BLOODCAPE
Chapter 127: Inheritance Drift

Chapter 127: Chapter 127: Inheritance Drift

The tunnel beneath Zeta-3 wasn’t built for people. Not anymore.

It curled like a scar beneath the biotech plant — a runoff artery meant to bleed waste and secrets into the city’s forgotten layers. Air hung cold and wet, thick with the metallic taste of rust and long-decayed circuitry. Water from cracked steam lines dripped at irregular intervals, echoing with a heartbeat’s wrong rhythm.

Hernan moved first, body low beneath the rusted curve of the ceiling. His shoulder lamp threw thin arcs of light across the pipework, casting flickering ribcage shadows over faded warning glyphs. In those brief illuminations, it almost looked like the walls were breathing — slowly, raggedly.

Gemini followed in silence. Her eyes never left his back.

They hadn’t spoken since descending.

It wasn’t the silence of caution.

It was the silence of gravity.

"This junction’s not listed on any city grid," she finally said, her voice nearly lost in the drip-drip-drip of condensation.

Hernan didn’t turn around. "It was condemned during the Pharos expansion. Structural compromise after Tower breach. Then declassified."

Gemini blinked. "That’s not in the Academy archives."

"I know."

The words came too easily.

They reached a fork in the corridor — one end sloped up into black, the other slanted into shallow, flickering water. Hernan didn’t pause to consider. He raised a hand, pressed it to a dented panel above the intersection, and tapped twice. Then circled a knuckle along the edge in a spiral motion.

"Delta-five clearance," he muttered. "Fallback vector six."

Gemini stopped moving.

Her breath slowed. The air didn’t feel so breathable anymore.

Those were not cadet protocols. Those were field handovers from over a decade ago — Zodiac phrasing purged after the Command Disbandment.

Her voice barely rose above the stillness. "Where did you learn that?"

Hernan didn’t answer.

His hand dropped. His feet moved again, faster now, more assured. He stepped like someone who remembered which floor tiles creaked, which valves hissed before bursting. At one turn, he raised three fingers, then swept them left in a motion Gemini recognized immediately.

It meant: sweep before speaking.A dead language. A brother’s language.

"Hernan," she said, softer now. "Wait."

He didn’t.

Until he reached a doorway — the metal warped inward, charred black.

He stopped. Stared.

Then, slowly, raised his hand again and pressed it against the wall. Not testing. Not scanning.

Touching. Like memory lived in that heat-burned steel.

And softly, like narrating a dream aloud:

"This is where he died."

Gemini stepped closer. There was no hesitation in her anymore. Just inevitability.

"You mean Solaris."

But Hernan didn’t say his name.

He just said: "He."

The echo lingered.

Gemini studied his posture, the subtle pitch in his breath, the flicker of something behind his eyes. This wasn’t mimicry. It wasn’t even possession.

It was drift.

A merging of memory, instinct, and something that resisted separation.

"No," she said. "Not all of him."

He turned slightly. There was something like a question behind his gaze — not confusion. But the kind of horror you feel when you begin to suspect the mask you wear has grown skin underneath.

They moved on. The corridor narrowed again, leading into a basin chamber — old flood control design. A rusted ladder spiraled to the surface, capped by a sealed hatch. Red guidance strips pulsed with failing power, like a heartbeat measured by a dying clock.

Hernan reached it.

His hand rose.

Paused.

Hovered just inches from the first rung, trembling slightly — not from cold. But from familiarity. From déjà vu so complete it felt like time had folded.

Gemini stood at his side.

She didn’t speak.

Because something about this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.

Not yet.

Three decks up, under low-power lights in a lab scattered with broken drone carapaces and empty synth-caffeine cans, Nico Reyes sat staring at a tag no bigger than a dog chip.

Its edges were scuffed, its alloy dull, but the letters scratched into the casing had weight: S.S. He hadn’t let it go since Zeta-3. It didn’t feel like evidence.

It felt like the beginning of a language he wasn’t fluent in yet.

He linked the tag into his off-grid diagnostics node — no uplink, no sync, no eyes.

He thought.

PASSIVE SIGNAL DETECTEDARCHIVAL TIMESTAMP: CLASS REDTRACE TRIGGEREDDECRYPT FRAGMENT? [Y/N]

He hesitated.

Then tapped: Y.

Across the Academy, deep in her personal vault lined with false nodes and security ghosts, Aya’s console lit with a ripple-ping.

OBJECT TRACE FLAGGED: TAG 7X.SS – CLASS VAULT MATCHORIGIN NODE: DRONE LAB C12ACTION: SHADOW SYNC INITIATED

She didn’t touch anything.

Just watched.

Back in the lab, Nico leaned close as a glitchy video log resolved into a face.

Solaris.

Half-conscious, bleeding, pupils unfocused. Voice hoarse.

"If this survives me... don’t let it... become me."

Static.

But the face remained. Twitching. Flickering.

And somewhere in that broken symmetry, Nico saw Hernan.

Not just resemblance.

Not performance.

He saw inheritance — the kind DNA can’t explain.

Aya watched every flicker from her side.

She pulled up voice slope overlays. Neural match threads. Facial micro-shift comparisons.

CONGRUENCE: 99.7%MATCH TYPE: BLEED-THROUGH / NEURAL ECHO

Not born.

Not built.

Something spliced. Something worn.

Nico sat very still. The hum of his lab faded into the background as the truth began settling inside his ribs like icewater.

He detached the tag. Set it down. Stared at it like it might speak again.

And whispered — not accusing. Not afraid.

"You knew, didn’t you."

Not to Solaris.

To Hernan.

Aya catalogued the moment. Stamped it with an observation code.

SUBJECT: NICO REYESEXPOSURE LEVEL: CLASS-BOBSERVE. DO NOT ENGAGE.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t close the feed.

Only wrote one final line, quietly, into her log:

Inheritance is no longer passive.

Then closed the screen.

And far below them — deep in the tunnels where memory and identity were no longer separate things — Hernan stood beneath the blinking light of a surface hatch...

...and could not decide whether climbing out meant survival, or stepping further into someone else’s unfinished story.

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