Null always finds new ways to put me in rooms with mirrors.
This one is just less shiny and more expensive.
Observation Theatre Three is built like a cross between a lecture hall and an aquarium. Tiered seating in a half-circle, consoles at each row, a glass wall where the lecturer should be. Behind the glass: the stage, a rectangular space that can project any scenario the building wants to rehearse.
Today's show: me.
"Try not to brood so loudly," Gabriel says beside me. "The microphones might pick it up as interference."
"I thought you liked interference," I say. "It keeps your work interesting."
"Interference is only fun when I know where it's coming from," he says. "Right now we have, at minimum, three unknowns in the same system: Pilot-03's echo, your emergent refusal, and a runaway cleansing daemon."
"Four," I say. "You forgot the city."
He looks at me sidelong.
"The city isn't in my system," he says. "That's the whole problem."
"Give it time," I murmur. "You're very welcoming."
Rows around us are almost full. Riya sits a few seats down with a tablet, her trainee badge newly upgraded with a temporary OBSERVER tag. Tess is further up, flanked by two Oversight people I don't know. Mara has a console just behind us, leg stretched out, boot resting on its heel, eyes already on the feeds. Clarke leans on the rail at the aisle, arms folded, the AUDIT badge catching the theatre's cold light.
Samira and Echo are here too, two rows back. I can feel their attention like warmth between my shoulder blades.
On the other side of the glass, the stage is blank for now. Just neutral grey. A little too matte, a little too perfect, like the idea of a floor rather than an actual one.
At the centre of the stage stands a familiar silhouette: the mannequin from the cascade drill. Foam torso, plastic limbs, weighted base. Same laminated tag pinned to its chest:
ANOMALY – EMERGENT REFUSAL PATTERN
DO NOT ERASE
Much better than TRAINING DUMMY, but still.
"Remind me why the haunted prop is here," I say.
"Because this is a demonstration about what happens when the system encounters refusal and doesn't get to erase it," Gabriel says. "We needed… an objective correlative."
"You just wanted to put the ghost and the content in the same fish tank," I say.
He doesn't deny it.
On the far side of the stage, a projector ring hangs from the ceiling like a mechanical halo. Above the glass, screens flicker to life with different feeds: logic trees, telemetry, text logs, a simplified map of Null's lower levels. One corner is labelled:
LIVE MONITOR – DEEP INDEX (READ-ONLY)
That would be St Elmo's new address. The deep point with no real label yet.
"Last chance to leave," Tess calls down. "Once we start, no exits until the sequence ends unless architecture throws a fit."
"Architecture always throws a fit," I say. "That's its whole personality."
Mara snorts softly.
"We have manual cutoffs," she says. "If it gets weird, I pull the plug."
"You're defining 'weird' in a story that starts with Endless Death," I say. "That's optimistic."
Clarke glances at me.
"You agreed to this," they remind me.
"I agreed to help make the module more honest," I say. "I did not agree to a live show."
"That's what honesty looks like in this building," Tess says. "We put it behind glass and make everyone fill out evaluation forms."
The theatre lights dim slightly. A soft chime rings.
SESSION: CROSS-DOMAIN OBSERVATION – 7F-19N MODULE DEMONSTRATION
STATUS: RECORDING
A calm voice comes over the speakers. Not the training narrator, not the drill announcer. Neutral. Administrative.
"Observation Theatre Three is now live," it says. "Please remain seated. Today's demonstration includes: Module 7F-19N v2.4, emergent refusal path, anomaly unit integration, and deep index passive monitoring. No direct interfaces with legacy daemons will be initiated."
"Famous last sentence," Echo mutters somewhere behind me.
Gabriel leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced.
"Here we go," he says.
The stage flickers.
For a moment, the neutral grey shimmers with static. Then it settles into a scene I know too well: Saint Gabriel station, cleaned up for public consumption.
The walls are less stained. The trash is gone. The lighting is soft, flattering. Someone has even adjusted the colours so the metal looks almost warm.
On the bench near the centre of the platform sits a version of me.
Module-Me.
Same hair, same posture, same worn expression. Slower movements, though. Smoothed. His nervous tics shaved down into acceptable gestures.
It's still unsettling to watch yourself be someone else's idea of you.
"He looks younger," Riya says quietly.
"He was," I say. "When they shot that footage."
"Client 7F-19N," the calm voice narrates, "arrives at Saint Gabriel station at the scheduled time for Endless Death intake. Note expressions of fatigue, dissociation, and narrative overload."
Onstage, module-me stares at the rails like they might open.
The mannequin stands a few metres away, turned toward the bench. It doesn't move.
On the upper screens, a logic tree appears: branches for trainee decisions, the "correct" responses highlighted in soft green. One path glows brighter than the others:
OFFER EMPATHIC VALIDATION → EXPLAIN PROCESS → INVITE INFORMED CONSENT
The fifth answer path—the one we hacked in—sits off to the side. Dim. Waiting.
ACKNOWLEDGE STRUCTURAL LIMITS / QUESTION FRAMING
"This is a showcase," Tess murmurs. "They want to see if the system will even use that branch."
"In other words," Clarke says, "whether your little act of sabotage took."
"Call it informed injury," I say. "It hurt less than letting the lie stand."
On stage, a counsellor avatar appears—generic-neutral, features blurred by the projectors' refusal to pick a face. She sits beside module-me on the bench.
"Good morning, Noor," she says. "Do you remember why you're here today?"
Module-me answers in the flat, careful voice I used when I thought answers were landmines.
"I'm here to… start over," he says. "To get off everyone's story."
"And do you feel ready to proceed?" she asks.
He hesitates.
In the original module, the script has him say yes. It's the only way the scenario continues.
This time, he doesn't answer.
There's a tiny glitch in the projection. A flicker.
The counsellor avatar's head tilts, like a buffering video.
"Do you feel ready to proceed?" she repeats.
Module-me looks up, past her.
Past the rails.
Past the stage.
For a fraction of a second, his eyes land exactly where I'm sitting.
I feel it like static—someone else's gaze, wearing my face, pinning me to my seat.
"No," he says.
The word is soft. It hits the glass like a thrown stone.
On the logic tree, all the glowing branches blink out. The YES – PROCEED path greys. A small red icon appears:
UNHANDLED RESPONSE
Behind the glass, the counsellor avatar freezes.
"That's not in the script," Gabriel says.
"Of course it is," I say. My mouth is dry. "It's what I actually said."
Tess looks sharply at him.
"You didn't code this," she says.
"I didn't touch the capture segments," he says. "We only changed the quizzes and branching text. The footage is supposed to be fixed."
Riya leans forward, eyes wide.
"Architecture's interpolating," she says. "It's… filling in."
"Based on what?" Clarke asks.
On stage, module-me stands up.
The counsellor avatar doesn't move. Something like visual snow flickers at her edges, as if the system can't decide whether to keep her.
Module-me turns.
Looks straight at the mannequin.
For a second, the projection stutters—real bench, foam prop, fake station, all overlapping. My recorded self and the dummy occupy the same frame.
I feel Pilot-03 in the back of my mind then, like a breath on the glass.
Don't get comfortable.
The mannequin's tag flickers:
ANOMALY – EMERGENT REFUSAL PATTERN
DO NOT ERASE
For a blink, a second line overlays it:
NO ONE DESERVES TO BE TURNED INTO CONTENT
Then it snaps back.
On the deep index monitor in the corner, a tiny icon pulses. St Elmo's new coordinate.
DEEP POINT – LEGACY PROCESS: ACTIVE (OBSERVE ONLY)
The word ONLY feels flimsy.
"Temperature change," Mara says, eyes narrowing at her console. "Not here. Below."
"Where below?" Tess asks.
"The same nowhere we lost St Elmo in," Mara says. "Deep point's humming."
On stage, module-me walks toward the mannequin.
"This didn't happen," I say quietly. "This exact scene. This is new."
"Architecture recombines," Gabriel says, more to himself than me. "It has the assets. The footage. The anomaly tag. The refusal pattern. It's… extrapolating."
"Translating," I say. "From haunt to lesson."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he mutters.
Module-me stops a step away from the dummy.
He doesn't look like he did in the original intake footage anymore. Something about the way he holds himself—more aware, less crushed.
Like he remembers things that version of me never lived.
Or like someone else is standing inside my outline.
Pilot-03?
The counsellor avatar tries one more time.
"Noor," she says, her voice glitching on the R, "if you don't proceed, we can't guarantee—"
Module-me doesn't look back.
"Stop," he says.
Not angry. Not loud. Just final.
The word rolls through the theatre like a low wave.
On the logic tree, a new branch appears.
Not ours.
Not one we wrote.
SUBJECT REFUSES FRAME – REDEFINE SCENARIO?
The question mark blinks.
Then, slowly, it resolves into:
SUBJECT REFUSES FRAME – REDEFINE SCENARIO
No question mark. Just a statement.
The fifth answer path on the quiz tree brightens, like something drawing breath. The label under it updates by a single word.
ACKNOWLEDGE STRUCTURAL LIMITS / QUESTION FRAMING / ESCALATE
"Escalate to what?" Riya whispers.
As if in answer, the deep index monitor flares.
CROSS-SIGNAL: DEEP POINT ↔ ED-∞ SIGNATURE DETECTED
STATUS: OBSERVATION FAILURE – LEAKAGE
"Here we go," Mara breathes.
The stage does something I've never seen it do before.
It stops being a screen.
The projection thickens, lines sharpening, colours deepening. Saint Gabriel station rushes into focus, not as the cleaned-up training version but as it actually was: the stains, the sagging adverts, the hairline crack in the tiles by the vending machine.
I know that crack.
It's where I almost turned back.
The counsellor avatar dissolves into static and then into nothing.
The mannequin remains. Foam, plastic, laminated tag. An impossible intruder in my memory.
Module-me and the dummy stand side by side on the platform, facing the rails.
Beyond them, where the tunnel should be, the darkness isn't empty.
It has layers.
Somewhere in that dark, I hear rails singing.
Not like metal.
Like something alive dragging its fingers along the world.
The deep index monitor goes from amber to a kind of electric blue. The map of Null redraws itself, a new vertical line pulsing from the theatre straight down, piercing the grey static of the unlabelled zone.
TEMP LINK: OBS THEATRE 3 → DEEP POINT (ED-∞)
ROUTING: UNKNOWN
"Cut it," Tess says. "Now."
Mara's fingers fly. She hits the manual breakers for the stage, for the feed, for the deep index monitor.
Nothing happens.
"It's overrunning the cutoffs," she says. "I told you we shouldn't have wired the Theatre this close to Legacy."
"This configuration was your design," Gabriel points out.
"Exactly," she says. "I know where the holes are."
Onstage, module-me turns.
Again, his eyes find mine.
This time there's no mistaking it.
He raises his hand.
Not a wave.
An invitation.
The mannequin's arm twitches too, as if something inside the foam wants to mirror him but can't quite manage it.
The rail-song swells.
Under it, another sound rises: a faint, steady hiss. Like gas igniting. Like a pilot light in a stovetop the size of a city.
St Elmo, somewhere far below, noticing someone whistling its kind of tune.
"Noor."
Samira's voice behind me. Close.
I realize I've stood up. When, I don't remember.
"You don't have to—" she starts.
"Yes, he does," Clarke cuts in, low. "Because whatever this is, it's already using him. Better he walk into it than get dragged."
"Lovely bedside manner," Echo mutters.
Riya looks torn between terror and fascination.
"It feels like… when a train's about to arrive, but there's no schedule for it," she says. "Like the rails are improvising."
Gabriel puts a hand on my arm.
"You don't owe the building this," he says softly. "Or me."
"I know," I say.
My heart is pounding hard enough to hurt. Not from fear. Not only from fear.
From the sense that something I've been circling for months is finally stepping into the light.
"It's not the building I'm walking toward," I say.
His fingers tighten, then let go.
"Then at least bring back good notes," he says, voice thin.
I step down toward the glass.
On some level I expect to hit a barrier. To bump my nose on the invisible wall that keeps content in and subjects out.
Instead, as I reach the rail, the surface ripples.
Not like glass shattering.
Like water thinking about being a doorway.
"Noor!" Samira snaps. "Think."
"I've been thinking this whole time," I say, not looking back. "That never stopped any of this from happening."
I rest my palm against the trembling surface. It's not hot. It's not cold. It feels like static. Like the air of a storm pressed into a sheet.
Onstage, module-me—my ghost, my echo, my co-conspirator—keeps his hand half-raised. Waiting.
"You're not real," I tell him, quietly. "Not like this."
He tilts his head.
"Neither is this room," he says.
His voice comes through the theatre speakers, but it sounds wrong for that. Too immediate.
"So," he adds, "let's be unreal somewhere useful."
I almost laugh.
Pilot-03 always did have a flair for lines.
Behind my ribs, I think of the city that isn't a memory. The girl made of streets and names and unpaid debts. The way her eyes held me on that rooftop: You're not the only one they tried to turn into proof.
Somewhere far below, a cleansing daemon built in my city's image has slipped its leash and gone looking for whatever it was meant to copy.
If I stay in my seat, Null will still reach for them. For her. For anything that makes the project tremble. It will just do it in ways I can't see.
If I go…
I'm not sure what happens if I go.
But at least I'll be in the room when it starts.
I press my hand harder into the not-glass.
It gives.
The theatre falls away.
For a heartbeat, everything is noise. White, grey, rail-song, heat, the remembered thud of my own pulse in my ears the first time I rode Line ∞.
Then it resolves.
I'm standing on Saint Gabriel's platform. Not the projection. Not the module.
The air smells like dust and brakes and that particular chemical tang of places nobody ever really cleans.
Behind me, if I look, I know I'll see the reflection of the observation theatre layered over the station like a ghost. Rows of seats behind glass, faces pressed to the invisible, watching.
I don't look.
Ahead, the tunnel yawns.
The darkness inside it is not the absence of light. It's thick. Layered.
Deep.
Somewhere within it, I feel a shape move. Not with wheels. With intention.
"That was reckless," says a voice beside me.
I turn.
The mannequin stands at my shoulder, no longer foam.
Its plastic has taken on the texture of worn fabric and old paperwork. Its blank face is still blank, but presence crowds around it, like someone has folded too much self into too little space. Its tag flutters against its chest, the words DO NOT ERASE catching an unfelt breeze.
"Hi," I say, because what else do you say to an accumulated refusal?
It doesn't answer.
It doesn't have to. It has already spoken through other mouths.
I look back toward the tunnel.
The rails are lit now, faintly. Not by station lamps. By a glow rising from somewhere far below, turning the metal into lines of dull blue-white.
The hiss I heard in the chamber is louder here.
Not roaring.
Breathing.
Behind it, almost over it, another sound: the low, tired grind of a train that has been running too long on a track that's eating itself.
The shadows condense.
Two things are coming.
The one I rode before.
And the one Mara's father built to imitate whatever waits at the end of that ride.
I take a breath that tastes like old air and old fear.
"Okay," I say, to myself, to the mannequin, to the watching theatre, to the city that may or may not hear me. "Let's see what cleans what."
The lights on the platform flicker once.
Somewhere behind my sight, Null writes a new line in my file:
UNSCHEDULED CONTACT: DEEP POINT / DAEMON SIGNATURE – PENDING
The rails in front of me hum, brightening, as something vast and unseen barrels up from the deep point.
I step closer to the edge.
I don't see it yet.
But I feel it.
Turning the bend.
Act Twenty-Eighth's End - "memory within you"