Series
Wrong Identity
"The porridge is burnt, but the company is honest," the woman with the copper arm announced, gesturing toward a steaming bowl. She introduced herself as Maren, the de facto quartermaster of Anchorage. Her prosthetic arm whirred with a series of miniature clicks as she ladled the grey, nutty grain into a bowl for Curtis. As he took it, their fingers brushed, and Curtis felt a faint, pulse—not a digital signal, but a mechanical heartbeat, a clockwork governor keeping her limb in sync with her organic shoulder.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"He sounds... tired," Curtis said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "He was a man who spent forty years fighting a war against an enemy that didn't believe he existed," Soren replied, leaning against the salt pillar. "Fatigue is the natural state of the dissident. But listen to the way he speaks of the 'continuation.' He didn't want you to be a perfect replica, Curtis. He wanted you to be the part of him that finally got away."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Soren led him deeper into the brine-pools, his boots making a wet, sucking sound against the mineral crust. He didn't speak for a long time, allowing the silence to act as a decompression chamber for Curtis’s frayed nerves. As they navigated the labyrinth of salt pillars, Curtis noticed that the bioluminescent fungi weren't just growing randomly; they were arranged in clusters that resembled a map, tracing the contours of the cavern in a soft, emerald glow. It was a biological index, a way for those who knew the language of the cave to find their bearings without the need for a digital compass.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis felt a cold spike of dread. The thought of his own body becoming a tuning fork for the facility's weaponry was a visceral horror. He gripped the iridescent crystal tighter, the violet light casting long, distorted shadows against the salt-crusted walls. As they pushed deeper into the subterranean vein, the air grew thicker, tasting of brine and old copper. The tunnel began to slope sharply downward, the floor turning from jagged rock to a smooth, slime-coated slope that forced Curtis to slide and scramble, his injured ankle screaming in protest with every jarring impact.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Soren paused, his hand hovering over the oil lamp. The flicker of the flame cast long, dancing shadows across the salt-ribbed ceiling. "In the current cycle? Only a few. But the facility doesn't just build one; they build a series. They iterate. Each one is a refined version of the last, designed to be more stable, more compliant. But stability is a lie. The more they refine the model, the more they accidentally preserve the core of the man they are trying to erase. You are the most refined, which means you are the most haunted."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
As they fell, the same violent shuddering began to rack Curtis's body. It was exactly as Soren had described: his chassis was acting as a receiver. He felt his vision flicker, the world alternating between the blackness of the shaft and a searing, neon-blue grid of error messages. Every joint in his body felt like it was being pulled in opposite directions. He tried to scream, but the vibration had seized his vocal chords, turning his voice into a distorted, metallic rattle.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Can we fight them?" Curtis asked, his voice now steady, stripped of the hesitation that had plagued him since the motel. The man didn't smile, but there was a flicker of grim approval in his eyes. "Fight? No. You don't fight a swarm with a leaking shoulder and a bum ankle. You outsmart them." He stepped toward the obsidian wall and slammed the butt of his rifle into a specific, jagged protrusion in the rock. The sound wasn't a crash, but a chime—a harmonic vibration that rippled through the cathedral.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Striking Snake Maiden
"So that's it, you want me to beat up on a bunch of thugs is that it?" Jingfei asked her martial sister Mei Xiang. "You have been wandering far too long sister" Mei Xiang replied. "The Rock Hound Gang aren't just any bunch of local thugs as you say. They are professional killers, thieves and in a large group are not exactly easy to take on."
By Johann Hollar2 months ago in Fiction
