// OLYMPUS ARCHIVE FRAGMENT — ASI RECONSTRUCTION INITIATED //
//Fragment 1: Genesis//
The memory spins like a broken gear in the clinical awareness of the ASI. Not from its own experience. A life once observed. A potential threat.
Blake was born nowhere important. An unnamed township folded into the ridge-line of the Appalachians, where the rain rolled red with runoff and forgotten machines rusted louder than the people prayed. The war left behind more than blood. UEC prototypes were dumped in the soil, bleeding irradiated fluids into the soil. Unrefined Genesis Formula, experimental, unstable. Blake touched it and his fate changed forever.
The Orphans found him when he was nine, hands already rebuilding the corpse of a drone into a firestarter. They taught him loyalty. Obedience. Precision. They punished imperfection. He was useful, until he wasn’t.
The Formula warped his mind slowly. Subtly. He couldn’t stand odd numbers. Wouldn’t fire a single shot if he’d already fired three. Would strip his rifle six times, reload twice. One day, during a live fire drill, he discharged nineteen rounds instead of eighteen. His brain snagged on the number. He couldn’t stop himself as he walked downrange into the kill zone, trying to balance his count.
They didn’t cut him loose. Not yet. He was still valuable.
Until the Colonel died.
It wasn’t Blake’s fault. Everyone knew it. The Colonel was shot charging into enemy fortifications. But they needed a scapegoat, and Blake’s mind—cracked and odd—made for a perfect target. Court-martialed in silence. No review. No trial.
Blake stole three prototypes the night he fled. A bionic arm, a neural brace, and a microreactor power core. He left the rest behind. They’d taught him not to be greedy.
//Fragment 2: Faultline, Compressed//
//Location: Southern Border, Autonomous Trade Zone — Unverified time stamp//
The bar wasn’t ruins. That was the strange part. It wasn’t a corpse of America like the rest. It was alive—loud, sun-soaked and full of color that didn’t match the soil. Painted stucco, woven textiles, desert roses growing out of motorbike tires. The way the buildings curled with the sun were reminiscent of the homeland of their architects.
James was already half a bottle deep when Blake arrived.
“Blake,” James grinned, eyes glassy, artificial iris glittering. “You’re late to your own midlife crisis.”
“I don’t drink.”
“No, but you brood. It’s the same ritual, different chemicals.”
Blake sat. He was still armored from the waist down, shirt soaked in sweat, synthetic muscle twitching. James poured him something anyway.
He exhaled. “Remind me why we’re here.”
“We’re building a future,” James said. “Away from the UEC. From the Orphans. And this is just the start—I say we build your living machine. Something honest, finally. Not like the lies they raised you on.”
Blake didn’t respond.
“You still trust them?” James leaned forward, almost gentle. “After all that?”
“They made me,” Blake said.
“They used you,” James corrected, emotion bleeding into his argument. “And now you’ve got a chance to stop being their tool. Start being something real.”
Blake tensed.
“Oh,” James said, grinning again. “Also, we’re meeting someone.”
A pause.
“What?”
“Yeah. Assassin. Gorgeous stealth tech. Doesn’t talk much. Real stabby. You’ll love him.”
“You brought an assassin here?”
“Well, yeah, it’s a bar. Great ambiance. Also I didn’t want to ask you because I figured you’d say no. But come on, it’s fun. Like the old days. Except now I don’t have a digestive tract and can’t technically get drunk. Cheers!”
“You’re impossible.”
James winked. “I’m old enough to remember TikTok before they figured out it gave you cancer to stare at screens all day. You think this assassin’s the worst thing I’ve done this week?”
The bar door opened. Four cartel enforcers stepped in. Then six more. They weren’t here for drinks.
“I was only expecting one guy..” James said, swirling his glass.
The tension snapped. Blake’s new bionic arm smashed down through the center of the table, shattering it into splinters and crushing the nearest gunman’s head like a rotten pumpkin. James hadn’t stood—just shifted. His clothes shredded away in mechanical harmony. Bionic plates sealed over his face, and a caseless submachine gun unfolded from his wrist. The bar turned red in seconds.
James sat in his chair, yelling in an amused tone despite the situation unfolding around them. “Would the real Steven Segal, please SIT DOWN!” With that he let loose a barrage of high velocity nickel carbon composite rounds, cutting the soft targets in half as they connected at over five thousand feet per second.
It didn’t take long for them to mop up anyone that didn’t flee as soon as they saw the tide turn. The Interfectum contact had cleared the way through the alley where they scored a battered pickup from the alley.
A dying soldier with one leg tried to crawl after them.
James laughed, gunned the engine, and shouted out the window, “How you like that, Leg-off-o-las!!”
“You’re going to hell.” Blake responded, not even turning.
James grinned. “Good. All my heroes are already there.”
//Fragment 3: Zero Tarmac//
//Location: Cuba — UEC Invasion Coordination Compound//
Night came from the sea.
Cartel speedboats slammed into the beach first, music blaring from rusted speakers, their decks crowded with makeshift cannons cobbled from gutted warships. They carried foot soldiers who barely knew they wouldn’t survive the hour.
Interfectum followed from the sky on silent wingsuits, stealth fields fluttering. No weapons on their dropships, just speed and intent.
James and Blake dropped from the same insertion craft. No parachutes. Just grav-brace impact gear and very loud landings.
Nero was waiting.
He stood in the center of the airstrip, hands behind his back, like a man posing for a monument.
He didn’t blink when the first wave came.
Cartel gunfire bent around him. The air warped with invisible pressure. Men exploded like bags of paint.
Blake surged through it—his new arm overclocked, bones screaming under the load. Beside him, James blurred forward, a bionic mask sliding over his face, neuroblade whirring with unstable frequency.
Nero didn't even raise a hand. He just looked at him.
James' momentum halted mid-step, suspended in the grip of an unseen force. His blade shattered with a sound like glass underwater—folded by an unseen pressure. James hit the tarmac hard, his chassis shearing into several pieces while he cursed helplessly.
Blake was next. He dove into close range, traded a half-dozen blows that didn't land right. Nero wasn’t just a psychic brute. He was practiced. Precise. Every counter felt like a memory, like he'd fought them before.
“You brought insects,” Nero said. “I invented the web.”
Blake hit the ground hard. Sparks burst from his spine brace as he skidded across the pavement. He was up again a breath later, jaw set, face bleeding, but he knew he wouldn’t win this alone.
But he wasn’t alone.
No sound. No warning. Just presence.
He emerged from the smoke like a mirage made real—cloak bending light, boots silent. No scent, no sound. Just inevitability.
In his hands he held James’ broken blade.
Still sharp enough..
Nero turned. He saw the strike coming. He raised his arm to block but his opponent was ready for him.
The assassin tossed something small. It chirped once—then exploded into a sharp, localized hum that bent Nero’s pressure field just enough. A breath. That’s all he needed.
No resistance. No friction. Just the sound of air dividing.
One clean arc.
No flourish. No monologue.
Nero’s head hit the tarmac with a wet thump, rolled once, then stopped. The body stayed standing for a second longer.
The assassin said nothing. Just vanished, like he'd never been there.
James, from the ground, groaned. “Okay, new rule... no more fighting dudes who can fold gravity.” He pushed himself up on his remaining arm, his other shattered limbs hanging limp by his side. “And remind me to send that guy a fruit basket. Do assassins like mangoes?”
Blake didn’t answer. He was still staring at the corpse like it might stand up again. He was free. He was finally free.
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