BLOODCAPE
Chapter 145: Convergence Line

Chapter 145: Chapter 145: Convergence Line

The entrance to Subline Zero wasn’t marked.

It waited in the bones of the city like something ashamed of what it used to be — buried beneath maintenance layers, its existence unacknowledged by every public grid or Scorpio-maintained archive. They found it behind a false freight elevator beneath a power substation tagged for decommission. The access panel looked welded shut.

But Dekra knelt and pressed two fingers to the cold alloy.

"Try to remember it," Aya whispered.

"I’m not remembering," Dekra muttered. "I’m guessing."

She tapped in a code she claimed came to her in a dream.

The elevator opened with a sigh that sounded like something old giving up.

A cold rush of ancient air rolled out — dry, stale, charged with static and old dust. The kind of air that hadn’t been touched in years but still carried the scent of decisions.

They descended in silence.

The lift groaned, its cables whispering against oxidized wheels.

When it stopped, it didn’t jerk or jolt. Just a quiet thunk — like a guillotine coming down on forgotten time.

The doors opened.

Subline Zero.

A long artery of engineered darkness.

It stretched away in either direction — curved, ribbed with structural struts, lit only by the pulse of dying emergency conduit buried in the walls. Orange glows blinked like blood through bone. Decades of dust coated the floor, broken only by footprints that hadn’t been made yet.

Old Zodiac signage still clung to overhead beams:

CARGO SECURE. CLEARANCE LAMBDA–TAU.

Half-burned. Faded. Reduced to fragments and static.

Dekra was already moving — interfacing with a terminal melted into the wall like fossilized code. Her gauntlet blinked blue against the ancient interface nodes, scanning.

"Surveillance ghosts still active," she said. "They’re tuned to emotional resonance, not facial IDs. If anyone registers emotional corruption or inconsistency..."

"They strike?" Iro asked, unslinging his weapon.

"They erase," Dekra corrected. "Like a stutter in the system."

"They’re mines," Aya muttered. "Mood mines."

"Be calm, then," Dekra said. "Or be forgotten."

They moved forward — slow, deliberate.

Each footstep was a small promise made to the silence.

The floor crunched under boots: fractured data foam, cracked interface masks, shards of shattered neural gel. This tunnel had once been the city’s spinal cord. Now it was a crypt of forgotten code.

Hernan walked at the front, eyes scanning the path, though part of him already knew it. He felt it — not as memory, but as echo. There was a rhythm here his bones half-recognized. A place that once registered who he was... and now wasn’t sure.

They passed a half-collapsed bulkhead. Painted across it — just barely visible beneath char — a Zodiac symbol. Not the modern variant. The old one.

The true one.

The circle of flame, ringed in primal code.

They reached the choke point — a narrowing corridor watched by recessed sensor gates.

Iro knelt beside a node that blinked softly like a pulse.

"Tripwire," he said. "Programmed to accept emotional imprint. Anyone not matching the original Zodiac ethos gets flagged."

"Can you bypass it?" Aya asked.

Iro shook his head. "Only if Hernan passes."

"Then it’s not a test of ID," Hernan said. "It’s a test of faith."

He stepped forward.

The node whirred.

Then screamed.

Not with sound, but pressure. A sudden sharp hum that ripped through his synapses like claws through cloth. The air around him distorted.

He blinked.

And he was somewhere else.

A rooftop. Wind howling. Rain slicing sideways. Orders in his ear. Gun in his hand.

Flash.

A café. Smell of jasmine. A woman laughing across the table.

Flash.

Blood on his gloves. Screams echoing in a train station. A moment of indecision.

Each memory flawless. Polished.

Too polished.

They weren’t his.

They were B’s.

Infused into the sensor system. Bleeding into his own neural pathways like infection.

"I—I can’t—" Hernan’s voice cracked. "Can’t tell—what’s mine—"

Aya was there instantly. Her hand on his chest. Eyes locked to his.

"Anchor," she said sharply.

His pupils dilated.

"You’re not memory. You’re here. Now. Tell me — what do your boots feel like?"

"W-what?"

"Say it."

"Left’s too tight. Right creaks."

"Smell?"

"Rust. Oil. Decay."

"What’s under your hand?"

"Steel. Cold. Sharp ridge."

She pressed closer. "Good. Hold it. Stay."

He breathed in. Ragged. Then again.

The hallucination ebbed.

The sensor node turned green.

Iro exhaled. "Hell of a pass."

They pressed on.

The corridor sloped downward now, subtly at first, then more sharply, until the air itself felt like it was pulling them forward — toward something deeper than architecture. Toward origin.

At last, they reached a vault.

Massive.

Circular.

The sigil of original Zodiac burned into the alloy, now half-melted.

No lock. No screen.

Just a panel etched with five words:

PROCEED ONLY IF REMEMBERED

Dekra stepped forward. Pressed her hand to the plate.

Nothing.

Hernan stepped up.

The door exhaled.

It opened without resistance, without welcome.

Behind it: a spiral stair, descending into blackness.

And at the bottom, flickering like a dying eye:

A single blue light.

The heartbeat of the Nexus Core.

The antechamber pulsed.

Not with power.

With memory.

They stepped inside the sanctum.

Stained-glass neural interfaces lined the chamber, cracked and leaking light. Faces flickered half-born in the shards — smiles paused mid-expression, data fragments frozen like thought midstream. Every pane whispered forgotten histories.

The air buzzed with latent electricity — and something older.

Faith. Once.

Now? Only wreckage.

Aya moved toward the center slowly. Statues lined the perimeter — ideals carved in alloy and stone. Zodiac’s founding virtues.

Integrity — broken at the waist.

Remembrance — faceless.

Unity — scattered.

At the far wall: a door. Not made. Grown. Curved into the memory-metal like a scar across time. It pulsed blue, heartbeat rhythm.

Dekra’s voice was low. "The oldest access point in the city. Before Scorpio. Before the Fall."

Aya glanced at the threshold. "And he’s inside?"

"He’s interfaced already. The Nexus has taken him."

"Then why will it still open for Hernan?"

Dekra looked at Hernan. "Because it never cared who got here first. Only who made it matter."

Aya handed Hernan a stabilizer. "You cross, we lose you. Comms won’t penetrate."

He took it. Inserted it into his spine port. It hissed into his blood.

Dekra turned from her console. "When you step in, convergence starts. Two neural echoes can’t exist in the same framework."

Aya asked the question none had spoken aloud:

"If he wins — does that mean B dies?"

"No," Dekra said. "It means B never happened."

Iro stepped forward.

Held out a hand.

Hernan took it.

"Die after the echo," Iro said quietly. "Not before."

Aya stepped in last.

"If you see him in there..."

"I will."

"Don’t hate him."

"I don’t," Hernan said softly. "He’s not wrong. He’s just too clean."

He turned.

Approached the threshold.

The door didn’t open. It unfolded — like memory stepping aside.

Zodiac’s original sigil flared above the arch.

He reached out — palm against the carved edge.

And from the other side, a voice.

His voice.

But smoother.

Younger.

Perfect.

"I’m ready to be remembered."

Hernan closed his eyes.

And whispered back:

"I’m ready to be forgotten."

He stepped through.

The door sealed behind him.

A monitor blinked once.

One line appeared:

CONVERGENCE INITIATED.

Aya stared.

Said nothing.

Iro exhaled, heavy.

Dekra lowered her head.

And far below them — deep in the city’s pulse — the old system prepared to choose.

Not truth.

Not survival.

Just... what would be remembered.