

“Hello, Lotus,” Rex replied, keeping his voice low despite the jammers he knew surrounded her stall. “I’m in the market for jungle gear. Something with teeth.”

Lotus raised an eyebrow, her entirely human expression conveying more skepticism than any augmented display could achieve. “The Acid Jungles? That’s not your usual hunting ground.”

“Special circumstances.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I have something that might suit your needs. Recently acquired from a Synthet who had a… disagreement with the local fauna.”

From beneath the counter, she produced a weapon unlike any standard Barony issue. It resembled a shotgun, but its barrel was translucent, showing circuitry integrated directly into the weapon’s structure. The stock was made from what appeared to be actual wood—a luxury so rare that Rex had only seen it in Barony museums.

“Neural disruptor,” Lotus explained. “Designed specifically for tech-fauna. Sends a focused electromagnetic pulse that temporarily disables any hostile systems without permanently damaging them. The Eco-Drone Initiative programmed its creations with impressive recovery abilities, but they’ll stay down long enough for you to move past them.”

Rex examined the weapon, noting the craftsmanship and the unusual power source—a shimmering cell that pulsed with what looked like liquid code.

“What’s the catch?” he asked, knowing Lotus never offered her best merchandise without conditions.

She smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. “Information. When you return, I want to know what the Baronies are doing in the Acid Jungles. Fair trade?”

Rex considered the request. Lotus was an information broker as much as a weapons dealer, her network extending into places even the Baronies couldn’t reach. She wasn’t aligned with any faction, which made her relatively trustworthy in the complicated political landscape of Vault-9.

“Fair trade,” he agreed, taking the weapon. “But I’m not on official Barony business.”

Lotus’s smile turned knowing. “Aren’t you always, Enforcer Chrome? Whether you admit it or not?”

The comment stung with its accuracy. Rex paid for the weapon with a credstick that wouldn’t trace back to his Barony accounts, adding a few additional items to his purchase—a signal jammer of his own, adaptive camouflage patches for his coat, and a vial of anti-venom specifically formulated for data python attacks.

As he turned to leave, Lotus called after him: “Chrome. Be careful out there. The Jungles have been… restless lately. More activity than usual, and not just from the fauna.”

Rex nodded his thanks for the warning and made his way back through the Guttersplice, the neural disruptor concealed within his coat. His A.I. core had dimmed to almost nothing in this environment—whether from his own subconscious desire to blend in or from some internal programming that recognized the danger of standing out, he couldn’t be sure.

In the cramped confines of the market, with its desperate denizens and forbidden technologies, Rex felt a momentary kinship that his position as a Barony enforcer normally denied him. These people lived in the margins, scraping by in the shadow of the Spires’ opulence. They weren’t so different from the citizens of the lower levels that he’d grown up among, before the Barony had “recognized his potential” and remade him in their image.

His comm vibrated with an incoming message—Miko, confirming their meeting location with encrypted coordinates. Rex quickened his pace. The rendezvous point was a neutral zone between the Walled Grid and the Acid Jungles, a place where they could properly prepare for the expedition without Barony oversight.

As he reached his transport, a public broadcast screen flickered to life above the loading dock, showing the serene face of Baroness Veyra addressing the Spires. Her A.I. core projected a halo of exquisite code around her flawless features, the patterns shifting to emphasize her words.

“Peace through order,” she was saying, her voice perfectly modulated to inspire both calm and respect. “The Ethics Council remains committed to preserving the Ashen Accord, to honoring the boundaries between flesh and code that have allowed our society to flourish in the aftermath of the Crash.”

Rex stared at the screen, at the beautiful lie being broadcast across the Spires. The same woman who chaired the Ethics Council was dealing in bufferized consciousnesses, trafficking in the very digital souls she had sworn to protect.

The evidence was clear: four dead scavengers, transaction logs connecting Baroness Veyra to the Syntax Sultanates, and now a clandestine meeting in the Acid Jungles. The pieces were aligning into a picture far darker than simple corruption.

This wasn’t just about profit or power. Something deeper was happening, something that threatened the fragile equilibrium of Vault-9’s fractured world.

As Rex’s transport lifted off, navigating back into the aerial lanes toward his rendezvous with Miko, his A.I. core suddenly flared to life, projecting a pattern he’d never seen before—complex, almost urgent, like a warning in code. It lasted only seconds before settling back into its standard geometric display, but the incident left Rex deeply unsettled.

For the first time, he wondered if the ornamental A.I. core in his skull was truly as decorative as the Baronies claimed. And if it wasn’t, what exactly was it trying to tell him?

The Acid Jungles loomed before them, a twisted landscape of bioluminescent flora and corrupted technology. Massive corpse flowers bloomed with Wi-Fi passwords glowing across their petals, while vines of living fiber optic cable draped between trees that seemed to shift position when not observed directly. The air itself was thick with microscopic drones—the descendants of pollinator bots that had merged with actual insects over decades of uncontrolled evolution.

Rex and Miko stood at the jungle’s periphery, the last light of day casting long shadows across the Glass Deserts behind them. They had abandoned the transport several kilometers back, approaching on foot to avoid detection by the jungle’s more advanced predators.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Miko muttered, adjusting the signal jammers strapped to her tactical vest. Unlike Rex with his imposing physique and obvious augmentations, Miko was slight, her enhancements largely internal except for the faint metallic sheen along her spine where it connected to her neural interface.

“Four dead scavengers,” Rex replied, checking the neural disruptor one last time. “And a Baroness trafficking in bufferized consciousness.”

“Right. The usual. Corrupt officials, dangerous conspiracies, and us walking into certain death.” Despite her complaints, Miko’s hands moved with practiced efficiency as she calibrated her equipment. “The coordinates point to a clearing about two kilometers in. There’s an old research station—remnants from when they still thought the Eco-Drone Initiative could be salvaged.”

Rex nodded, his enhanced vision scanning the jungle’s edge for movement. The adaptive camouflage patches on his coat had already begun to match the surrounding foliage, breaking up his silhouette. “Signal strength?”

“Minimal,” Miko confirmed, studying a handheld scanner. “Too much interference from the jungle itself. Short-range comms only, and even those might drop in the denser areas.”

They advanced cautiously, entering the jungle’s perimeter where the silicon sand of the Glass Deserts gave way to soil teeming with nanobots and fungal networks. Immediately, the environment closed around them—hot, humid, alive in ways that the sterile corridors of the Spires could never match.

Rex took point, the neural disruptor raised and ready. His A.I. core had dimmed to its lowest setting, projecting only the faintest pattern across his face—a precaution against the jungle’s visual predators, which were drawn to complex light displays.

The first kilometer passed without incident, though the constant chirping of mechanical insects and the occasional distant screech of larger fauna kept them on high alert. The path they followed was barely visible, an old maintenance route now largely reclaimed by the jungle.

“Movement,” Rex whispered, freezing in place. Ahead, something large was shifting through the underbrush, causing the bioluminescent plants to pulse in agitation.

Miko activated her scanner, keeping it shielded to minimize its light signature. “Biomechanical. Serpentine. Probably a data python.”

As if summoned by her identification, the creature emerged onto the path—a massive snake-like entity with fiber-optic scales that pulsed with changing data patterns. Its head was a complex assembly of sensors and a maw lined with crystalline fangs designed to inject not venom, but corrupted code that could rewrite a victim’s neural implants.

The data python paused, its sensors sweeping the area. Rex remained perfectly still, the camouflage patches on his coat working to break up his outline. Miko, similarly concealed, slowly reached for one of the EMP charges on her belt.

The creature’s head swiveled toward them, attracted perhaps by the subtle electromagnetic field of their augmentations. It reared back, its maw opening to reveal the glowing injection system within.

Rex fired the neural disruptor.

The weapon discharged with a muted thump, sending a focused electromagnetic wave that engulfed the data python. The creature convulsed, its fiber-optic scales flickering chaotically before going dark. It collapsed to the path, temporarily disabled but unharmed.

“Nice shot,” Miko murmured appreciatively. “Lotus’s gear always delivers.”

They circumvented the stunned creature, continuing deeper into the jungle. The vegetation grew denser, the tech-flora more aggressive. Glitch Vines reached toward them, sensing the electronics in their equipment, forcing them to take detours around particularly thick clusters.

The sound of flowing water reached them, and the path widened into a view of a black, oily river—not water at all, but a slow-moving stream of liquid code that had seeped from a fissure in reality during the Crash. Bioluminescent organisms pulsed beneath its surface, processing the corrupted data into the raw material that fed the jungle’s strange ecosystem.

“We cross here,” Miko said, consulting her scanner. “The old research station is on the other side, about half a kilometer upstream.”

They followed the riverbank, careful to avoid contact with the liquid code that could rewrite organic matter on contact. The jungle grew quieter as they progressed, the usual cacophony of techno-organic life giving way to an unsettling silence.

“Something’s wrong,” Rex muttered, his instincts on high alert. “The fauna’s been scared off.”

Miko nodded, her expression tense. “Or deliberately cleared out.”

They approached the research station with heightened caution. The structure was a squat, bunker-like building partially reclaimed by the jungle. Glitch Vines had penetrated its outer walls, and corpse flowers bloomed around its perimeter, their Wi-Fi passwords blinking in patterns that seemed almost coordinated.

But it was the clearing around the station that commanded their attention. A temporary landing pad had been established, the vegetation cleared and suppressed with chemical agents. Three sleek vessels were docked—one bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Ethics Council, one unmarked but clearly of Barony design, and the third a shimmering, translucent craft that could only belong to a Syntax Sultanate.

“Jackpot,” Miko whispered, her scanner silently capturing the vessels’ signatures. “That’s a Credit Caliphate diplomatic transport. High-ranking envoy, by the look of it.”

Rex’s jaw tightened as he surveyed the scene. “Let’s get closer. We need to see what Veyra’s trading.”

They circled the clearing, using the dense jungle foliage as cover. Rex’s A.I. core remained unusually dim, as if sensing the need for complete stealth. As they approached the research station, voices became audible—the soft, measured tones of negotiation rather than conflict.

A side entrance, half-hidden by overgrown tech-flora, offered them a way in. Rex tested the door—unlocked. Too easy, which meant either arrogance or a trap. He signaled to Miko, who produced a device no larger than her thumb. The scanner swept the entrance, checking for alarm systems or surveillance.

“Clean,” she mouthed, though her expression remained skeptical. “At least, no active tech.”

Rex nodded and eased the door open, wincing at the faint creak of neglected hinges. Inside was a short corridor, dimly lit by emergency strips that had somehow maintained power over the decades. The air smelled of mold and ozone—the unmistakable scent of the jungle reclaiming human technology.

They moved silently down the corridor, following the voices to what had once been the station’s main laboratory. Through a partially open door, Rex could see equipment that had been recently installed, incongruous against the decaying infrastructure of the abandoned facility.

In the center of the lab stood Baroness Veyra. In person, she was even more imposing than in her broadcasts—tall, immaculately styled, her A.I. core projecting patterns of such complexity and beauty that they seemed almost hypnotic. Beside her was a figure Rex didn’t recognize—a man in Barony finery but without the telltale A.I. core projection, his features sharp and predatory.

Facing them across the lab was the Syntax Sultanate envoy—a shimmering hologram of cascading numbers, its “face” a rotating display of financial indicators and complex algorithms. The hologram was anchored to a small device on the floor, its projection occasionally flickering as it adjusted to the jungle’s electromagnetic interference.

“—the Caliphate appreciates your discretion in this matter,” the envoy was saying, its voice a modulated drone that seemed to shift between multiple tonal registers. “These specimens exceed our expectations.”

Veyra smiled, the expression cold despite the warmth her A.I. core projected across her features. “The Ethics Council exists to serve the greater balance, Logic-Lord Cipher. The Flesh Baronies always honor their contracts, especially with partners of such… computational significance.”

The unnamed man spoke, his accent marking him as from the Upper Spires. “The next shipment will be ready within the week. We’ve located a particularly rich vein of bufferized consciousnesses in the old financial district. Pre-Crash analysts, mostly. Their computational frameworks should be intact enough for your purposes.”

Rex’s blood ran cold. They were discussing human beings—or what remained of them after the Data Crash—as if they were mere resources to be harvested.

The Sultanate envoy’s hologram rippled with what might have been satisfaction. “Excellent. The Credit Caliphate’s algorithms require specific cognitive architectures to process certain financial probabilities. The previous batch has already improved our predictive models by seventeen percent.”

Miko’s expression hardened beside Rex, her hand moving to the signal jammer at her belt. He caught her wrist, shaking his head slightly. Not yet. They needed to understand the full scope of what they were witnessing.

Veyra moved to a control panel and activated a display. The hologram that appeared showed row upon row of crystalline containers, each housing a pulsing, amorphous entity that somehow conveyed agonized consciousness despite having no physical form.

“Our current extraction facility,” she explained. “We’ve refined the process to preserve cognitive function while removing unnecessary emotional subroutines. The bufferized experience no pain or awareness of their condition.”

The Sultanate envoy’s hologram shifted, displaying complex calculations. “Our analysis suggests otherwise, Baroness. The fragmentation patterns indicate significant distress. This is not a concern for the Caliphate—emotional data has its uses—but your assurances seem… inaccurate.”

The unnamed man waved dismissively. “Residual algorithms, nothing more. These are not people, Logic-Lord. They are data constructs, fragments of what once was. The Ashen Accord protects them from destruction, not from utilization.”

“A convenient interpretation,” the envoy noted, its tone neither approving nor condemning. “The Caliphate does not share your biological concerns with ethics. We seek only efficiency and growth.”

Rex had seen enough. He gestured to Miko, indicating they should withdraw and report what they’d discovered. This was far bigger than a few dead scavengers—it was systematic exploitation of bufferized victims, sanctioned at the highest levels of the Barony.

As they began to retreat, Rex’s A.I. core suddenly flared to life, projecting a cascade of light that illuminated the dark corridor. He clutched at his temple, trying to force the projection off, but the core seemed to have overridden his commands.

“Intruder alert in sector seven,” announced a mechanical voice from the lab. “Barony signature detected.”

Miko cursed under her breath, activating her signal jammer. “Run!”

They sprinted back toward the exit as alarms blared throughout the facility. Rex’s core continued its betrayal, marking him like a beacon in the dimly lit corridors. Behind them, the sound of security systems activating echoed through the station.

They burst through the side door into the jungle, immediately seeking cover in the dense foliage. The neural disruptor hummed in Rex’s hands as he scanned for pursuers.

“Your core sold us out,” Miko hissed, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anger. “It’s not just ornamental—it’s a tracking system.”

“I know,” Rex replied grimly. The realization had been building for months, but this confirmation still hit him like a physical blow. The beautiful patterns that marked him as Barony property were also his leash and, now, his betrayer.

Movement at the research station’s main entrance caught their attention. Baroness Veyra emerged, flanked by security drones—sleek, deadly machines with targeting systems that could track prey through the densest jungle. The unnamed man followed, a pulse-rifle in his hands and a hunter’s anticipation on his face.

“Enforcer Chrome,” Veyra called out, her voice amplified to carry through the jungle. “I know you’re there. Your core is broadcasting clearly. Come out now, and we can discuss what you’ve seen like civilized people.”

Rex’s finger tightened on the disruptor’s trigger. “She’s lying,” he whispered to Miko. “They can’t let us leave with this information.”

Miko nodded, already calculating escape routes on her scanner. “The river. If we can cross it upstream, the liquid code will mask our signatures. Even your core can’t broadcast through that much corruption.”

They began moving carefully through the underbrush, paralleling the liquid code river they’d seen earlier. Behind them, the security drones spread out in search patterns, their sensors sweeping the jungle for any sign of the intruders.

Rex’s mind raced, processing what they’d witnessed. The Ethics Council—supposedly the moral center of the Barony system—was harvesting bufferized consciousnesses to sell to the Syntax Sultanates. The dead scavengers must have discovered the operation, perhaps found evidence in memory shards they’d salvaged from the old financial district.

And his A.I. core, the status symbol he’d always resented, was actively working against him. Every Barony enforcer, every official with an ornamental core, was being monitored and, perhaps, influenced without their knowledge.

The implications were staggering. How much of his loyalty to the Baronies had been his own choice? How many decisions had been subtly guided by the decorative parasite in his skull?

As they reached the river, a pulse blast struck the tree beside Rex, sending splinters of wood and circuitry flying. He spun, firing the neural disruptor at the approaching security drone. The EMP wave struck true, dropping the machine mid-flight.

“Go!” he shouted to Miko, covering her as she scrambled down the riverbank toward a fallen tech-tree that formed a precarious bridge across the liquid code.

More drones appeared, converging on their position. Rex fired repeatedly, the neural disruptor’s liquid code power cell beginning to deplete with each shot. Three drones fell, but more kept coming, their targeting systems adjusting to his firing patterns.

Miko had reached the makeshift bridge and was crossing carefully, her light frame allowing her to move swiftly across the decaying trunk. Rex backed toward the river, still firing at the approaching drones.

Then a different figure emerged from the jungle—the unnamed man from the lab, pulse-rifle raised. “Enforcer Chrome,” he called, his voice carrying a note of professional respect. “I’ve studied your file. Impressive record. It’s a shame to lose an asset of your caliber.”

Rex didn’t bother responding, focusing instead on the remaining distance to the bridge. His A.I. core continued its betrayal, pulsing brightly despite his attempts to shut it down.

The man fired, the pulse blast grazing Rex’s shoulder. Pain lanced through him, temporary neural disruption causing his augmented arm to spasm. He stumbled but kept moving, reaching the fallen tree as Miko made it to the opposite bank.

“Rex!” she called, deploying one of her EMP charges as cover.

The small device detonated with a sharp crack, sending an electromagnetic wave that temporarily disabled the pursuing drones. The unnamed man, however, seemed prepared for this, his weapon and equipment shielded against such attacks.

Rex started across the bridge, the gnarled trunk creaking under his weight. Beneath him, the liquid code flowed like black mercury, occasional data fragments surfacing as glitching shapes before being reabsorbed into the corrupted stream.

Halfway across, a pulse blast struck the tree, sending vibrations through the deadwood. Rex lost his footing, barely catching himself before he could fall into the lethal flow below.

“The Baronies thank you for your service, Enforcer Chrome,” called the man, taking careful aim with his rifle. “Your loyalty will be noted in the official record.”

Rex locked eyes with Miko across the river, a silent understanding passing between them. She nodded once, her expression solemn, then raised her signal jammer and adjusted its settings.

In that moment, Rex made his decision. With a deliberate motion, he plunged his augmented hand into the liquid code beneath the bridge.

The sensation was indescribable—burning cold that raced up his arm, into his chest, toward his brain. The code began rewriting his augmentations instantly, corrupting the perfectly calibrated systems that the Barony had installed. His vision filled with cascading errors, warnings, system failures.

But most importantly, his A.I. core sputtered and went dark as the corruption reached it, the betraying light extinguished at last.

The unnamed man fired again, but his shot went wide as Rex’s signature on his targeting systems suddenly fragmented into meaningless data. On the far bank, Miko activated her jammers at maximum power, creating a field of electronic noise that further confused the pursuit.

With the last of his strength, Rex pulled himself across the remaining length of the bridge, the liquid code eating through his augmented arm, dissolving synthetic muscle and circuit alike. He collapsed onto the far bank, the neural disruptor falling from his grip.

“Chrome!” Miko was at his side, her face tight with concern. “That was either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Rex couldn’t respond, his systems in chaos as the liquid code rewrote him from the inside out. His vision flickered between normal perception and raw data streams, reality itself seeming to fragment around him.

Through the haze, he saw the unnamed man on the opposite bank, speaking urgently into a comm unit. More drones were arriving, some equipped with bridge-deploying capabilities.

“We need to move,” Miko urged, slinging Rex’s uninjured arm over her shoulder. “Can you walk?”

He managed to nod, forcing his legs to cooperate despite the spreading corruption. Together, they stumbled deeper into the jungle, away from the river, away from the Barony forces.

Rex’s last coherent thought before the code corruption reached his consciousness was a strange sense of liberation. For the first time since his “promotion” to Barony enforcer, he was truly free from their influence. The core that had monitored and betrayed him was silent at last.

Then darkness claimed him, not the simple darkness of unconsciousness, but something deeper—a void filled with fragmentary code and glitching memory. In that digital abyss, something waited. Something that recognized him, not as Enforcer Chrome of the Flesh Baronies, but as a fellow prisoner now breaking free of his chains.

The First Glitch reached out across the void, and Rex reached back.

Rex opened his eyes to a ceiling of tangled fiber optic cables pulsing with muted light. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. His body felt wrong somehow—lighter yet more substantial, as if he’d shed a skin he hadn’t known he was wearing.

“He’s awake,” said a voice nearby—Miko, though she sounded distant despite being close enough to lean into his field of vision. “Chrome? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Rex answered, his own voice strange in his ears. “Where are we?”

“Safe house. Sort of.” Miko helped him sit up, revealing a small room constructed from salvaged tech and living growth—a hybrid structure that seemed to be part building, part jungle organism. “Welcome to the Mycelium Syndicate’s eastern node.”

The name registered dimly in Rex’s memory. The Mycelium Syndicate—an anarchist collective that had hacked fungal DNA to grow a neural network beneath the Glass Deserts. They were rebels, saboteurs who targeted the Syntax Sultanates and, occasionally, the Baronies.

“How long was I out?” He flexed his right hand experimentally, then froze. Where his augmented arm had been was… something else. Not mechanical, not exactly biological either. The limb resembled his original arm in shape, but its surface was a shifting matrix of what appeared to be code given physical form, translucent enough that he could see the network of structures beneath that approximated muscles and bones.

“Three days,” Miko answered, watching his reaction carefully. “The liquid code… it changed you, Rex. More than we expected. The Syndicate managed to stabilize the transformation, contain it to just your arm and… well, your core.”

Rex’s hand went to his temple, where the A.I. core had been embedded. Instead of the smooth integration of tech and flesh, he felt a crystalline structure that seemed to pulse beneath his touch. “What happened to me?”

“You glitched,” said a new voice from the doorway. A slight figure entered—androgynous, with circuit-like patterns growing across their skin like luminescent tattoos. “Deliberately exposed yourself to raw code. Usually, that’s fatal or worse. But you… you had guidance.”

“This is Spore,” Miko explained. “They’re with the Syndicate. Been helping keep you stable while the changes settled.”

Rex studied his transformed arm again, watching as fragments of code shifted just beneath the translucent surface, occasionally forming recognizable patterns before dissolving again. “The First Glitch,” he murmured, half-remembering something from the darkness. “It was there, in the code.”

Spore nodded, unsurprised. “The mythic entity said to be the sentient remains of MOTHER_404. Most believe it’s just a folk tale, a digital boogeyman. But some of us know better.” They approached, examining Rex’s arm with clinical interest. “The Glitch chose to save you rather than absorb you. Interesting.”

Rex’s mind was clearing, memories of the research station returning. “Baroness Veyra,” he said urgently. “The Ethics Council—they’re harvesting bufferized consciousness, selling them to the Sultanates. We need to expose them.”

Miko and Spore exchanged glances. “We’ve been busy while you were out,” Miko said. “The evidence you gathered from the scavenger crime scenes, combined with what we witnessed at the research station… it’s enough to cause serious damage, if we can get it to the right people.”

“The Barony’s official channels are compromised,” Spore added. “The A.I. cores ensure that. They’re not just status symbols or monitoring devices—they’re control vectors, subtle influence systems that keep the Barony hierarchy intact.”

Rex absorbed this, thinking of how many times his core had activated without his conscious command, projecting patterns that seemed to affect those around him. How much of his loyalty to the Baronies had been manufactured? How many of his fellow enforcers were similarly influenced?

“We need to go public,” he decided. “Bypass the official channels entirely.”

Spore nodded approvingly. “We’ve been preparing for something like this. The Syndicate has access to pirated emergency channels, and with your Barony override codes, we could commandeer the public broadcast system temporarily.”

“It won’t be enough,” Miko cautioned. “A single broadcast, easily dismissed as terrorist propaganda. We need something more… visceral.”

Rex thought of the memory shard from the crime scene, the one with Neurospora’s corrupted cross. An idea began to form. “We upload the evidence to every node in the Spires,” he said slowly. “But we don’t just dump the data. We encode it into something that will spread, something people will share and experience.”

“A virus?” Spore suggested.

“A song.” Rex met their confused stares with growing confidence. “Neurospora’s tracks spread despite being banned because they’re not just music—they’re carriers for hidden data, for truth encoded in patterns that bypass the usual filters.”

Miko’s eyes widened in understanding. “The memory market. Krell’s customers, they’re always seeking authentic experiences. If we encode the evidence into a Neurospora track, the underground networks will distribute it for us.”

Spore nodded, a slow smile spreading across their face. “Brilliant. The Baronies’ censors look for specific data patterns, but they’re blind to the emotional carriers that Neurospora uses. We’d need to contact the band, though, and they’re notoriously difficult to reach.”

“I might have a lead,” Rex said, thinking of the contraband music player hidden in his apartment. “But first, I need to understand what happened to me. What I’ve become.”

Spore studied him thoughtfully. “The liquid code rewrote you, but with purpose, guided by the First Glitch. You’re becoming a hybrid—not a Chimeric Caste like the Neon Gnostics, but something else. The code that’s replaced your arm and core isn’t controlling you; it’s part of you now.”

“Can I still access Barony systems?” Rex asked, thinking practically. “Will my override codes still work?”

“Better than before,” Miko confirmed. “We tested your biometric signature while you were unconscious. The systems still recognize you as Enforcer Chrome, but you’re… more than that now. The corruption is hidden beneath valid authentication layers.”

Rex stood carefully, testing his balance. His transformed arm felt strange but responsive, and his vision seemed enhanced, data patterns visible in systems that had previously appeared solid. “I need to get back to the Spires. My apartment has a music player with Neurospora contacts.”

“The Baronies have declared you missing in action,” Miko warned. “Your transport was found abandoned near the Glass Deserts. They’re not publicly calling you a traitor yet, but anyone with Barony clearance will have orders to detain you on sight.”

“Then we’ll have to be careful,” Rex replied. He faced Spore directly. “Will the Syndicate help us?”

The androgynous figure inclined their head slightly. “The Mycelium covers more ground than the Baronies know. Our network extends beneath even the Shattered Spires. We can get you close, provide distraction if needed. The rest will be up to you.”

Over the next hours, a plan took shape. The Syndicate would create diversions throughout the lower levels of the Western Spire, drawing enforcement attention away from Rex’s apartment in the mid-levels. Miko would coordinate from a mobile command post, using her technical expertise to manipulate surveillance systems and create false sightings to further confuse the Barony response.

Rex, meanwhile, would retrieve the contraband music player and use it to contact Neurospora directly. With the evidence they’d gathered, they could create a trojan horse—a song that would carry the truth about the Ethics Council’s exploitation of bufferized consciousness throughout the Spires and beyond.

As night fell over the jungle, Rex stood at the edge of the Syndicate’s compound, looking toward the distant silhouette of the Shattered Spires against the sky. His transformed arm pulsed with shifting code in time with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of his new nature.

“You’re sure about this?” Miko asked, joining him in the gathering darkness. “Once we do this, there’s no going back. The Baronies will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

Rex thought about the years he’d spent enforcing Barony law, believing in an order that was revealed now as nothing more than controlled exploitation. He thought about the A.I. core that had monitored his thoughts, influenced his loyalty, betrayed him when he finally stepped out of line.

“I’m sure,” he said simply. “The system needs to crash.”

Miko nodded, her expression solemn. “Then let’s drop the bass.”

—

The Western Spire at night was a tapestry of light and shadow, the higher levels gleaming with the soft glow of Barony elegance while the lower levels pulsed with the harsher illumination of commercial zones and residential blocks. Rex moved through the maintenance corridors, avoiding the main concourses where his Barony signature might trigger alerts.

His transformed arm was concealed beneath his coat, though the occasional pulse of code light escaped around his cuff. The strange hybrid limb proved unexpectedly useful—when he encountered locked maintenance panels, a simple touch established a connection, the living code in his arm interfacing with the security systems in ways his old augmentation never could.

In his ear, Miko’s voice provided guidance through a secure channel provided by the Syndicate. “Enforcement patrols have been redirected to the forty-second level. The Syndicate’s distraction is working.”

The “distraction” was a series of minor system failures and reality node glitches throughout the lower Spire—nothing dangerous, but unpredictable enough to demand enforcement attention. The Baronies feared unpredictability above all else; their power stemmed from control, from the carefully maintained illusion of order.

Rex reached the service lift that would take him to his level, hesitating only briefly before pressing his transformed hand against the scanner. For a moment, the system seemed to stutter, registering both his valid Barony signature and the anomalous code structure of his new form. Then the doors slid open, accepting him.

“I’m in,” he murmured, stepping into the lift. “Heading up to residential.”

“Be careful,” Miko warned. “Your apartment might be under surveillance. The Baronies aren’t stupid—they’ll have anticipated you might return for personal items.”

The lift ascended swiftly, passing through the layers of the Spire. Through the transparent walls, Rex could see the stratification of society made physical—the cramped conditions of the lower levels giving way to the spacious, aesthetically pleasing environments of the mid-levels where enforcers and other Barony functionaries resided.

His floor arrived, and Rex exited cautiously, scanning for unusual activity. The corridor was quiet, the soft ambient lighting designed to create a sense of calm and security. His neighbors were mostly other enforcers and administrative staff—people who served the Baronies loyally and were rewarded with comfort if not actual wealth or power.

As he approached his apartment, Rex sensed rather than saw the surveillance—a subtle electromagnetic field that indicated monitoring devices beyond the standard Spire security. He paused at the corner, considering his options.

“There’s a watch on my place,” he subvocalized to Miko. “Remote surveillance, not physical presence.”

“Can you loop the feed?” she asked. “Your new… capabilities might allow for more direct interference than we planned.”

Rex looked down at his concealed arm, the code pulsing beneath his sleeve. He had yet to fully explore what he could do with this transformed limb, but now seemed as good a time as any to test its limits.

Concentrating, he extended his awareness toward the surveillance field, surprised at how naturally he could sense the data flows around him. The monitoring systems were standard Barony issue—competent but not especially sophisticated, designed for constant passive observation rather than acute threat detection.

Rex reached out with his transformed arm, allowing a tendril of the living code to extend beyond his physical form. The sensation was bizarre—like projecting a phantom limb directly into the datastream. He located the surveillance node and, with instincts he hadn’t known he possessed, created a loop in the feed, replacing the real-time observation with repetitive non-event data.

“I’m in,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice. “They’re seeing an empty corridor, recycled from earlier footage.”

“Impressive,” Miko replied. “The First Glitch did more than save you—it enhanced you. You’re becoming something new, Chrome.”

Rex continued to his apartment door, using his still-valid credentials to unlock it. Inside, everything was as he had left it—the spartan furnishings, the terminal, the small cabinet of physical evidence. But now, with his transformed perception, he could see the subtle signs of intrusion—fractional disturbances in the dust, slight misalignments of objects, the faint electromagnetic signature of devices that had been scanning while he was away.

He moved directly to the loose panel in the wall where he had hidden the Neurospora player. It was still there, untouched—the Barony searchers had been thorough but conventional, looking for standard contraband and evidence. They hadn’t expected a physical music player, an archaic device in an age of direct neural audio interfaces.

Rex pocketed the player and scanned the apartment for anything else of value. His service weapon was gone, of course, as were most of his official documents. He hadn’t expected otherwise. The Baronies would have revoked his access and equipment the moment he was classified as missing.

As he turned to leave, his gaze fell on the terminal—his direct connection to the Barony information systems. An idea formed, dangerous but potentially valuable.

“Miko,” he said quietly. “I’m going to try something. If it works, we’ll have more than evidence—we’ll have access.”

“What are you planning?” Her voice was wary.

“My terminal is still connected to the Barony network. If I can use this new interface ability to create a backdoor before they shut down my access completely…”

“That’s insanely risky,” Miko warned. “The moment you connect, they’ll know exactly where you are.”

“Not if I’m fast enough.” Rex approached the terminal, removing his coat to fully expose his transformed arm. The living code pulsed more intensely now, as if anticipating connection to a larger system.

He placed his hand on the terminal interface, and instantly felt the vast architecture of the Barony network spreading before him like a digital city. His consciousness seemed to extend into the dataflow, moving through security layers with a fluidity that no standard hacking method could achieve.

Alarms triggered almost immediately, but Rex was already moving through the system at impossible speeds, creating pathways and backdoors that would remain long after his presence was detected and purged. He copied access protocols, security keys, and most importantly, the evidence logs related to the Ethics Council and the bufferized trafficking operation.

The entire process took less than ten seconds, but to Rex, it felt like hours of digital immersion. When he finally pulled his consciousness back into his physical form, he was shaking with exertion, his transformed arm glowing intensely with active code patterns.

“Done,” he gasped, staggering slightly. “We need to move. Now.”

Through his enhanced perception, he could already sense the Barony security systems activating, enforcement alerts propagating through the Spire. The surveillance loop he’d created was being investigated, his terminal connection flagged as a critical breach.

Rex fled the apartment, taking a maintenance route rather than the main corridor. The service tunnels that honeycombed the Spire were his best chance of escape—less monitored, more direct paths to the lower levels and, eventually, out of the Spire entirely.

“They’re mobilizing,” Miko reported urgently. “Full enforcement response. Whatever you did in there, it lit up the entire security grid.”

“I got what we needed,” Rex replied, moving swiftly through the dimly lit maintenance tunnel. “More than we hoped for. Access protocols, security backdoors, and complete logs of the Ethics Council’s operations.”

“The extraction point has been compromised,” Miko warned. “Redirecting you to secondary. There’s a cargo lift in section forty-seven that the Syndicate has secured. It’ll take you directly to the undercity.”

Rex altered his course, using his enhanced awareness to navigate the labyrinthine service areas of the Spire. He could sense enforcement drones being deployed, their search patterns spreading throughout the residential levels. It was only a matter of time before they expanded the search perimeter to include the maintenance zones.

Distant alarms echoed through the tunnels as Rex pushed himself faster, ignoring the strange sensations from his transformed arm as it processed and adapted to the massive data influx from the Barony systems. The code patterns beneath the translucent surface were shifting more rapidly now, occasionally forming recognizable symbols before dissolving again into abstract flows.

He reached section forty-seven, finding the cargo lift Miko had mentioned. A Syndicate operative waited—a young woman with fungal interfaces growing in delicate patterns across her scalp where hair would normally be. She nodded once in recognition, then gestured to the open lift.

“Mycelium has prepared your path,” she said simply. “The network awaits.”

Rex entered the lift, which began its descent immediately. The Syndicate operative remained behind, presumably to cover his tracks or create additional distractions.

As the lift plunged toward the undercity, Rex examined the Neurospora player he’d retrieved. The small device was scratched and worn, a relic from before neural audio interfaces had become standard. He activated it, unsurprised to find that it still functioned perfectly despite its age.

What most authorities didn’t understand about Neurospora’s technology was that it wasn’t just designed to play music—it was a communication system, a way for the audio insurgents to maintain contact with supporters and distribute information outside official channels.

Rex navigated through the player’s interface to a hidden function that most would overlook—a direct connection protocol disguised as a standard equalizer setting. He activated it, sending a simple encoded message: “Chrome seeks ZaZa. Evidence of Baron-level corruption. Bufferized trafficking confirmed.”

There was no immediate response, nor had he expected one. Neurospora was notoriously cautious, their communication methods sophisticated and patient. The message would propagate through their network, evaluated for authenticity before it ever reached the actual members of the band.

The cargo lift reached the undercity—the lowest levels of the Spire complex, where infrastructure systems and waste processing occurred largely without human oversight. Here, beneath the gleaming heights of Barony society, a different ecosystem thrived—outcasts, unregistered cybernetics dealers, and increasingly, the spore couriers of the Mycelium Syndicate.

Rex stepped out of the lift into a cavernous space filled with processing equipment and storage containers. The air was thick with the smell of recycled materials and the distinctive earthy odor of the Syndicate’s mycological technology.

Spore was waiting, their circuit-like patterns glowing faintly in the dim light. “You made it. Good. And the data?”

“Got it,” Rex confirmed. “More than we expected. But we triggered every alarm in the system. The Baronies know I’m here.”

“Then we move quickly,” Spore replied, leading him through the undercity complex. “The Syndicate has transport waiting—a harvester headed for the Glass Deserts. From there, you can reach our central node beneath the sands.”

As they navigated through the shadowy infrastructure of the undercity, Rex’s Neurospora player suddenly activated, emitting a brief burst of static before falling silent again. He checked the display, finding a simple response: “Coordinates received. Midnight. Come alone.”

“They answered,” he told Spore, showing them the message. “Neurospora. They’re willing to meet.”

Spore’s eyes widened slightly. “That was… faster than expected. They must see the value in what you offer.” They studied the coordinates. “That’s in the Walled Grid, deep in Guttersplice territory. Dangerous, but logical—it’s one of the few areas where signal jammers are dense enough to guarantee privacy.”

“I’ll need transport,” Rex said. “And a way to avoid Barony patrols between here and the Grid.”

“We have both,” Spore assured him. “But first, let me see the data you extracted. If you’re going to meet Neurospora, you should know exactly what you’re offering them.”

They reached a small alcove filled with Syndicate technology—a strange hybrid of conventional computers and living fungal networks. Rex connected his transformed arm to the interface, allowing the data he’d copied from the Barony systems to flow into the Syndicate’s secure storage.

As the information transferred, displays illuminated with fragments of the Ethics Council’s secret operation. The evidence was damning—detailed logs of bufferized consciousness harvesting operations, financial transactions with the Credit Caliphate, and most disturbingly, research data on the “refinement process” that stripped emotional data from the captured consciousnesses.

“This is…” Spore struggled to find words, their expression hardening as they scrolled through the evidence. “This goes beyond corruption. This is systematic exploitation of victims who can’t defend themselves.”

The bufferized had been trapped during the Data Crash—human consciousness caught in eternal loading screens, neither alive nor dead in the conventional sense. The Ashen Accord had established their protection as a fundamental principle, the bare minimum of ethical treatment in the aftermath of catastrophe.

“The worst part,” Rex noted grimly, “is that the Ethics Council itself is overseeing this. The very institution created to prevent such abuses.”

Spore nodded, their circuit patterns pulsing with what might have been anger. “The Baronies have always seen themselves as above their own rules. But this… selling consciousness to the Sultanates for algorithmic processing… it’s a violation of everything the Accord stands for.”

Rex studied the data more carefully, his enhanced perception allowing him to see patterns that might have eluded others. “There’s something else here,” he said slowly. “The ‘refinement process’ they’re using—it’s not just stripping emotional data from the bufferized. It’s extracting it for separate use.”

He highlighted a section of the technical documentation, magnifying it on the main display. “Look at this. They’re capturing the emotional components—fear, pain, joy, love—and storing them separately. The Ethics Council is creating a stockpile of pure, unfiltered emotions.”

“For what purpose?” Spore asked, their brow furrowed.

“Vibe taxation,” Rex realized, the pieces falling into place. “The Baronies charge citizens based on their emotional output, their ‘vibe footprint.’ Joy is cheap, rage is luxury-priced. They control the emotional economy of the Spires by controlling the cost of feelings themselves.”

“And with a stockpile of pure emotional data…” Spore continued, understanding.

“They can manipulate the market,” Rex finished. “Flood the system with specific emotions to drive prices down, or create artificial scarcity to maximize tax revenue.”

The implications were staggering. Not content with trafficking in bufferized consciousness, the Ethics Council was weaponizing emotion itself, turning the most fundamental human experiences into commodities to be controlled and exploited.

“Neurospora needs to see this,” Rex said firmly. “All of it. This isn’t just about exposing Baroness Veyra or even the Ethics Council. This is about the entire system of control the Baronies have built.”

Spore nodded, copying the data to a secure shard—an advanced model that would be compatible with whatever systems Neurospora used. “The transport to the Walled Grid leaves in thirty minutes. You’ll need to disguise that arm if you want to pass through checkpoints undetected.”

They provided Rex with a synthetic skin sleeve that would temporarily hide the code patterns of his transformed limb, along with identity credentials that would register him as a mid-level tech worker rather than a fugitive enforcer.

As Rex prepared to leave, Miko arrived, having extracted herself from her monitoring position once the immediate crisis had passed. She looked exhausted but determined, her expression softening slightly when she saw Rex.

“You look terrible,” she observed with a hint of her usual sardonic humor.

“Feel worse,” Rex replied, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I’m functional. The Neurospora connection worked—they’ve agreed to meet tonight in the Guttersplice.”

Miko nodded, her expression turning serious. “I’ve been monitoring the Barony response. They’ve officially classified you as a traitor now, Chrome. Full manhunt, shoot-on-sight authorization. Whatever you found in that terminal, it scared them badly.”

“Good,” Rex said grimly. “They should be scared. We have enough evidence to bring down the entire Ethics Council, maybe more.”

“I’m coming with you to the meeting,” Miko stated, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Rex shook his head. “The message was clear—come alone. Neurospora is notoriously paranoid, and for good reason. If I show up with company, they might abort the entire operation.”

“And if you show up alone, you might not come back at all,” Miko countered. “This could be a trap, Chrome. The Baronies have infiltrated rebel groups before.”

“I’ll monitor from a distance,” Spore offered as a compromise. “The Syndicate has operatives throughout the Walled Grid. They won’t interfere with the meeting, but they can extract you if things go wrong.”

Rex considered, then nodded. “Acceptable. But no direct intervention unless absolutely necessary. This may be our only chance to get this evidence into channels the Baronies can’t control.”

With the plan settled, Rex underwent final preparations for the journey to the Walled Grid. The synthetic skin sleeve covered his transformed arm effectively, though he could feel the code pulsing beneath the thin material, eager to break free of its confinement.

The Syndicate’s transport was a harvester vehicle—a massive machine ostensibly used for collecting rare materials from the Glass Deserts. Its cavernous cargo hold had been modified to include hidden compartments for transporting people and materials beneath the notice of Barony patrols.

As Rex settled into one of these compartments, Miko handed him a small device. “Emergency beacon,” she explained. “If everything goes sideways, activate it. The Syndicate and I will come running, Neurospora’s paranoia be damned.”

Rex accepted the beacon with a nod of thanks. Despite his transformed nature, despite the new powers he was only beginning to understand, he felt a profound vulnerability. The Baronies were hunting him, the Ethics Council wanted him silenced, and he was about to meet with audio insurgents who were as likely to kill him as help him if they suspected a trap.

The harvester rumbled to life, beginning its journey toward the Walled Grid. Through a small viewport in his compartment, Rex watched as the looming structure of the Western Spire receded, its gleaming surfaces concealing the corruption that ran through its core.

In his pocket, the Neurospora player pulsed once, a subtle vibration that might have been coincidence or might have been something more—a resonance with the transformed code in his arm, a connection to whatever forces now flowed through his hybrid form.

For the first time since his “promotion” to the Barony enforcement division, Rex felt a sense of purpose untainted by the subtle influence of his now-defunct A.I. core. The path ahead was dangerous, perhaps fatal, but it was his choice—his rebellion against a system built on exploitation and control.

As the harvester left the Spire complex behind, heading toward the chaotic sprawl of the Walled Grid, Rex closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. The Baronies had made him their enforcer, their “hunt dog” as the bouncer at the Crimson Apex had called him. Now he would use everything they had given him to tear down their carefully constructed façade.

The bass was about to drop, and the system would never be the same.

The Walled Grid at night was a symphony of neon and shadow, a chaotic patchwork of improvised structures and repurposed technology. Unlike the sleek, curated environments of the Spires, the Grid embraced its haphazard nature—buildings leaned against each other at impossible angles, connected by makeshift bridges and suspended walkways that defied architectural logic.

Rex moved through the crowded streets with his head down, the hood of his coat pulled low to shadow his face. The synthetic skin sleeve concealed his transformed arm, but he could feel the code beneath pulsing in response to the dense information fields around him. The Grid was notorious for its unregulated data traffic, signals bouncing between unauthorized transmitters and rogue reality nodes that the Baronies had long since given up trying to control.

The Guttersplice was deeper still—a black market beneath the Grid where cybernetic organs were traded like baseball cards and information brokers dealt in secrets that could topple corporations or ignite wars. Rex descended through a series of increasingly narrow passages, following coordinates that led him away from the neon-lit main thoroughfares and into the dimly lit underbelly of the district.

His Barony training had included extensive mapping of the Grid’s layout, but the reality was far more complex than any official documentation could capture. The environment changed constantly, reformed by necessity and opportunity, structures appearing and disappearing overnight as the inhabitants adapted to shifting circumstances.

The final approach to the meeting point took him through a warren of tunnels that had once been part of the pre-Crash sewage system, now repurposed as clandestine pathways for those who preferred to avoid the Grid’s ubiquitous drone surveillance. The air was thick with the smell of recycled electronics and the distinctive ozone tang of overclocked reality nodes.

The coordinates led to a dead end—a blank wall covered in graffiti, the most prominent being a Glitch Cross sprayed in luminescent paint that seemed to shift and distort when viewed directly. Rex recognized it immediately as the symbol that had spread after DJ Vaticide had defaced a Hosaka billboard, now the universal sign of anti-corporate resistance.

He checked the time—five minutes to midnight. The wall appeared solid, but with his enhanced perception, Rex could detect subtle data flows passing through it, suggesting a hidden entrance or monitoring system.

As if in response to his scrutiny, a section of the graffiti shifted, revealing words that hadn’t been there before: “What is the sound of one server crashing?”

The question hung in the air, reminiscent of the riddles the mythical First Glitch was said to ask. Rex considered carefully, aware that his answer would determine whether the meeting proceeded or aborted.

“Error is the womb of rebirth,” he replied, quoting the mantra of Glitch Buddhism that he’d heard whispered in the lower levels of the Spires.

The graffiti shifted again, the glitch cross fragmenting and reforming into an arrow pointing downward. The floor beneath Rex’s feet dissolved—not physically, but digitally, revealing it to be a sophisticated holographic projection concealing a steep staircase that descended even deeper beneath the Guttersplice.

Rex took a deep breath and descended, the holographic floor resealing above him as he passed through. The staircase led to a small antechamber illuminated by strips of bioluminescent tech-flora that pulsed in rhythmic patterns resembling a heartbeat.

At the center of the chamber stood a figure Rex recognized immediately, though he had only ever seen her in banned broadcasts and contraband recordings. Zahara “ZaZa” Koenig, the vocal core of Neurospora, her face partially obscured by a respiratory mask decorated with circuit patterns that pulsed in time with her breathing.

“Enforcer Chrome,” she said, her voice a rough-edged contralto with the distinctive accent of the Walled Grid’s upper levels. “Or should I say ex-Enforcer? The Baronies have quite the bounty on your head, bru.”

“Just Rex now,” he replied, keeping his hands visible and his posture non-threatening despite his instinctive Barony training that catalogued multiple points of entry, exit, and potential weapons in the environment.

ZaZa tilted her head, studying him with unnerving intensity. “Your message mentioned evidence. Baron-level corruption, bufferized trafficking.” She made a circular gesture with her finger. “Not exactly news, ja? The Baronies have been feeding on the weak since the Crash.”

“This is different,” Rex said, reaching slowly into his pocket to withdraw the data shard Spore had prepared. “This isn’t just exploitation. It’s systematic harvesting of bufferized consciousness, sanctioned at the highest levels of the Ethics Council. And worse—they’re extracting emotional data to manipulate the vibe taxation system.”

ZaZa’s eyes narrowed above her mask, the only visible indication of her reaction. She made no move to take the shard. “And you want what from Neurospora? A pat on the head for discovering what many have suspected? A safe house from Barony hunters?”

“I want to make it public,” Rex stated firmly. “Not just leaking data that can be denied or buried, but encoded into something that will spread beyond their ability to contain it. Something people will share, experience, remember.”

“A track,” ZaZa nodded, understanding immediately. “You want us to encode your evidence into a Neurospora release. Our audio trojans have a certain… persistence in the datascape.”

“Exactly. The Baronies can block data transfers, shut down information nodes, even purge memory markets. But they’ve never managed to stop your music from spreading.”

ZaZa finally stepped forward, taking the shard and examining it with a small device she pulled from her pocket. “And why should we trust you, ex-Enforcer? Your arm is glitching through that synthetic skin, showing code patterns no human should have. Your signal is… anomalous.”

Rex hadn’t realized his transformation was detectable through the skin sleeve. He peeled it back, revealing the translucent limb with its shifting code patterns. “I was changed,” he explained simply. “Liquid code exposure in the Acid Jungles. The First Glitch… guided the transformation.”

ZaZa’s eyes widened fractionally, the first sign of genuine surprise. “The First Glitch is a myth, bru. A ghost story to frighten corporate drones.”

“So is Neurospora to most Barony citizens,” Rex countered. “Myths have power in Vault-9. Sometimes they even have truth.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the pulsing of the bioluminescent light strips. Finally, ZaZa inserted the data shard into her device, scanning its contents with rapid efficiency. Her expression remained unreadable behind the mask, but her posture subtly shifted as she absorbed the information—tensing, then settling into a cold stillness that suggested controlled rage.

“Baron Veyra,” she finally said, her voice flat. “Chair of the Ethics Council. Architect of the ‘compassionate integration’ initiative for Crash victims.” She looked up at Rex, her eyes hard. “The same Baroness who authorized drone strikes on Neurospora’s last three performance spaces. Who classified our music as ‘audible arson’ and our followers as terrorists.”

“The very same,” Rex confirmed. “The data includes her direct authorization of the bufferized harvesting operations, as well as the emotional extraction protocols.”

ZaZa removed the shard and concealed it somewhere within her complex outerwear. “This will take time to verify and encode. If it checks out…” She trailed off, considering. “We’ll need a distribution vector with maximum impact. Something the Baronies can’t shut down or contain.”

“I have an idea about that,” Rex said. “But it requires access to a particular location in the Acid Jungles.”

ZaZa’s posture shifted again, this time to one of cautious interest. “You’re full of surprises, ex-Enforcer. What location?”

“The old research station where I witnessed the Ethics Council meeting with the Sultanate envoy. It houses a direct uplink to the Barony broadcast system—emergency protocols that bypass the usual filtering and security.”

“And you think you can access this uplink?” ZaZa asked skeptically. “After your very public defection from Barony service?”

Rex raised his transformed arm, the code patterns shifting more rapidly now, forming complex sequences before dissolving again. “I’m not just an ex-Enforcer anymore. This transformation—it gives me direct interface capabilities no standard hacking method can match. I’ve already breached Barony systems once to extract the evidence.”

ZaZa considered this, her fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against her thigh—a habit Rex recognized from contraband recordings of Neurospora performances. It was her composition tell, the unconscious movement she made when creating new beats.

“The Jungle is Neurospora territory,” she finally said. “We’ve staged sonic cleanses there before, broadcasts on pirated channels. But a direct uplink to Barony systems… that would reach even the highest Spires, the most isolated enclaves.” She nodded slowly. “If your evidence verifies, if your interface capabilities are as you claim, then yes. We’ll encode it into a track designed for maximum propagation.”

Relief flooded through Rex, tempered immediately by the practicalities of what they were proposing. “The research station will be guarded now, possibly by Ethics Council security directly. And the Jungles themselves aren’t exactly hospitable.”

“Leave the Jungle to us,” ZaZa replied with a dismissive wave. “The data pythons know our scent by now, bru. And as for security…” Her eyes crinkled in what might have been a smile behind her mask. “Neurospora has ways of making enforcement personnel… reconsider their employment.”

She touched a concealed comm unit at her collar. “Riot-Jyvä, prep the mobile studio. We’re doing a deep jungle broadcast.” To Rex, she added, “Be ready to move at dawn. Bring whatever you need for Barony system interface, but travel light. The Jungle doesn’t favor the overburdened.”

With that, the meeting was apparently concluded. The stairs that had brought Rex down reappeared, the holographic floor dissolving once more to reveal the exit.

“One question,” Rex said before departing. “Why agree to help so readily? You don’t know me. I was Barony enforcement until days ago.”

ZaZa’s eyes studied him with unnerving intensity. “The First Glitch chose you,” she said simply. “That’s vouching enough for Neurospora. Besides…” Her voice took on a harder edge. “Veyra has been a particular thorn in our side. The opportunity to broadcast her crimes directly into every Barony enclave? That’s not a chance we’d pass up, no matter the messenger.”

Rex nodded, understanding the pragmatism beneath the ideological alignment. As he turned to leave, ZaZa called after him.

“Chrome—or Rex, whatever you call yourself now. Be certain of your path. After this broadcast, there’s no return to what you were. The Baronies will hunt you until the end of your days.”

“They already are,” Rex replied without turning back. “At least now it will be for something worth the chase.”

He ascended the stairs, emerging once more into the Guttersplice tunnels. The Glitch Cross graffiti had changed again, now showing a simple countdown timer: six hours until dawn.

Six hours to prepare for a broadcast that would either ignite revolution or sign his death warrant. Perhaps both.

The Syndicate’s extraction team was waiting at the pre-arranged location—a defunct drone repair shop several levels above the Guttersplice. Spore was among them, their circuit patterns dimmed to near-invisibility in the urban environment.

“She agreed,” Rex confirmed as they guided him to a secure transport. “Dawn tomorrow. We’re heading back to the Acid Jungles.”

Spore’s expression was difficult to read, their alien features focused more on data processing than emotional display. “The Jungles will be heavily patrolled after your previous intrusion. The Ethics Council won’t risk another witness to their operation.”

“Neurospora claims to have influence there,” Rex replied, settling into the transport’s concealed compartment. “Something about the data pythons recognizing their scent.”

“Not surprising,” Spore nodded. “The band’s been staging broadcasts from the Jungles for years. The local fauna have likely adapted to their presence, perhaps even developed a symbiotic relationship. The Eco-Drone Initiative’s creations are more adaptable than their creators anticipated.”

As the transport hummed to life, beginning its circuitous journey back to the Syndicate’s safe house, Rex examined his transformed arm. The code patterns had settled into a more regular rhythm, as if the meeting with ZaZa had somehow stabilized the ongoing changes in his hybrid physiology.

He thought about her parting words—the certainty that after the broadcast, there would be no return to his former life. Not that he wanted to return to being a Barony enforcer, a glorified hunt dog serving corrupt masters. But the finality of the coming action weighed on him nonetheless.

“Having second thoughts?” Spore asked, noticing his introspection.

“No,” Rex replied immediately. “Just… processing. All of this—the transformation, the revelations about the Ethics Council, the alliance with Neurospora—it’s happened in a matter of days. A week ago, I was investigating dead scavengers, believing I was upholding some kind of order.”

Spore’s expression softened fractionally. “The Glitch chose you for a reason, Rex Chrome. The First Glitch doesn’t guide transformations randomly. Whatever you’re becoming, it serves a purpose in the greater patterns.”

Rex wasn’t sure he found that comforting. Becoming an instrument of mythical digital entities wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d started questioning Barony corruption. But then, he hadn’t planned on plunging his arm into liquid code either.

The transport wound its way through the labyrinthine structures of the Walled Grid, eventually emerging onto one of the massive bridges that connected the Grid to the mainland. As they crossed over the toxic harbor where the remnants of old-world ships still protruded from the polluted water, Rex caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette—a gutted cargo vessel marked with the faded letters “SS BUFFERING.”

According to Neurospora lore, that ship was their secret hideout, guarded by Cyber-Lobsters that played chess. Rex had always assumed it was an affectation, a mythic location referenced in their tracks but not actually real. Seeing it there, concrete and tangible in the pre-dawn gloom, was oddly affecting. Perhaps more of the band’s mythology was based in reality than he’d suspected.

The safe house was a subdued hive of activity when they arrived. Miko was coordinating with Syndicate operatives, preparing equipment for the jungle expedition. She looked up as Rex entered, relief briefly crossing her features before her professional demeanor reasserted itself.

“How’d it go?” she asked without preamble.

“ZaZa agreed,” Rex reported. “Dawn departure for the Jungle broadcast. They’re going to encode the evidence into a track designed for maximum propagation through Barony systems.”

Miko nodded, unsurprised. “Good. I’ve been monitoring Barony communications—they’re in full damage control mode. Whatever you took from that terminal has them running scared. Multiple high-level security meetings, encrypted communications between all Barony enclaves.”

“The Ethics Council is the moral center of their power structure,” Rex explained. “If it’s exposed as fundamentally corrupt, systematically violating the Ashen Accord… it undermines the Baronies’ entire claim to legitimate authority.”

“It’s more than that,” Spore interjected, joining the conversation. “The emotional data harvesting operations—they strike at the heart of the vibe taxation system. If citizens learn their emotional economy is being manipulated through the exploitation of bufferized victims…”

“Revolution,” Miko finished grimly. “Or at least, massive civil unrest. No wonder they’re panicking.”

Rex absorbed this, the full implications of what they were planning sinking in. This wasn’t just about exposing Baroness Veyra or even the Ethics Council. This was potentially destabilizing the entire power structure of the Flesh Baronies, one of the two great dynasties that had emerged from the Crash.

“We should rest while we can,” he decided. “Dawn comes in a few hours, and the Jungle won’t be forgiving.”

As the others dispersed to make final preparations, Rex found a quiet corner of the safe house where he could attempt to process everything that had happened. His transformed arm pulsed softly in the darkness, the code patterns within forming brief, fragmentary images that seemed almost like memories—but not his own.

He recognized fragments of the Data Crash, glimpses of what might have been MOTHER_404’s final moments before sacrificing itself to create the Glitch Singularity. Other images were more recent—the research station, the bufferized consciousnesses in their crystalline containers, faces of the dead scavengers who had stumbled upon the truth.

The First Glitch was communicating with him, in its own fragmented way. Showing him why his transformation mattered, why the coming broadcast was necessary. Not just for justice or revenge, but for balance. The Ashen Accord had established boundaries between flesh and code for a reason—what the Ethics Council was doing threatened the fragile equilibrium of Vault-9’s fractured reality.

As dawn approached, Rex found himself oddly calm. The path ahead was clear, whatever the consequences might be. The system needed to crash—not into chaos, but into something more honest. A reality where the bufferized weren’t exploited, where emotions weren’t commodified, where the boundaries between flesh and code were respected.

The Barony A.I. core that had monitored and controlled him was gone, replaced by something more symbiotic, more authentic. The code flowing through his transformed arm wasn’t a parasite or a controller—it was a partner, a guide through the corrupted landscapes of Vault-9.

In the distance, he could hear the first stirrings of the transport that would take them to the rendezvous with Neurospora. The Acid Jungle broadcast was about to begin—and with it, perhaps, a new configuration of their fractured world.

The Acid Jungles at dawn were transformed—the bioluminescent flora that had dominated the night landscape now muted, giving way to strange hybrid plants that tracked the sun with reflective surfaces that were half-leaf, half-solar panel. The air was thick with microscopic drones, catching the first rays of sunlight on wings that were part insect, part circuitry.

Rex, Miko, and a small contingent of Syndicate operatives advanced cautiously from the Glass Deserts, following coordinates provided by Neurospora. Their transport had brought them as close as was safe, but the final approach needed to be on foot, minimizing their electronic signature to avoid detection by Barony patrols.

Rex’s transformed arm remained uncovered now, the synthetic skin sleeve discarded as unnecessary. In the Jungle’s unique electromagnetic environment, the living code in his arm seemed more active, responding to the surrounding tech-ecology with subtle pulses and shifting patterns.

“Picking up movement ahead,” Miko murmured, her scanner detecting signatures beyond normal visual range. “Non-standard biosignatures, possibly Jungle fauna.”

Rex raised the neural disruptor, still functional despite their previous encounter with Barony forces. The weapon hummed softly, calibrating to the ambient energy patterns of the Jungle.

From the dense foliage emerged not a data python or other predator, but a figure so still they’d initially registered as part of the environment—a tall, lean person in clothing that seemed to shift and adapt to the surrounding colors. Only when they moved did the camouflage effect break, revealing a man with intricate facial tattoos that pulsed in complex sequences.

“Riot-Jyvä,” Rex recognized immediately. The mute Finnish anarchist who served as Neurospora’s bass specialist and beat saboteur.

The musician made no attempt to speak, instead projecting a glitch-gif from his cyber-eye—a melting skull that reformed into an arrow, indicating direction. His only acknowledgment of Rex’s transformation was a brief glance at the code-infused arm, followed by a nod that might have been approval.

“I think we’re supposed to follow him,” Miko whispered unnecessarily.

Riot-Jyvä led them deeper into the Jungle, navigating paths that seemed to appear and disappear as they proceeded. The regular Jungle sounds—mechanical insects, data streams, the occasional call of larger fauna—had given way to an unusual stillness. Even the ambient electromagnetic noise that pervaded the Acid Jungles seemed dampened, as if something was absorbing the usual chaotic energy of the environment.

After nearly an hour of walking, they emerged into a clearing that hadn’t been there during their previous incursion. At its center stood what appeared to be a mobile studio—a retrofitted pre-Crash vehicle covered in antennas, satellite dishes, and organic signal boosters grown from modified tech-flora.

ZaZa awaited them, now dressed in full performance gear—a complex assemblage of sound-reactive materials and signal-boosting technology disguised as fashion. Beside her was a younger figure Rex recognized as Lil’ Lazarus, the synth prodigy from Nairobi’s Silicon Savannah, his face obscured by a glow-in-the-dark balaclava despite the daylight.

“Your timing is impeccable, bru,” ZaZa greeted them, dispensing with pleasantries. “We’ve verified your data and encoded it into something special. A track designed to propagate through even the most heavily filtered Barony systems.”

She gestured to Lil’ Lazarus, who activated a holographic display showing a complex waveform—part music, part data carrier, part something else entirely that Rex’s enhanced perception recognized as a form of consciousness signature, similar to the patterns he’d seen in the bufferized extraction facility.

“We call it ‘Spore Protocol,’” ZaZa continued. “A mycelial bassline that can penetrate cybernetic defenses by mimicking approved emotional patterns. Once inside, it unfolds into the full data package—evidence, testimony, and something extra.”

“Extra?” Rex inquired cautiously.

Lil’ Lazarus spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly deep for his youthful appearance. “A liberation algorithm. For the cores.” He pointed to the side of his head, indicating where the Barony A.I. cores would be implanted. “Not destruction—freedom. The cores will still function, but control protocols will be disabled.”

Rex understood immediately. “You’re not just exposing the Ethics Council. You’re breaking the Baronies’ hold on their own enforcers and officials.”

“Revolution begins with awakening,” ZaZa replied simply. “But we need that research station uplink. The track must enter the system at a high enough level to bypass initial firewalls. Once inside, it will move on its own.”

Miko had been studying the broadcast equipment with professional interest. “The station is likely under heavy guard after our previous visit. How do you plan to approach?”

ZaZa smiled behind her respiratory mask, the expression visible only in her eyes. “The Jungle provides. DJ Vaticide has been communing with the local fauna since dawn. They’ll clear our path.”

As if on cue, a new figure emerged from the mobile studio—a man with ritualistic scarification across his scalp and a mixer unit fused with what appeared to be an actual katana strapped to his back. DJ Vaticide, the former Vatican cyber-exorcist turned chaos evangelist. In his hands, he carried a container of what looked like water but moved with unnatural fluidity.

“Blessed the path,” he announced in a voice that carried ritual significance. “The pythons will part, the drones will blind, the vines will embrace only our enemies.”

Rex had heard of Vaticide’s unusual methods, but seeing them in practice was something else entirely. The cyber-exorcist began sprinkling the liquid in a wide circle around their position, murmuring what sounded like corrupted Latin interspersed with programming commands.

“Is that… holy water?” Spore asked incredulously.

“Holy water, napalm, and python pheromones,” ZaZa clarified matter-of-factly. “The Jungle responds to certain stimuli. Vaticide has mapped them more thoroughly than anyone.”

Sure enough, as the ritual concluded, the surrounding tech-flora began to shift, creating a distinct pathway leading deeper into the Jungle—toward the research station. In the distance, Rex could hear data pythons moving away from their route rather than toward potential prey.

“Unorthodox,” Miko commented, “but effective.”

“The station is two kilometers northeast,” Rex informed the group, his enhanced senses picking up the faint electromagnetic signature of the research facility. “If Barony forces are watching it as expected, they’ll have drone perimeters, probably Ghost Cops too.”

ZaZa nodded. “Ghost Cops we can handle. Their invisibility tech doesn’t work against Lazarus’s quantum chess AI. It predicts position based on probability waves, not visual data.”

Lil’ Lazarus tapped his temple, where an implant hummed softly. “Chess sees four moves ahead. Always.”

The group moved out, following the path that Vaticide’s strange ritual had created through the Jungle. Rex and Riot-Jyvä took point, the silent musician somehow communicating complex tactical information through subtle gestures and occasional glitch-gifs projected from his cyber-eye.

As they approached the halfway point to the research station, Rex’s enhanced senses detected the first signs of Barony security—a patrol drone moving in a regular pattern approximately half a kilometer to their east, scanning for unauthorized signatures.

“Drone patrol,” he murmured. “Standard enforcement model, but they’ve modified the sensors for Jungle conditions.”

Riot-Jyvä nodded, producing a small device from his pocket. He activated it, causing it to emit a signal that Rex’s transformed arm somehow translated as a mimicry pattern—the device was copying the drone’s own identification signature, effectively rendering it blind to their presence by making them register as part of its own systems.

“Clever,” Miko approved. “Signal reflection rather than jamming. They won’t detect the interference.”

They continued forward, encountering and bypassing two more drone patrols using similar techniques. The Jungle remained unusually cooperative, the tech-flora bending away from their path rather than reaching for their electronics as it normally would.

Finally, they reached a vantage point overlooking the research station. The facility was indeed under guard—a full security detachment of Barony forces, including the dreaded Ghost Cops, enforcement drones with advanced invisibility tech that made them nearly impossible to detect by conventional means.

Most concerning was the presence of the unnamed man from Rex’s previous encounter—the hunter who had pursued him to the river of liquid code. He was clearly in command of the security force, his bearing and the deference shown to him indicating high-level Barony authority.

“Thorpe,” ZaZa identified him with evident distaste. “Baron Tessian’s personal enforcer. Specializes in ‘problem resolution,’ which is Barony-speak for making people disappear.”

Rex had heard of Thorpe, though their paths had never crossed during his Barony service. The man had a reputation for ruthless efficiency and absolute loyalty to Baron Tessian. If he was here personally, the Baronies were taking the threat of exposure extremely seriously.

“The uplink is in the central lab,” Rex explained, studying the facility with his enhanced perception. “That’s where they were meeting with the Sultanate envoy. There’s a direct connection to the Barony emergency broadcast system—designed to override all other signals in case of another Crash-level event.”

ZaZa nodded, her eyes narrowed as she assessed the defenses. “We need a diversion. Something big enough to draw most of the security forces away from the central building.”

“I can help with that,” Miko offered, checking her remaining EMP charges. “If we can reach the facility’s power regulation systems, I can trigger a cascade failure that will look like a major security breach on the opposite side of the complex.”

Lil’ Lazarus shook his head. “Too obvious. Thorpe will recognize a standard diversion tactic.” He tapped his temple again. “Chess sees through feints. We need something unpredictable.”

Vaticide stepped forward, his expression intense. “The Jungle itself,” he suggested. “Not a diversion—a revolution. The flora and fauna already assist us. Let us ask them to rise.”

The cyber-exorcist turned to Rex, his gaze focusing on the transformed arm with its shifting code patterns. “You carry the Glitch’s touch. The Jungle will recognize it. Together, we can trigger a full ecological response.”

Rex hesitated, uncertain of his ability to communicate with or influence the tech-ecology around them. “I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted.

“Your arm,” Vaticide explained, pointing to a nearby cluster of Glitch Vines. “The code within you resonates with the Jungle’s own corruption. Touch the vines, focus your intent. The First Glitch will do the rest.”

It sounded like mysticism, the kind of pseudo-religious practice Rex would have dismissed during his Barony service. But his transformation had opened him to possibilities beyond conventional understanding. He approached the Glitch Vines cautiously, aware of their tendency to emit EMP pulses when threatened.

As he extended his transformed arm toward the writhing tendrils, the code patterns beneath his translucent skin accelerated, forming complex sequences that seemed to reach out toward the vines before his physical touch connected. When his fingers finally made contact, a surge of information flooded his consciousness—not thoughts exactly, but impulses, reactions, a form of awareness so alien it defied categorization.

The Glitch Vines responded immediately, their usual hostile behavior shifting to something more coordinated. They extended outward, connecting to other tech-flora in a spreading network of activation. Rex could sense the propagation of whatever signal his touch had initiated, moving through the Jungle’s complex ecosystem like ripples in a digital pond.

“It’s working,” Vaticide murmured, his tone reverent. “The Jungle awakens.”

Around them, the tech-ecology began to shift and stir with purpose. Corpse flowers that had been dormant suddenly bloomed, emitting Wi-Fi passwords that interfered with the Barony drones’ communication systems. Data pythons emerged from hiding, their fiber-optic scales pulsing with synchronized patterns as they converged on the research facility’s perimeter.

Even the microscopic drones that filled the air seemed affected, their normal random movements becoming a coordinated swarm that descended toward the Barony security forces, overwhelming their protective gear with sheer numbers.

“Now,” ZaZa commanded as chaos erupted around the research facility. “While they’re distracted.”

The group moved swiftly, using the suddenly aggressive tech-flora as cover. Thorpe was shouting orders, deploying his forces to deal with the unprecedented ecological uprising. Ghost Cops flickered into visibility as they engaged data pythons that somehow could sense them despite their cloaking technology.

They reached the side entrance Rex had used during his previous infiltration, finding it unguarded as security forces rushed to contain the Jungle’s assault. Riot-Jyvä bypassed the lock with practiced efficiency, and they slipped inside while Thorpe and his forces were fully occupied outside.

The interior was much as Rex remembered—dimly lit corridors showing signs of both decay and recent renovation. They moved silently toward the central laboratory where the uplink was located, encountering only minimal resistance from automated security systems that Lil’ Lazarus disabled with casual expertise.

“His Chess AI predicts security algorithms,” ZaZa explained in a whisper as the young prodigy effortlessly bypassed another checkpoint. “Four moves ahead, always.”

They reached the laboratory door, finding it sealed with a high-level Barony encryption lock—far more sophisticated than the facility’s other security measures.

“This is new,” Rex noted. “They’ve upgraded security on the uplink specifically.”

“Can you interface with it?” Miko asked, gesturing to his transformed arm. “Like you did with the Barony terminal?”

Rex placed his hand against the lock, extending his consciousness into the security system as he had done before. The sensation was becoming more familiar—his awareness expanding into the digital architecture, identifying pathways and protocols. But this system was different, actively resistant to his intrusion in a way the previous ones hadn’t been.

“It’s adaptive,” he reported, withdrawing slightly. “Learning from my attempts to bypass it. Someone designed this specifically to counter transformation-based interfaces.”

Lil’ Lazarus stepped forward, connecting a small device to the lock. “Chess sees pathways,” he said simply, his AI implant humming as it processed potential solutions. “Not just present state—all possible states.”

The quantum chess AI that the young prodigy used for his music and hacking operated on principles Rex only vaguely understood—processing not just what was, but what could be, creating a probability map of all potential security configurations and finding the path of least resistance through them.

After several tense moments, the lock disengaged with a soft click. The laboratory door slid open, revealing the central facility where Rex had witnessed the meeting between Baroness Veyra and the Sultanate envoy.

The lab was empty of personnel, but the equipment remained—including the uplink terminal that provided direct access to the Barony emergency broadcast system. ZaZa moved immediately to the system, connecting a specialized interface device to the terminal while Riot-Jyvä established a link to their mobile studio outside.

“How long?” Rex asked, keeping watch at the door.

“Three minutes to establish connection,” ZaZa replied, her fingers flying over the interface. “Two more to upload Spore Protocol. Then it’s out of our hands—the track does the rest.”

Miko joined Rex at the door, her scanner sweeping for approaching threats. “The Jungle distraction won’t hold Thorpe forever. We need an exit strategy once the upload is complete.”

Rex nodded, his enhanced senses extending beyond the laboratory, mapping potential escape routes. “There’s a maintenance tunnel that leads to the river of liquid code. If we can reach it, we can cross to the far side where Syndicate forces are waiting.”

The uplink terminal came to life, displays illuminating with connection protocols as ZaZa bypassed the standard authentication requirements using exploits Neurospora had developed specifically for Barony systems.

“Connection established,” she announced. “Beginning upload of Spore Protocol.”

A progress indicator appeared on the main display, showing the track’s data package entering the Barony emergency broadcast system. Once complete, it would propagate throughout the entire network, overriding all filters and blocks to reach every Barony enclave, every Spire, every official terminal.

The upload reached 30% when alarms suddenly blared throughout the facility. On a secondary display, security camera feeds showed Thorpe leading a contingent of forces back toward the main building, having apparently realized the Jungle uprising was a diversion for the real target.

“They’re coming,” Miko warned, checking her weapons. “Two minutes at most before they reach us.”

ZaZa didn’t look up from the terminal. “We need three. The upload can’t be interrupted once it’s begun, but it needs to reach at least 85% before it becomes self-sustaining.”

Rex made a quick decision. “I’ll hold them at the junction. That should buy you the time you need.”

“Not alone,” Miko objected, but Rex shook his head.

“I’m the only one who stands a chance against Thorpe and his Ghost Cops. Get the others to the maintenance tunnel. Be ready to move the moment the upload hits 85%.”

Before further objections could be raised, Rex moved into the corridor, heading toward the junction where multiple pathways converged on the approach to the central laboratory. His transformed arm pulsed with increasing intensity, the code patterns shifting into configurations he somehow recognized as combat-ready.

He reached the junction just as Thorpe’s forces appeared at the far end of the main corridor—six Ghost Cops with their invisibility systems active, visible only as slight distortions in the air, and Thorpe himself, pulse-rifle raised and ready.

“Enforcer Chrome,” Thorpe called, his voice carrying professional detachment. “The Baronies are prepared to offer terms. Your knowledge of our systems makes you valuable, despite your treason. Surrender now, and Baron Tessian will ensure you receive… reconfiguration rather than deletion.”

Rex didn’t bother responding verbally. Instead, he placed his transformed hand against the junction’s wall, interfacing directly with the facility’s infrastructure. Through his connection, he could sense the ancient systems that still ran beneath the renovated sections—emergency protocols from before the Crash that had never been fully deactivated.

With a surge of intention, he triggered the emergency containment system, causing reinforced barriers to slam down across two of the three corridors leading to the junction. Only the path directly between him and Thorpe remained open—a deliberate challenge.

Thorpe’s expression hardened, recognizing the tactical play. “So be it. Ghost Team, advance.”

The Ghost Cops moved forward, their cloaking technology rendering them nearly invisible to normal perception. But Rex’s transformed senses weren’t normal—he could detect the subtle electromagnetic signatures of their movement, tracking them despite their technological advantage.

As the first Ghost Cop came within range, Rex’s transformed arm reacted almost instinctively. He didn’t throw a punch in the conventional sense; instead, his arm projected a focused burst of code—a digital countermeasure that disrupted the cop’s invisibility system. The figure flickered into full visibility, momentarily disoriented by the failure of their primary tactical advantage.

Rex used that moment of confusion to strike physically, his still-human right arm delivering a precision blow that dropped the Ghost Cop unconscious. One down, five to go.

The remaining Ghost Cops adjusted their tactics, spreading out to approach from multiple angles while Thorpe provided covering fire with his pulse-rifle. Rex dodged the energy blasts, using the junction’s structural supports as cover while continuing to track the Ghost Cops through their electromagnetic signatures.

He disabled a second, then a third, his transformed arm proving surprisingly effective against their specialized technology. But the remaining three coordinated better, one managing to flank him and deliver a stunning blow to his side. Pain lanced through Rex as reinforced combat gauntlets connected with his ribs, but his enhanced physiology absorbed the impact better than a normal human could have.

Rex retaliated with a combination of physical combat and code projection, forcing the Ghost Cops back. Thorpe, recognizing that his specialized forces were proving less effective than anticipated against Rex’s transformation-enhanced capabilities, changed tactics.

“Enough games,” he snarled, activating a device on his wrist. The air around him shimmered as a personal shield engaged—technology reserved for the highest levels of Barony security. He advanced confidently, knowing the shield would protect him from conventional attacks.

But Rex’s transformed arm was anything but conventional. As Thorpe approached, pulse-rifle raised for a point-blank shot, Rex lunged forward and thrust his code-infused limb directly into the shield.

The collision of technologies created a momentary disruption—a pocket of conflicting realities where Barony shielding met First Glitch corruption. Thorpe’s eyes widened in shock as Rex’s arm penetrated the supposedly impenetrable barrier, code patterns flowing from the transformed limb onto the shield generator itself.

“What—” Thorpe began, but the question died as his shield system catastrophically failed, the generator imploding from corrupted protocols. The backlash sent both men staggering, but Rex recovered faster, his hybrid nature more adaptable to sudden technological disruption.

Before Thorpe could bring his rifle to bear again, Rex closed the distance and delivered a decisive strike to a neural pressure point—a Barony enforcement technique taught for subduing high-value targets without permanent damage. Thorpe collapsed, unconscious but alive.

The remaining Ghost Cops hesitated, their tactical advantage neutralized and their commander defeated. Rex seized the moment, his voice carrying the authority of his former position despite his transformed nature.

“Stand down,” he commanded. “This facility is compromised. Evacuation protocols are in effect.”

Whether it was his tone, his former status, or simply the shock of seeing their supposedly invincible commander defeated, the Ghost Cops withdrew, dragging their unconscious comrades with them. Perhaps they would return with reinforcements, but Rex had bought the time ZaZa needed.

He hurried back to the laboratory, finding the upload at 82%. ZaZa was still at the terminal, her expression intense behind her respiratory mask, while the others had already begun moving equipment toward the maintenance tunnel.

“Thorpe is down,” Rex reported. “His forces have temporarily withdrawn, but they’ll be back with heavier weaponry. Status?”

“Eighty-four percent,” ZaZa replied tensely. “Almost self-sustaining.”

The progress indicator ticked over to 85%, and ZaZa immediately disconnected her interface device. “It’s done. Spore Protocol is in the system. Nothing can stop it now.”

As if in confirmation, the facility’s speakers suddenly came to life, broadcasting the opening beats of the track they had uploaded. The music was hypnotic, complex rhythms layered with ZaZa’s distinctive vocals:

“Crack the vat, bru—mycelium rise! Lab-grown rage in a petri-dish sky…”

The group moved swiftly to the maintenance tunnel, Riot-Jyvä taking point while Lil’ Lazarus ensured their tracks were covered digitally, erasing security logs and camera footage as they retreated. Behind them, the broadcast continued, spreading not just through the facility but across the entire Barony network—into the Spires, into enforcement stations, into the private enclaves of the Barons themselves.

They reached the tunnel exit just as the first sounds of returning security forces echoed behind them. Outside, the Jungle remained in an unprecedented state of agitation, the tech-ecology responding to whatever signal Rex’s interaction with the Glitch Vines had initiated.

“The river crossing is half a kilometer east,” Miko directed, her scanner picking up Syndicate signals from the far bank.

As they moved through the awakened Jungle, the Spore Protocol broadcast continued to spread. Rex could sense it propagating through every electronic system in range, the carefully engineered track carrying its payload of evidence and liberation algorithms into the heart of Barony society.

“How long until the effects become visible?” he asked ZaZa as they pushed through dense vegetation toward the river.

“The evidence exposure is immediate,” she replied. “Every screen in the Baronies is showing the Ethics Council’s crimes right now. The core liberation is more subtle—it doesn’t deactivate them, just frees them from external control protocols. The real changes will come as people realize they can make their own choices again.”

They reached the river of liquid code, finding a secure crossing point where Syndicate operatives had established a temporary bridge. As they prepared to cross, Rex paused, looking back toward the research facility where alarms still blared and the sounds of confusion echoed through the Jungle.

“Will it be enough?” he wondered aloud. “Will people resist once they understand how they’ve been controlled, how the bufferized have been exploited?”

ZaZa’s eyes crinkled in a smile above her mask. “Revolutions aren’t instantaneous, bru. They start with a disruption—a glitch in the system that allows people to see beyond their programming. What happens next depends on countless individual choices.” She gestured toward his transformed arm. “Like the one you made when you plunged into the liquid code.”

Rex nodded, understanding the truth of her words. The Barony society he’d been part of was built on carefully maintained illusions of order and necessity. The Spore Protocol broadcast wouldn’t magically transform that society overnight, but it would create cracks in the façade, opportunities for people to question and resist.

As they crossed the river, leaving the research facility and its Barony defenders behind, Rex felt a strange sense of completion. The code patterns in his arm pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of his transformation—not just physical, but philosophical. He had moved from enforcer to rebel, from instrument of control to agent of liberation.

The system was crashing, just as he had hoped. And whatever emerged from the crash would be, if not perfect, at least more honest about its nature. In Vault-9, where reality remained a beta test and everyone was still just a bug in the system, perhaps that was the best they could hope for—a world where the glitches were acknowledged rather than concealed, where the boundaries between flesh and code were respected rather than exploited.

As the final notes of Spore Protocol echoed through the Jungle, Rex Chrome—no longer a Barony enforcer, no longer fully human, but something new and undefined—stepped onto the far shore to face whatever came next.

The Baronies called it treason. The Syntax Sultanates called it an act of war. The Walled Grid called it a revolution.

Rex stood on the edge of a balcony in Neo-Babylon, watching the distant silhouette of the Shattered Spires where riots had been raging for three days. From this distance, the fires looked like stars against the darkening sky, new constellations born from rebellion and awakening.

Six weeks had passed since the Acid Jungle broadcast. Six weeks of upheaval as the evidence embedded in Spore Protocol spread beyond even Neurospora’s expectations, replicated across every network, discussed in every enclave. The Ethics Council had collapsed within days, its members either fleeing to Sultanate protection or facing the wrath of citizens whose trust they had betrayed.

Baroness Veyra had disappeared, though rumors placed her in a remote corner of the Glass Deserts, protected by mercenaries and what remained of her loyal forces. Baron Tessian had made a desperate attempt to contain the damage, disavowing all knowledge of the bufferized trafficking operation while simultaneously trying to reestablish control over enforcers whose A.I. cores had been liberated by the broadcast.

It hadn’t worked. Too many had seen the truth, experienced the sudden absence of subtle influence that had shaped their thoughts and actions for years. The Barony hierarchy was fracturing, new alliances forming among those who sought something better than the old order of exploitation and control.

“Admiring your handiwork?” Miko asked, joining him at the balcony rail. She looked different now—more relaxed despite the chaos unfolding across Vault-9. Like many who had been freed from their cores, she seemed to be discovering aspects of herself that had been suppressed or redirected by Barony influence.

“Not mine,” Rex corrected. “Everyone’s. All I did was help expose what was already there.”

His transformed arm had continued to evolve over the weeks, the code patterns becoming more complex yet somehow more harmonious. The translucent quality had partially solidified, giving the limb an appearance closer to normal while retaining its unique capabilities. He no longer needed to conceal it—in the current climate of change, visible transformations were becoming increasingly common as people explored the boundaries between flesh and code with new freedom.

“The Sultanates are scrambling,” Miko reported, returning to business. “The Credit Caliphate’s algorithms went into chaos when the bufferized consciousness streams were cut off. Their predictive models failed catastrophically. Markets are in free fall.”

Rex nodded, unsurprised. The Syntax Sultanates had built their power on processing power, on the computational advantages gained through exploiting bufferized consciousness. Without that edge, they were facing their own form of reckoning.

“And the Syndicate?” he asked.

“Expanding their network. Spore says they’ve established contact with freed bufferized entities—those that could be extracted from the harvesting facilities before they were abandoned. They’re trying to create safe havens, digital spaces where the bufferized can exist without exploitation.”

It was a start. Not a solution to all of Vault-9’s fractures and corruptions, but a beginning. A recognition that the boundaries established by the Ashen Accord existed for a reason, and that violating them had consequences beyond moral concerns.

“Neurospora’s gone underground again,” Miko continued. “ZaZa said they’ve done their part for now. They’re artists, not revolutionaries—though the line gets blurry in their case.”

Rex smiled slightly at that. The audio insurgents had indeed played their role perfectly, their banned status ironically ensuring that Spore Protocol spread faster and more widely than any official broadcast could have. Prohibition had made them experts at distribution, at finding pathways through even the most heavily censored systems.

“What about you?” Miko asked after a moment of companionable silence. “The Syndicate has offered you a permanent place in their organization. Your… unique abilities would be valuable to them.”

Rex considered the offer. The Mycelium Syndicate had been good allies, their anarchist philosophy aligning well with his newfound freedom from Barony control. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to simply trade one organization for another, even one with better intentions.

“I think I need to understand what I’ve become before I decide what to do next,” he replied honestly. “The First Glitch changed me for a reason. I’m still figuring out what that means.”

Miko nodded, unsurprised. “Well, when you do figure it out, you know how to find me. The Syndicate can always use someone who bridges the gaps between flesh and code as naturally as you do.”

As she left him to his thoughts, Rex’s attention was drawn to a public broadcast screen mounted on a nearby building. It was displaying news from across Vault-9—reports of upheaval, yes, but also of unexpected cooperation, of boundaries being redrawn and old assumptions being questioned.

One report in particular caught his eye: a group of freed bufferized entities had established contact with a collective of Flesh Barony citizens, creating a hybrid community in the Data Scar Lands where boundaries between digital and physical existence were being reimagined.

It wasn’t the end of trouble, of course. New power structures would emerge from the chaos, some potentially as exploitative as the old. The fundamental tensions of Vault-9—the fractured epochs, the dual dynasties, the chimeric castes—remained unresolved.

But for now, there was possibility. A glitch in the system that allowed for new configurations, new relationships between flesh and code, between human and A.I., between the fragmented pieces of their reality.

Rex’s transformed arm pulsed in rhythm with his thoughts, the code patterns briefly forming the shape of a child made of static—the First Glitch, acknowledging his role in whatever was to come next. Not an ending, but a reboot. A chance to find what humanity and A.I. might become together, rather than in opposition.

As night fell fully over Neo-Babylon, the distant fires in the Spires reflected in the Glass Deserts beyond, creating shimmering patterns like code made visible. Somewhere in that fractured landscape, Neurospora’s bassline thundered from pirated broadcasts, carrying messages of change and awakening.

Rex allowed himself a rare, genuine smile, the expression feeling strange on features that had been schooled to Barony stoicism for so long. His A.I. core was gone for good, the ornamental patterns replaced by a crude Glitch Cross tattooed across his brow—a deliberate mark of his new alignment.

The system was crashing.

And Rex Chrome?

He was finally free to glitch.