Hive City Seattle — Sector M-22, Mid-Level Zone 74
Year: 2091
The donation center smelled like copper, antiseptic, and silence.
Alex Pagne sat with his arm strapped into the auto-siphon unit, staring at the slow pump of his blood into a sealed, humming canister marked Nexum Biotic Division: Resource Class B. A screen beside the chair blinked.
> "Withdrawal: Approved. Plasma Volume: 0.7 Liters. Nutrient Credit Awarded: 1.4 Units."
He didn't bother checking the number again. It would barely buy protein paste and a sleep token — maybe enough heat for a shower if he rationed.
Across the aisle, a boy no older than sixteen vomited into his lap after his second extraction this week. No one looked. No one flinched. A cleaning drone rolled by and hissed sanitization gas in the boy's direction.
Alex exhaled. Shallow. Measured.
> "Your body is your ballot," said the donation terminal, cheerfully.
"Thank you for empowering tomorrow. Nexum watches because Nexum cares."
He slid his coat back on with a grunt, his left hand still tingling. It was always worse after the third extraction in a week. But he needed the credits — needed them. Rent here in Sector M-22 was stable, and stability was as close to safety as the Hive offered.
He stepped out into the corridor — a flickering steel artery of rusted piping and cold light. The walls breathed faintly with the thrum of hydrocore vents buried far beneath, pumping steam and data up to the higher tiers.
Above him, a digital billboard sparked to life.
> [NEXUM PRIORITY TRANSMISSION]
"Reminder: Unauthorized possession of Pre-Optimization media is a Tier-1 infraction. Protect your purpose. Report deviation."
He paused under it. Not because of what it said — but because of what he remembered.
A screen like this once glitched when he was younger. Just for a second. Behind the smiling Nexum message, he'd seen something else:
A parchment.
A signature.
The word "Freedom" written in an archaic font.
He never forgot that day. Never stopped looking for more.
---
Alex lived in Pod Block G4 — sixteen square meters of steel, recycled foam, and silence. His room was stacked with scavenged tech, half-dead datacores, and encrypted chipsets wrapped in copper shielding.
On his wall, hidden behind a ventilation grate, sat a cracked old tablet, black screen — ancient tech. Forbidden tech.
He pulled it free and held his breath as the bootup cycle buzzed to life, slowly stabilizing. The glow was faint, but real.
> FILE: 1787_US_HIST_A2
SUBJECT: Constitution of the United States of America
ENCRYPTED VIDEO FRAME DETECTED. PLAY?
He pressed play.
A man in primitive clothes — suit, powdered wig — stood before a crowd and shouted:
> "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…"
Alex's breath hitched. He mouthed the words. Not because he was taught them — because he'd watched this fragment a hundred times.
A knock at the door made his hand jump.
Not a drone.
Not a Harmonizer.
A human knock — hesitant, uneven, alive.
Alex killed the tablet feed and shoved it back behind the grate. He froze in place, every breath drawn with surgical caution.
Then:
> "Pod G4, confirm occupant status."
The voice was calm, but commanding. Familiar, somehow. The kind of voice that could silence a hallway — not with volume, but with authority.
> "Routine census revalidation. Open or identify."
Alex pressed his back to the wall, inching toward the entrance console. He glanced at the screen — external cam: offline. Surveillance here was spotty by design — no one cared what happened in the mid-level gutters unless blood got spilled.
The voice came again, slightly closer to the door now, softer.
> "Alex Pagne… if you're in there… I'm not here to harm you."
His breath caught in his throat. He stared at the door like it might start bleeding.
He knew that voice.
He hadn't heard it since they were children, but he knew it.
Lena.
But something about it was… wrong.
She sounded older. Colder. Not emotionless — but controlled. Processed. Like her words were filtered through something metallic.
Then she said something that chilled him deeper than any Harmonizer threat:
> "They think you're here. That you still believe in the old world."
> "I didn't ask to come. I was assigned."
Her footsteps retreated. Slowly. Measured. Then silence.
He didn't move for ten minutes.
When he finally did, it was to grab the tablet again — shove it into his coat. Then he opened the floor vent, pulled out a pack of old rations, his father's rusted multitool, and a burner wristband.
Time to leave.
He didn't know how long she would obey her assignment. Or what would happen if Davin came instead.
Alex Pagne was no longer safe in Sector M-22.
---