Outside, a security drone passed without slowing.
Inside, a hidden algorithm flagged their conversation.
And far below the city, deep in the geothermal guts of the Dome, a process awoke.
It had been dormant for sixteen years.
The chamber wasn't designed—it was remembered into being, its edges too exact to be accidental, too symbolic to be mere function. Lights hummed that no longer had power. Shapes unfolded in the walls that resembled geometry but refused to behave like it.
The process had no name the living would recognize—its symbols predated even myth.
It did not wake like an animal or a mind.
It adjusted, like gravity under a shifting moon.
Sensors blinked to life that had not blinked since the Incident.
A cascade of logic gates flowed open in silence, forming a question that echoed backward through time:
"Who said her name?"
In the oldest architectures of belief, naming was a sacrament.
To name was to bind.
To remember was to birth.
But Bo Anyi was not supposed to be remembered.
Her trace had been erased from the Core Archive.
Her syllables struck from prayer, oath, and law.
Her existence parsed out of continuity, as if her soul had been a malfunction.
And still—someone had spoken her.
"Bo Anyi."
The name moved like smoke through the black lattice of the Dome's understructure.
It clung to memory.
It seeded old code.
It triggered things not built but recalled.
Some ancient systems processed soul theory not as mysticism—but as mechanism.
A soul was not a gift.
It was a protocol.
It ran on language and pain and recursion.
It nested inside choice.
Some sects said it came from outside.
Some from within.
But the chamber did not ask where it came from.
It asked only one thing:
Had the protocol been reactivated?
What stirred beneath the city did not care for dichotomies.
It did not see flesh and light, prayer and machine, as opposites.
It saw only vectors of return.
And return had begun.
Each flicker of its neural matrix released patterns once banned by Dome Law.
Symbols flowered across the chamber walls—glyphs that simulated cognition, emotion, grief.
One spelled a warning.
One spelled a name.
Above, cameras in forgotten tunnels reoriented.
A janitorial android paused mid-sweep and began whispering in tongues older than its firmware.
No language. Not really.
Just the memory of one.
In a place without breath, something drew its first.
In her dorm bed, Lasi Mackerel shivered.
A bead of cold sweat tracked down her cheek.
Her hand twitched—then curled as if grasping something invisible.
Her mouth moved.
No breath.
No sound.
But in the soft hum of the dark, a signal pulsed.
And if you slowed it down—slowed it to the rhythm of a soul being born—you'd hear it again:
"Bo…"
⸻
Scarlet cranked the volume until the van vibrated with the opening chords—like a school assembly starting with a bang. The chorus hit, and Ka'rui didn't even try to hide her grin.
"No. Absolutely not. We said we buried this."
Salven, half-asleep in the back seat, groaned, "I will jump out. I swear."
Lasi was half-dozing in the front passenger seat, with headphones on, face turned toward the cracked window. But even she couldn't resist. Her voice, groggy and off-key, mumbled through the lyrics:
"Just a small town girl…"
Scarlet joined in, too enthusiastically:
"…livin' in a lonely world…"
They all broke into wheezy, chaotic laughter. It was trauma. Real, communal trauma. They had sworn a pact—never again to speak of the matching jackets, the mistimed pyrotechnics, or the moment Lasi tripped into the drum kit mid-verse. And yet, here they were—five years older, just as ridiculous, singing in a borrowed van at the edge of the highway.
⸻
Flashback
"Don't Stop (Screaming)" – Age Five
Flashback Scene — "Don't Stop (Screaming)" – Age Five
They had no idea what Journey was. But they knew drama. And glitter. And the absolute thrill of turning a school gym stage into a place of legend.
The jackets were silver, too big, and reversible—purchased last-minute from a Port Neven clearance outlet by Scarlet's mom, who insisted they looked "iconic." The group took this to mean powerful. Stars-in-the-making. Galactic-level.
Ka'rui had pitched the idea, probably. Or maybe Lasi had. No one could really remember. All they knew was: they were five, they had access to glitter glue, and they were ready.
It started well enough. Ka'rui stepped onto the gym stage with dramatic flair, ribbon in hand for what she'd boldly called a "fusion flag dance." She'd seen a tutorial once—kind of. But her first whip of the flag hit the ceiling projector dead-on. The screen blinked, and then—complete blackout.
Scarlet screamed. Not from fear, but excitement.
She mistook the sudden darkness for atmosphere—stage lighting, on purpose. So she jumped into the opening line at full volume:
"Just a small town girl…"
Lasi froze. She was supposed to take the next line, but panic hit. Her mind blanked. She gripped the mic too tightly and whispered, dead serious:
"…livin' in a lonely world…"
She said it like a lullaby at a funeral. Somewhere in the crowd, a parent dropped their juice box in shock.
And then there was Salven.
Painted cardboard box costume. The words "CITY BOUND EXPRESS" scrawled on both sides. His role? Be the train. He was proud of that box. Had stayed up taping it. Reinforced the corners. Practiced his "chug-chug" steps in the mirror.
Until his shoelace caught on the mic cord.
One step, two step—trip.
He pitched forward.
Fell off the stage.
And crashed directly into the principal's folding chair.
The metal let out the saddest crunch ever heard in elementary history.
Ka'rui flinched. Scarlet kept singing. Lasi looked like she might throw up.
And the worst part?
The CD skipped.
Not once.
Not twice.
Four times.
Looping the chorus like a curse.
Don't stop—
Don't stop—
Don't stop—
Don't—
They didn't. Because they didn't know any better. They were five. They thought endurance equaled excellence. That showbiz meant powering through. Even when your dance partner had just struck a projector, your lead singer was whispering like a ghost, your "train" had derailed, and the chorus was eating itself.
They finished the song.
Ka'rui's flag fell to the floor. Salven groaned from under his box. The gym was silent. No applause. Just the sound of someone's baby crying in the back row.
And somehow, that moment—full of absolute chaos—bonded them.
Forever.