Ghost in the Seats
The sanctuary was quiet tonight.
Most of the new followers—Kesh among them—were out scavenging glyph fragments under Elior's guidance.
Elior sat alone on the edge of the cracked stage, palm hovering over a flickering projection.
A fractured memory.
Mira's laughter. Warped. Fragmented.
"You can't save everyone."
He stared into the glowing light.
"I don't intend to. Only the ones who choose to wake up."
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
Sharp. Calm. Emotionless:
"Then you're just building another myth."
The First Meeting
She stepped from the shadows in a long black coat.
Every movement clean, calculated.
No gun on her shoulder—just three memory needles strapped at her hip.
Each one capable of extracting or rewriting a mind.
Lysa Thorne.
Former MindNet Operative.
Now: rogue memory hunter.
"Echo Shepherd," she said, as if testing the taste of it.
"Sounds like the start of a god cult."
Elior didn't flinch.
"I don't believe in gods."
She smirked.
"But people are starting to believe in you."
Thought vs Thought
They stood in the half-collapsed theater like opposing creeds clashing in the ruins of old entertainment.
Lysa glanced at the projection.
"Who is she? Old flame? Lost fate?"
"Future," Elior said. "A piece of myself I refuse to erase."
Lysa studied him.
"I used to be like you. Believed in truth. In freedom. In memory."
A pause.
Then her eyes turned cold:
"Until I learned the truth: memory can be measured, monetized, weaponized."
"You're gathering followers. Spreading doctrine.
You're not freeing minds—you're replacing their prison with your own."
Elior met her gaze.
"The opposite of control isn't chaos.
It's choice."
A Hunter's Test
She stepped closer.
"What if I grabbed you now? Uploaded your memories, rebuilt your entire persona…
What would your little 'faithful' do then?"
Elior remained calm.
He raised a hand and drew a symbol in the air—an echo mark, simplified and pulsing gently.
"Then let them choose.
Stay obedient…
Or become something real."
Lysa didn't answer.
Instead, she slowly retracted the memory needle.
A Warning, or a Promise?
"You're dangerous, Elior.
You're not insane. And you're no messiah."
She turned to leave, her figure sliced by fractured light.
"But you know what you are?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"A contagion."
And then she vanished into the dark.
Only her voice remained, echoing through the cracked speaker system:
"Next time we meet, I'll bring choices."