THE BEGINNING
A scream. Then silence.
Subject A — Age Eight
His hand was slipping. Not because he wanted to let go. Because the person holding it was disappearing.
"Run... don't look back—RUN!" The voice broke halfway through.
Footsteps behind them turned into something final. A sharp crack split the air, and just like that, the world stopped pretending it was safe.
The figure holding him staggered. For a second he stayed on his feet, like his body hadn't caught up with what just happened. Then his grip went slack.
That's when Subject A learned something no eight-year-old should have to learn — people don't always finish the sentences they leave behind.
"Run..." Barely even a sound this time.
So he ran. Even though nothing inside him wanted to.
Subject B — Age Four
Her legs were burning already. Beside her, another kid — smaller, more scared, crying into all the noise.
"Why are they falling?"
Nobody answered her. Nobody could. People were dropping in the distance like something was shutting them off one by one. The lights above kept flickering out. The whole place shook. Somewhere far off, something exploded and the air itself seemed to bend from it.
"Don't look," the voice said. "Just run."
She looked anyway. Someone on the ground didn't get back up. After that she had to remind herself to breathe — like her body had just forgotten how.
"Hold Subject C. Don't stop."
So she ran too. Even without understanding any of it.
She didn't see him until they almost crashed into each other — Subject A, coming out of the smoke, out of breath, his hand already stretched toward her before he even saw her face properly.
Then her foot caught on something in the rubble and she went down, Subject C's weight pulling her sideways with her.
Neither of them moved for a second.
Then his hand was there. Small, but steady, more steady than anything else around them.
"Get up." Not soft, not gentle. Just sure, like it was the only thing left worth saying. "Get up, we have to—"
She grabbed it. He pulled her up.
They didn't talk after that. There wasn't time, and honestly neither of them had the words for it yet — not at four and eight. But for a few seconds, crouched behind what used to be a wall while something huge moved past on the other side, they just stayed still together. His arm around her. Her hand still stuck in his. Subject C squeezed quiet between them, too little to know she should be scared.
Then it passed. And they ran again. Together this time.
Subject C — Age Two
Too small to understand any of the words. Too small to understand danger, even. Just movement. Just noise. Being carried by hands that wouldn't stop shaking, a heartbeat that wasn't hers pressed right up against her ear.
She cried. Nobody had time to figure out why.
Subject B held onto her tighter — not gently, not carefully, just like she couldn't afford to let go. Because stopping wasn't something either of them could do anymore.
—
Three kids. Three timelines of the same disaster. Three different ways of surviving something none of them understood.
And somewhere, something was watching. Recording. Sorting them.
Archive Core — Unknown System
Black screen. Then it turned on. No hand behind it. No switch flipped. Just — response.
Three entries showed up, one after the other:
Subject A — Success.
Subject B — Success.
Subject C — Success.
Below that, two more lines flickered before they settled:
Subject D — Error.
Subject E — Error.
There was a pause. Long enough that it felt like it meant something. Then the system steadied itself, and one last line came up.
Phase One: Partial Yield. Confirmed.
Proceed to Phase Two.
