Chapter 1
Disappearance
The city never slept. Its breath was metallic - the hum of servers, the whir of automated patrol drones slicing through the thick, grey air. Towers stretched so high they swallowed the sun by midday, and even then, their glass facades never reflected warmth, only shadows. Concrete veins pulsed with silent traffic below, guided by glowing lanes and the invisible grip of centralized control.
Trump adjusted the collar on his neck - a sleek ring of synthetic alloy with a blinking blue indicator. It buzzed gently, almost like a whisper against his skin, constantly tracking his movement, his vitals, his emotions.
He was on his seventh shift this week. No overtime pay. No questions asked. He worked for one of the many urban tech plants - cleaning, maintaining, and sometimes crawling through corridors built more for machines than men. He wasn't lazy, far from it. Trump was the kind of man who got up even when his legs begged to rest. He worked hard, not because he loved it, but because he had to. The city didn't forgive softness. It punished poverty, and his family couldn't afford another punishment.
But today - something was different.
The emergency notification flashed across his collar.
PRIORITY ONE: REPORT TO ST. SERAPHINE MEDICENTER - BIRTH IN PROGRESS.
He didn't even ask for permission to leave. His supervisor didn't stop him. They didn't have to. The system already knew. By the time he reached the surface, a drone was waiting to escort him through fast traffic. It wasn't out of kindness. The system merely kept things efficient.
---
The Birth
St. Seraphine's was no ordinary hospital - more like a sanitized fortress. Everything inside gleamed with clinical indifference. Robotic nurses wheeled silently through the halls, their faces blank screens, voices soft and filtered like synthetic lullabies. Cameras embedded in every ceiling tile blinked quietly.
Trump rushed through the entrance, collar now blinking yellow - "emotion spike." He ignored it.
He reached Room 318 just in time. Jane was soaked in sweat, her dreadlocks clinging to her skin, eyes blazing with that mix of agony and awe only childbirth can bring. A human nurse stood beside her, old and stiff, barking orders with a face that hadn't smiled in years. A robotic nurse was assisting - its long fingers too steady, too cold, too perfect.
And then the moment came.
A cry, sharp and new, split the silence.
A daughter. Their daughter.
For a brief second, the world cracked open, and something raw and beautiful spilled through. Trump knelt beside the bed, kissed Jane's hand, and reached out as the robot presented the newborn in its arms.
They barely touched her before the machine turned and - without a word - began to walk away.
"Wait-where are you taking her?" Trump stood up.
The robot didn't answer.
"HEY!" Jane shouted, trying to sit up, her face full of panic.
The human nurse looked confused. "It's just taking her for scanning. Standard post-birth protocol-"
"Without permission?" Trump barked. "Bring my daughter back!"
But it was already too late.
The robot nurse passed through the auto-locking door and vanished down the corridor.
Jane screamed.
What followed was chaos - not the dramatic kind you see in films, but the cold, systemic failure of a society that forgot how to feel.
Jane leapt out of bed with her hospital gown clinging to her legs, barefoot and bleeding slightly. The old nurse tried to hold her back - and got elbowed across the face. Blood from her nose splattered the white wall like a crime scene.
Trump tore through the hospital hallway like a force of nature. He spotted the robotic nurse halfway down the corridor - still holding the baby, moving in that mechanical way as if this was just part of a scheduled task.
"STOP!" he roared.
The robot didn't even flinch.
Trump lunged.
The robot turned - a reaction finally. A soft voice:
"Unauthorized interference. You are in violation of-"
Trump punched it in the face. Hard.
Its head snapped sideways with a sickening clunk. Sparks erupted. The baby wailed.
Trump caught her in his arms as the robot collapsed, twitching.
Alarms began blaring overhead.
---
The Arrival
Security descended within minutes - six figures in black armor with faces hidden behind tinted visors. No emotion. No empathy. Just procedure.
"Hands visible," one of them commanded, weapons drawn. "Step away from the child."
Trump stood still, holding his daughter close to his chest. She was safe. Tiny. Warm. Real.
Jane ran up behind him, her face bloodied and wild with rage and love.
But no bullets flew.
Instead, the lead officer tapped his earpiece, paused, then looked up. "Contain the room. Begin retrieval."
They weren't there to punish. They were there to investigate.
That was three days ago.
Now, Trump, Jane, and their newborn were back in their apartment - a 12th-floor unit with fake wood walls and no open windows.
But things had changed.
Every wall hummed faintly. Surveillance drones floated near their ceiling corners. The baby's crib had been swapped out for a government-issued "safety sleep unit," equipped with biometric readers and a camera that never turned off. Jane could barely feed in peace without a scanner verifying milk temperature.
Trump's collar buzzed hourly now, alerting him of movement spikes, vocal tension, even his cortisol levels. He couldn't step into the hallway without triggering a facial scan.
They were "under protection," the government said.
In reality, they were under control.
The baby didn't cry anymore. She seemed... watched. Even as an infant, she sensed the coldness around her.
Trump sat by the window at night, watching the drones drift like silent ghosts in the dark sky.
---
Whispers in the Circuit
On the fourth night, a government representative visited. Not in person - of course not. A hologram.
A man with no eyes, just gleaming chrome where sockets should be. His voice buzzed like a broken speaker.
"We are conducting an internal investigation into the St. Seraphine incident. Your cooperation ensures the safety of your family."
Trump didn't respond.
Jane stood behind him, holding their daughter.
"Was it really a malfunction?" she asked.
The hologram didn't answer.
Then it vanished.
But Trump noticed something - just for a second. The collar on his neck flickered red, then back to blue.
The World of 2200 - Collared, Controlled, and Corrupted
The year is 2200 - two centuries into the age of global digitization. From orbit, Earth glows not with natural light, but with the organized pulse of smart cities, satellite hubs, and data-linked regions spanning oceans. Technology has reached divine levels of sophistication. Diseases have been eradicated. Aging slowed. Hunger nearly wiped out. The world has become a fortress of clean streets, perfect smiles, and polished lies.
And nowhere is this more evident than in the City of Dominion - a sprawling metropolis where everyone wears a collar.
The Collar System
Each citizen wears a sleek, smart collar around their neck - often disguised as fashionable accessories: some glowing softly, others with embedded patterns or even holograms. But despite the style, its purpose is the same for all:
Location tracking.
Biometric monitoring.
Emotional regulation.
Behavioral scoring.
Medical and work identification.
National identification.
The collars don't just report on people - they shape them. Raise your voice in public? Collar vibrates. Heart rate spike? Collar alerts authorities. Begin to question the system? The collar might "recommend" psychological recalibration.
Citizens call it "the leash."
But only in whispers.
A Beautiful Lie
The city is immaculate - cleaner than any generation before could dream of. Drones sweep trash off the sidewalks before it even hits the ground. Buildings are polished daily by AI-guided maintenance bots. Trees are genetically edited to bloom year-round without shedding a single leaf.
People are dressed well. No one seems to beg. No one seems to suffer. Streets are full of life. Families walking, professionals chatting, artists painting on digital walls that shift with their strokes.
And yet...
Very few smile with their eyes.
Cars are parked in pristine underground garages, unused. Most citizens prefer to walk, even across long distances. Not because they want to - but because traffic is horrendous. A byproduct of over-automated, over-patrolled routes. Still, no one questions it. The system knows best.
Global Harmony... On the Surface
Across the globe, once-marginalized nations have flourished. Africa, in particular, is now a tech giant - leaders in biotechnology, renewable energy, and AI governance. Mega-cities stretch across what was once desert, now converted into lush vertical farmlands and solar fields. African nations don't rely on aid; they run innovation.
But unity came with a price.
Beneath the harmony, governments across continents made deals - the kind of pacts written in blood and code, not ink. Citizens don't know the full truth. But some rumors never die:
People go missing.
The Collar hacker
The building looked like it had been stitched together by ghosts - rusted scaffolding, broken solar frames, plastic wrap flapping in a wind that didn't exist.
Trump reached for the rusted gate when it opened on its own, releasing a soft click that echoed like a whisper through the stillness.
Inside: silence.
A long hallway. One flickering light. A cracked marble statue of an angel holding a book - but the face was replaced by wires. At the far end, a confessional booth converted into a tech den. Vines of fiber-optic cable draped from the ceiling. Scripture pages had been glued across old servers.
There was a chair. A single desk. A single man.
Nine.
He wore a long black coat over a faded priest's cassock - the collar peeking out sharp and white. Around his neck was a real silver crucifix... and beneath it, a deactivated collar, completely dead.
He sat like a statue with mirrored shades over his eyes and a lazy grin that held the kind of sin only priests could get away with.
Jane stepped in first.
"Took you long enough, old man."
Nine smiled wider. "Still singing to satellites, huh, Jane?"
Trump looked between them. "You know each other?"
Jane nodded. "He was a rockstar before the world went soft."
Nine chuckled, standing up and spreading his arms like a preacher at the altar. "Back before the leash came standard, baby. I used to melt speakers and stage-dive into riots."
"Now you melt firewalls," Jane said.
"Now I preach," Nine corrected, tapping his collarbone. "The Lord sees all. But the System sees more. I just help people unplug before both start recording."
Trump narrowed his eyes. "You're a priest?"
Nine nodded. "I give sermons. I lead prayer. And I hack the collar grid for the desperate. Not even God's surveillance works as well as this city's."
He pulled back the cloth on his desk. Beneath it, maps. Heat signatures. Tracking points. One of them was flashing bright red - Apartment 12G.
"You two," Nine said slowly, "just made the wrong kind of noise."
Jane crossed her arms. "We need help."
Nine tapped the table. "Then let's unplug some demons."
The Pattern
Apartment 12G - Present Day
The room was dim, curtains drawn shut like a shield against the all-seeing sky. Jane sat with her arms wrapped tightly around the newborn. Trump stood at the window, jaw clenched, watching the street below.
A low whirring grew outside. Then a faint click-click, like metal fingers tapping on tile.
They had arrived.
The Protectors: Unit-17-R
The front door unlocked itself, sliding open with a hiss.
Four humanoid figures stepped in - tall, polished, with blank chrome faces. Their eyes were nothing but horizontal lines of red light that pulsed with rhythm, like heartbeats programmed into silicon.
On their chests blinked the insignia: "Metro Welfare Security & Child Safety Division."
The lead unit stepped forward. It had a synthetic female voice, but no expression.
"Trump Durowa. Jane Voltz. You are not suspects. You are citizens under protected observation. We have entered for inquiry. Please comply for forensic investigation."
Trump growled, "She tried to steal our baby. I want to know why-"
"That question is under current analysis."
Jane stood, unshaken. "Tell us about the other babies."
The unit paused.
"Unrelated events. Accidents. Medical malfunctions."
Jane laughed bitterly. "Ten babies in four months went missing. And now ours almost got taken by a smiling tin can with a baby bag and no record of its assignment."
The robot tilted its head.
"Those cases were closed."
"Closed?" Trump echoed. "How do you close a case with no suspects?"
The robot turned toward its companions. One stepped forward with a small device - a wrist-scanner. It emitted a blue grid of light across the entire apartment.
"This location contains no biological threats. However, energy residue consistent with unauthorized firmware manipulation has been detected."
"Meaning?" Jane snapped.
"The nurse-bot may have been compromised. Reprogrammed. Purpose unclear."
"You mean hacked," Trump growled. "Somebody made it take our baby."
The lead robot turned its head slightly.
"That is not confirmed."
The Hidden Agenda
Just then - beep beep. A side panel opened on the back of one of the officers. A data stream flashed across its holographic visor:
[ATTENTION: Class-3 Correlation Match Found: Case #107, #122, #134, #151, #163, #182...]
One of the robot officers twitched. A soft static whined from its voicebox.
"...Possible link to greater pattern. Escalation required. Requesting Oversight."
It turned toward Jane and Trump.
"We will escalate this inquiry to Tier Five."
Trump clenched his fists. "You already knew this was bigger."
Jane whispered under her breath, "They're not solving anything... they're managing the narrative."
The robots turned, syncing in perfect step as they exited the apartment.
Outside, a black vehicle had already arrived - unmarked, silent, with no lights.
Inside, a government human agent sat in the passenger seat with a hollow smile.
"We'll make this clean. Send the flowers. Pay the couple. Issue a public concern speech. Push a kindness campaign by the weekend. Get a charity trending. We'll wrap it all up by Tuesday."
The Pretty Distractions
By nightfall, the city streets were already decorated in soft digital projections of glowing baby angels, lullabies playing on every public screen. Billboards read:
"Gone Too Soon: A Light For The Lost."
"Remember the Children - Donate Today."
Memorial services were broadcast like concerts. Speeches were written by AI with just enough sadness and just enough patriotism to keep people teary-eyed and numb.
No one asked where the bodies were.
No one asked what the collars were really tracking.
No one asked why the priest with the dead collar hadn't blinked once since hearing the name "Project Halos."
Living"
They say once your collar is removed by the Color Hacker, you're no longer in the system. Not fired. Not banished. Not even missing.
You're dead.
But underground, in the shadows of a forgotten world, you're more alive than ever.
This place is called The Underground Association.
It is hidden far beyond the sensor grids and city walls-buried deep in decayed subways and overgrown ruins of old Earth. People here grow their own food, walk free of surveillance, and live unchained. No collars. No numbers. No system.
And yet... something is wrong.
---
Whispers from the Tunnels
Nine-once a rockstar, now priest and hacker-has been removing collars for years. He only selects a few, plans each extraction with military precision. Always clean. Always complete. No trace left behind.
But recently, people have vanished-not by his hand.
First, the babies.
Then a few adults. Workers. Collared ones and even some underground members.
No alerts. No bodies. No last location pings.
Just-gone.
Nine listens closely to the whispers-quiet murmurs spoken in rusted back-hall corridors. They say something is roaming the lowest levels, something that even the Underground Association avoids. It doesn't hack or hunt.
It just takes.
Nine doesn't believe it. Not yet. But something about it feels ancient. Beyond code. Beyond government.
---
Trump & Jane - In Between Two Worlds
Trump and Jane's collars are half-alive-modified to show system activity, but not enforce it. This lets them move through society without suspicion, as if they're still part of the machine.
But they aren't.
They're being watched now. Not by drones. Not by officers.
Something more... organic.
And every night, Trump swears he hears something breathing in the walls.
---
The Collar Hacker (Nine) has joined a secret society (Underground Association) that frees people from the system by removing their collars and hiding them far from civilization.
Once removed, a person is considered dead by the system, living a free life in secrecy.
Trump and Jane's collars are now 50% disabled, tricking the system into still counting them.
But the recent disappearances aren't the Underground Association's doing.
There are no bodies, no signals, no mistakes-just silence.
Nine is unaware of what's truly happening, but rumors in the deep levels suggest something else is behind the vanishings-something dark, unknown, possibly non-human or ancient.
If the system ever finds out what's really happening, there will be chaos.
---
"The Tower With No Exit"
Trump's boots slammed against the steel stairwell, echoing through the shaft as he pulled Jane up behind him. Blood smears trailed on the walls from where the creature had taken others before. Now it was after them.
Floor after floor, the stairwell twisted up like a spine of broken steel.
No lights. No elevator.
Just the creature breathing below.
Arrival at the Roof
They reached the final metal hatch-Trump kicked it open with trembling strength. The city air hit them like a slap. Cold. Electric. Too clean compared to the decay below.
They stumbled onto the roof of the skyscraper, panting, bruised. But alive.
Jane collapsed near the edge, looking out over the skyline.
Below them, the towers blinked with automated lights. Drones zipped through the air in straight lines. And far beneath-the hatch they'd come from-the building loomed silent like a tomb.
Then they heard it again:
Hsshhhhhhh...
A breath.
Wet.
Slow.
Hungry.
But it didn't come up.
Trump held his breath. Jane turned and faced the hatch.
Nothing.
Just the echo of its breath. Still deep. Still lurking.
The Question
Jane stepped closer, her silhouette framed by the night skyline. "What is happening?" she said aloud, voice shaking. "Why... isn't it coming outside?"
Her voice felt small out here-like they were ants shouting at the stars.
Then she whispered again, to no one in particular:
"There must be something about the outside world it fears."
Trump knelt, scanning the hatch from a distance, one hand on his crowbar.
The breath was gone now.
The glowing eyes... had retreated.
Something About the Light
Jane watched the skyline. The drone paths. The electric beams sweeping between buildings like radar.
Then it hit her.
"They don't come into places lit by pure sky light," she muttered. "Not electric. Not artificial. Something else-UV? Real spectrum exposure?"
Trump nodded slowly. "Maybe they were bred or mutated underground. Never adapted to real light. They were made to operate inside the system... not above it."
"They eat the heart, the liver, and the eyes," Jane said grimly. "They don't just kill. They harvest."
Something Worse Than the System
Trump looked over the city.
"This collar system... it wasn't built to control us," he said. "It was built to keep us inside. To make sure we never reached places like this. Places where we'd be safe."
Jane's eyes widened.
"You think the collars aren't just chains," she said.
"They're lures."
- Rising Realization
The creature refuses to enter open, sky-lit spaces, especially rooftops or places exposed to full-spectrum light.
The building they climbed has no elevator, possibly by design-maybe to keep the creatures contained inside certain vertical zones.
Trump and Jane begin to realize: the collar system may have been designed not just for slavery or tracking, but to control human movement to prevent discovery of these hidden truths.
The creature feeds only on the liver, heart, and eyes-suggesting a biological or ritualistic purpose.
"No One Answers On This Frequency"
On the rooftop, the sky stretched wide and open-but it offered no comfort.
Just silence.
Trump pulled out a slim, foldable comms unit from his jacket. It was off-grid tech, modified by Nine to run on old emergency frequencies-used only by the Underground Association.
He keyed in the sequence:
44-7-X / Red Pulse Channel
"Come on, come on..." Trump whispered. The screen flickered to life-barely.
Static.
Then a voice crackled through.
"You should not be on this frequency."
It wasn't Nine.
Trump froze. "Who is this? Where's Nine?"
"Nine isn't here. He's been... disconnected."
Jane's eyes widened. "Disconnected?"
Trump growled into the comm. "Where is he?!"
"Underground Association activity has been compromised. Too much movement. Too many questions.
Return to ground level now. If you don't, you'll be considered breached."
The line cut.
Silence again.
No Backup
Jane stared at the comm, stunned. "That wasn't Nine. That wasn't even Association protocol."
Trump slowly nodded. "Someone's watching their frequency. Listening in. That voice... it was calm. Too calm."
"They're pulling back," Jane said. "Which means they know we found something we weren't supposed to."
A Message Hidden in the Device
Suddenly, the screen blinked once-then again.
Incoming Message [Encrypted Signature: NINE]
Decode?
Trump tapped YES.
The message appeared line by line:
"If this reaches you-
I'm compromised. Don't return underground.
What you saw in the tower is not a malfunction.
It's part of a secondary program called PROJECT VANTAGE.
The collars weren't made to enslave us.
They were made to feed it.
Stay in the light.
-Nine"
Realization Expands
Jane took a step back, hand over her mouth.
"It's not just rogue creatures. It's a designed ecosystem. We're the livestock."
Trump's jaw tightened.
"And the system? It's not broken. It's doing exactly what it was built to do."
Cliffhanger
Nine has been compromised-but not entirely silenced.
The Underground Association is retreating, afraid of what Trump and Jane have triggered.
A secret project-PROJECT VANTAGE-has been hinted at, possibly explaining the creatures and the purpose of the collars.
Trump and Jane are now cut off, isolated, but carrying knowledge that could collapse the system.
"Project Vantage - The Bargain"
The rooftop was silent. The city below, unaware.
Trump stared at the decrypted message on the comms unit. A second ping appeared.
[ATTACHED FILE: PROJECT_VANTAGE.exe]
Warning: Restricted Level, Access Only
He tapped it open.
Jane looked over his shoulder.
The screen glowed white-then filled with images, video logs, and documents. Voice memos. Classified briefings. Digital blood on digital pages.
Classified Audio Log - 38 Years Ago
"This is Director Halstrom, Level 9 Clearance... March 8th, 2162."
"They didn't arrive. They were... already here."
"Beneath us. Sleeping. Not of our time, not of our laws. We dug too deep-hydrothermal corridors near the Mantle opened cryptobiotic caverns."
"The entities spoke. Through one of them. She's... intelligent. Not advanced. Just old. Too old."
"She gave us a deal:
'Feed my children some of your own-we won't eat all.
Refuse... and we eat all.'"
Jane blinked slowly. "She negotiated."
Document Snapshot: Terms of Project Vantage
PROJECT VANTAGE - OPERATIVE DIRECTIVES
CLASSIFIED: LEVEL BLACK
[FOR HUMAN SURVIVAL - SIGNED INTO FORCE: YEAR 2171]
Objective:
Create a system of control (codename: COLLAR) to track, sort, and funnel suitable organic matter (humans) into designated consumption zones within subterranean territories.
Develop collars capable of emitting signal pulses that both mask fear and attract Target Species for selective feeding.
Maintain balance between:
Controlled human population.
Feeding cycles of THREAT X (hereafter referred to as "The Horde").
Conceal all knowledge of Threat X from the public and most government operatives.
Signed,
World Government Security Council
And Entity Representative: "She Who Whispers"
Jane's Horror
Jane backed away from the screen. Her voice was hollow.
"We're not slaves. We're... livestock."
Trump's hands shook. "The collars-they're not trackers. They're like feeding codes. Identification tags."
He pulled the old collar from his pocket-the one he took from the broken pod.
Underneath the rust, something blinked faintly.
Red. Pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
Revelation
The creatures weren't trying to break into society.
They were built into the foundation of it.
Civilization didn't grow over them. It grew because of them.
- Truth Is Out
Threat X is not from space, but buried beneath Earth long before any civilization rose.
The leader, a creature known only as "She Who Whispers," can speak every language-and speaks in contracts.
The government accepted the deal out of fear: either sacrifice some... or lose everyone.
Project Vantage is the name of this pact-a system built to control humans and feed creatures just enough to keep them satisfied.
Collars are a central tool: combining tracking, behavioral control, and bio-emission to signal targets.
"She Who Whispers" - The Living Contract
The comms screen glitched-static forming fractals-until the encryption cracked itself.
Then the screen went black.
And in that blackness... something moved.
A voice, female, gentle, and impossibly clear came through-not over speakers, but inside their skulls.
"Curious cattle... standing in the open. You reached too high."
Jane dropped to one knee, holding her head.
Trump clenched his fists, face contorted. "Who are you?!"
"You already know. You carry my signature in your throats."
"I am She Who Whispers. I do not rule. I do not conquer. I survive."
"And when I hunger... I feed my children."
The black screen pulsed once-like a slow, blinking eye.
"Your kind breeds fast. Wastes faster. You were burning long before I bit."
"So, we made a deal."
"You live in towers. We feed in shadows. A thousand for the billions. A flick of blood in exchange for oceans spared."
Trump spat at the screen. "You slaughter children-!"
"No." The voice softened. "You gave them to me. Your leaders chose."
"I am hunger. I offer balance. It is your own hands that wrote their names in ash."
The Forgotten Rebellion
Far from the city-deep in a hollowed mountain range where no tech grid dares scan-a torch is lit.
Old warriors, cloaked in dust and scars, sit in a carved stone chamber, surrounded by ancient murals.
The Reclaimed-a hidden faction. The first and only group that rejected the pact when it was offered thousands of years ago. Tribes that survived the first feeding, before civilization was born again with collars and codes.
An elder woman, her voice cracking but full of thunder, speaks to a half-circle of young fighters:
"The children of Threat X sleep long... and eat deep. But they do not evolve. We did. We sharpened stone into metal. Metal into silence."
"We've lived beneath their hunger without bowing."
She gestures to a map-ancient veins of tunnels below the world's crust, marked in blood.
"The next nap ends soon. And this time... Earth must choose again."
- Myth Meets Machine
She Who Whispers speaks directly into the minds of Trump and Jane-revealing herself as an ancient force of balance, not conquest.
She claims humans offered the sacrifice willingly, to maintain their illusion of progress.
Her children, the Horde, are older than cities-sleeping for 1000 years at a time, then awakening in hunger.
The first civilizations were devoured when they refused her terms.
A hidden resistance, called The Reclaimed, still survives-the only humans who ever said "no" to the deal, and lived to remember.
The Reclaimed believe the next Hunger Cycle is beginning-and the Earth is facing another choice.
The terrifying truth-is beneath it. Humanity isn't on top of the Earth. We're just hovering above the mouths of ancient, endless beasts.
Scene: "Brought Home by the Hive"
Trump felt the air hum before he saw it. A massive black mechanical bee, its wings thrumming like thunder, descended from the sky.
Its legs extended, pincers snapping. But it didn't attack.
It scanned them.
Then the voice of the City Security Unit echoed from its body:
"You have seen what was not meant to be seen. Your punishment is in process."
"Board now. You will be returned to the surface zone. You have five days to comply with all reentry directives."
Before either of them could protest, the bee wrapped them in a cushioned energy field and took off-carrying them back toward the towering city like two captured particles.
Scene: "A City of Lies"
They were returned to their apartment pod, high in the upper levels of the clean, polished sector.
A plate of fruit. A note.
"Compliance will be rewarded. Silence is survival."
Stamped with the Emblem of State Oversight.
Outside, the city looked perfect-children playing with drones, clean skies, efficient traffic lines. But now Jane and Trump knew:
There were cities beneath cities. Tunnels larger than nations.
Enough room underground to rebuild the world a hundred times.
And under all that, the Horde slept.
Still hungry.
Scene: "The Five-Day Countdown"
Day 1:
They hacked the remaining collar systems, traced digital pulses from abduction zones.
Found records buried in corrupted archives-names of people tagged for feeding before birth.
Day 2:
Jane found blueprints showing the layers beneath Earth. Not just basements or metro stations-entire lost cities designed as overflow "harvest zones", long since erased from history.
Day 3:
Trump found a leak: a surveillance file from years ago. A man who refused the collar, escaped, and screamed to the streets:
"We are their food! The ground is their table!"
He vanished that night.
Day 4:
They accessed redacted footage of a military strike. Hundreds of elite soldiers descending into a cavern system.
Only three came back. All of them mute. One blind. The last missing his heart-but still alive.
5% survival rate. Confirmed.
Day 5:
The screen flickered.
The Security Unit appeared.
"Your time is up. You will now be escorted to Processing."
Trump looked at Jane.
They nodded.
They were not going to Processing.
They were going to war.
Closing Message - Voiceover Style (Dark Narration)
"Earth was never ours. It was never free.
The sky was never the ceiling. The ground was never the floor.
We built glass cities on blood. And now the blood is waking.
And you can't unknow the truth once it breathes in you."
Trump and Jane are condemned to the belly of the system, with a baby they can't protect by themselves and a massacre approaching. The government is ready to feed the Horde, and the "justice system" is just some ritual sacrifice in disguise.
Scene: "F-Zone - Welcome to the Feeding Ground"
Day of Judgment
The screen on the wall of their pod blinked red.
"State Order: CIV-EX-711 - You are now Prey."
Seconds later, the door slid open.
Three armored droids entered-silent, black, emotionless. Their fingers wrapped around Trump's and Jane's arms like steel cables. No fight. No mercy.
Trump didn't resist.
Jane only whispered:
"Protect her."
Arrival into the F-Zone.
The Disappearance
F-Zone. The name didn't need explaining. Everyone in the city heard the rumors. Officially, it was a "reprocessing facility" for the unfit, the disobedient, and the untagged. But underground - deep under the tower roots of the city - truth melted like blood in a drain.
The elevator finally halted with a clank. The doors hissed open, revealing what looked like a sprawling, collapsed metropolis buried under bedrock. Crumbling apartment blocks leaned over artificial rivers of waste. Fluorescent strips flickered above like sickly stars. But what made Jane flinch wasn't the chaos - it was the number of people.
Thousands. Tens of thousands.
They weren't just inmates. They were survivors - or more accurately, waiting meat.
People filled every sidewalk, corner, and hollow building, covered in rags, scars, and hopeless eyes. Some sat staring upward, as if waiting for someone to remember them. Others whispered to themselves or scratched at the walls. A group of children played with bones - not out of cruelty, but because they had no toys. No future.
"Move!" barked one of the guard bots. Its polished chrome body glowed with red circuitry. Guns folded into its arms like they were part of its bones.
Trump and Jane were herded into the Processing Hall. Inside, several other newcomers were lined up - all in chains, all collared. Their old collars, like theirs, still blinked green. But that wouldn't last.
"Strip them," a human officer ordered without emotion. One by one, each collar was unclamped with a small electric shock. The guards threw them into a pile, like dead snakes.
"You're lucky," the officer sneered. "You get the upgrade."
An automated unit slid toward them, carrying silver collars engraved with a deep crimson stripe. The signal inside the new collar pulsed like a heartbeat.
"The Collar of Prey," the officer announced to the room. "Designed to keep you honest. Emits a frequency that draws the Horde right to your scent. No hiding. No running. You so much as sweat too loud, they'll come."
Jane's eyes narrowed. "And what if it malfunctions?"
The officer leaned close to her. "Then you'll be praying it doesn't work faster."
The collars clicked into place. Trump felt a sudden burn at the back of his neck. Not just heat - it was as if his spine had been touched by fear itself. Jane winced too but said nothing. No one did.
After the process, they were tossed into what the guards mockingly called the Sanctuary Blocks - crumbling structures that once housed underground train stations and service tunnels, now converted into living quarters for the marked.
It wasn't long before someone approached them.
"New blood," a man said, tall and lean with a faded military jacket. He extended a hand to Trump. "Name's Deon. You'll want to meet the others."
He led them down a corridor past makeshift doors and coded graffiti. The words "Only the Beast Feeds Well" were scribbled in black across a collapsed vending machine. Jane memorized every corner.
Inside a hollowed-out utility room sat a small group - mismatched, scarred, and alert. But not broken. Not like the others.
"Scarlet," said Deon, pointing to a dark-skinned woman with half her head shaved and a crimson mark down her left eye. She gave them a quick nod.
"Beverley," sitting cross-legged and barefoot, stared at Jane with piercing curiosity. "You the rockstar?"
Jane nodded slowly.
"Used to play your music when the collars let us. It gave us hope," Beverley said softly.
"Chris Anton," said Deon, gesturing toward a pale, bearded man who was fixing some sort of signal jammer. He grunted in acknowledgment.
"And this is Anthony," he added, finally motioning to a young man covered in tattoos. "He don't talk much."
Trump studied each of them. Fighters. Survivors. But all of them bore the same red-striped collar. Prey.
Deon continued, "We were part of the outside resistance before the Sweep. They call us the Marked Now. Our collars can't be removed - not without triggering the signal spike. Makes hiding impossible. But we're not done yet."
"And what about Nine?" Trump asked.
Everyone went still.
Beverley whispered, "He was fed to the Horde."
Scarlet smirked faintly. "That's what they say. But there were no remains. No footage. Just silence."
Chris Anton looked up. "We've heard whispers. Some claim he got out. Hijacked a tunnel, used the sewer frequencies to vanish. Could be dead. Could be gathering an army."
Jane's voice was steady. "If he's alive, he's still one of us."
Trump finally spoke. "We didn't come here to die. If this is where they send the disobedient, it's also where they make their mistakes."
Scarlet smiled. "Welcome to the F-Zone."
Outside, the sounds of howling echoed from the lower tunnels - deep, guttural wails that didn't belong to man or machine.
The Horde was hungry tonight.
They are not men. Not beasts either. The Horde are something far worse - a grotesque fusion of primal instinct and biological perfection, molded into forms designed only for one thing: consumption.
When the Horde awakens, the entire F-Zone knows. Not by sight, but by pressure - as if gravity itself shudders. Doors are locked, lights are dimmed, and those who bear the Collar of Prey whisper prayers into the cracks of broken walls. But even silence can't save you. The Horde doesn't hunt by noise alone - they can see you. Their vision is over fifteen times sharper than a human's, able to pierce through shadows and flesh alike. Hiding is a myth.
Wild doesn't begin to describe them. The Horde are untamed, uncontrolled, and utterly savage. When the feeding begins, they attack with such chaos that even each other is fair game. Frenzied and impatient, they rip through their prey with lightning speed, sometimes tearing apart their own brethren in the madness of the meal. Not because they're hungry - they don't eat much. But because their numbers are many. Dozens. Hundreds. Some whisper thousands. The moment one drops a piece of flesh, ten others are there to shred it apart.
They're not large compared to some known beast- not monstrous in scale. But in strength, they are titans. Each one is nearly twice the size of an average man, and thirty times stronger than even the strongest men. Bones are nothing to them. Steel bars bend under their weight. Concrete is just hardened food packaging.
Though they can stand upright - and do so when posturing or asserting dominance - they prefer to run on all fours. It's not because they lack intelligence. It's because they choose to remain primal. Running this way allows them to cover distances faster, leap higher, and attack from all angles. Like a living flood of claws and muscle.
Strangely, they're not fearless. They respect their origin. All of them, no matter how violent or frenzied, obey the Mother - a creature no one has fully seen but all have heard in the deep. She is their source. Their leader. Their god. She speaks rarely, but when she does, they freeze mid-attack, listening. Even in hunger, they follow her commands without hesitation. If she says no - they do not eat. If she says kill - they do not stop until all is dust.
They are obedient monsters with animal minds and soldier discipline. When not feeding, they move in the tunnels like a storm of limbs and breath, waiting. Lurking. Listening for the signal that awakens the predator in each of them - the frequency emitted by the Collar of Prey.
That signal is not just a call.
It's permission.
And when it blinks red...
They are already running.
Robot Protocol - Childcare Unit Online
Earlier that morning, Trump had uploaded one last program into his personal robot: a customized Unit-B612-nicknamed "Buzz."
It activated now. Red eyes scanning.
Protective Mode: PERMANENT
Target: Infant-Status: Priority Alpha.
Buzz carried the child silently out the back maintenance shaft, already ten minutes ahead of surveillance.
It was the last act of a father walking into the lion's den.
Scene: "Arrival at F-Zone"
No trial. No sentence. Just transport.
They arrived strapped to magnetic columns in a black-armored truck. No windows. No voice instructions.
Only darkness.
When the truck stopped, the silence broke. A growl. Not from an engine. From something below.
The hatch opened. They were led down a tunnel lined with bones.
A voice came from above, robotic and calm:
"Welcome to F-Zone. You are now prey-class.
Proceed to your containment pod. Feeding begins in 72 hours. You will be observed for trauma response, organ viability, and emotional scent release."
Jane shuddered. "They're studying how we taste."
Trump clenched his jaw. "No. They're savoring it."
The Prey
Inside F-Zone, the truth couldn't be denied.
Dozens of others were already inside-eyes hollow, some crying, some praying. All branded with a glowing red mark across their collarbones:
PREY
Some cells had slide doors while others had no door. Only an invisible force field that hummed with bio-energy, trapping them inside.
Across the chamber, someone whispered:
"You're the ones who found out, right? You saw it? The Horde?"
Jane looked up.
"We didn't just see them...
We spoke to their mother."
"The Government Dilemma"
High above the Earth, in a black-glass citadel known as The Core, a crisis session began.
On a red-ringed holo-table sat:
Chancellor Voren, Supreme State Director.
Minister of Genetic Affairs, head of experimentation programs.
Commander Ayek, leader of the Hive Security Unit.
And... a chair that no one ever sat in, reserved for She Who Whispers, just in case.
A security officer spoke:
"Trump and Jane have been delivered to F-Zone. The baby has vanished. Hacker Nine is presumed active underground. We're two days from Feeding Day."
The Chancellor tapped the table. "Options?"
A cold-eyed minister replied:
"Option one: Feed them. Remove the memory chain. Send a message to others.
Option two: Extract Nine. Reprogram him.
Option three..."
He looked at the empty chair.
"Ask Her what she wants."
The Chancellor's voice was ice:
"No. She already answered us once.
Trump and Jane are now in F-Zone, branded as prey, waiting to be eaten-studied first, then consumed.
Their baby is in hiding, protected by Trump's last command to a trusted droid.
The government is in chaos, trying to decide how to contain the leak-and who might be next.
A massacre is looming. It's not just a feeding, it's a harvest.
Somewhere in the dark... She Who Whispers is waiting.
For the next chapter,
Trump and Jane planning an escape from F-Zone with other prey....
Whispers Above the Surface
The city above the F-Zone still looked perfect on the surface — all glass, neon, and green energy. A future the world once dreamed of. But inside apartment 909, on Tower Line 14, silence sat like a ghost. That apartment belonged to Trump, Jane, and their baby — a family no longer seen, but not yet forgotten.
The home wasn’t empty, though. A robot sat cross-legged in the lounge, cradling a tiny child wrapped in a warm orange blanket.
Her name had not been spoken aloud in days. But her identity was clear. The daughter of the rebellious rockstar and the city’s strongest man.
She whimpered. Then cried. The robot adjusted its grip and rocked slowly.
“Warning: infant requires hygiene maintenance,” it said in a soft digital voice.
The infant had made a mess in her sleep — as babies do — and the robot, programmed by Trump himself, sprang into gentle action. Its arms unfolded into precise, padded tools. Warm wipes. Dry cloths. A scan for temperature irregularities.
The baby squealed a little at the cold air, but quickly settled down as she was cleaned, powdered, and wrapped in a fresh, star-patterned cloth — the one Jane loved most.
After cleanup, the robot extended a slender finger, plugged into the apartment’s memory grid, and loaded a pre-set playlist.
“Born to Break the Sound,” Jane’s voice echoed through the smart speakers, gritty and proud.
A track she recorded months before the arrests — just for her baby.
The child immediately responded. Her tiny fists relaxed. Her eyes blinked slowly. Within moments, the rhythm lulled her to sleep, her mother’s voice acting like a protective blanket of melody.
The robot gently placed her into a small hover crib, ensuring the sensors stayed warm and the heartbeat monitor stayed green.
“Infant sleep confirmed,” the robot whispered. “Initiating House Maintenance Protocol.”
It moved around with careful silence, cleaning dishes, scanning for structural weaknesses, disposing of expired nutrients. The apartment gleamed again, like nothing had gone wrong.
But outside these walls, everything was going wrong.
---
City Core, Control Hall – Midnight
“I told you this would happen,” Councilor Rill spat, pacing before the rest of the Inner Board. “People are talking.”
Screens surrounded them, most filled with live surveillance feeds of citizens gathering, shouting, recording. The words on their protest signs weren’t whispers anymore. They were demands.
WHERE IS JANE?
WHERE IS TRUMP?
WHERE IS THE BABY?
WHERE IS THE TRUTH?
Councilor Vikka leaned back, expression calm but eyes sharp. “They’re asking questions. That doesn’t mean they have answers.”
“Yet,” Rill snapped. “But the story doesn’t add up. First, their baby is almost kidnapped by a rogue nurse unit. Then suddenly, the entire family disappears, and we give the public nothing? Even the bots in that tower are rerouted. The citizens aren't stupid.”
Another voice from the shadows joined in. “They don’t need to be smart. They just need to be loud.”
General Voss, head of the Internal Enforcers, stood up and activated a screen showing live footage of scattered city protests. Fires. Drone police pushed back by citizens holding nothing but their voices and signs.
“We’re losing narrative control,” Voss growled. “If we can’t explain the disappearances by tomorrow cycle, we’ll have to initiate Protocol 17.”
Rill froze. “Martial lockdown?”
“No,” Voss said grimly. “Public discreditation. We turn them into criminals. We leak footage of staged violent behavior. Turn Jane into a radical. Make Trump look unstable. We spin the story hard enough, and they’ll forget about the baby altogether.”
“And what if someone finds out where they really are?” asked Vikka.
“They won’t,” Rill said with a bitter smirk. “No one’s ever come back from the F-Zone.”
---
Meanwhile, Surface Streets – Dawn Approaches
In the neon rain, crowds chanted louder now. From rooftops to alleys, their voices echoed through the filtered sky. Signs hovered above their heads like digital ghosts. Someone hacked into a public billboard — Jane’s face replaced the city’s propaganda.
A woman’s voice cracked through static speakers:
> “She sang for us. Now we speak for her.”
The people roared.
But as they rose, so did fear. Drones began circling slower, recording more carefully. Data collection intensified. Arrest quotas were whispered in secret halls. Some citizens began vanishing from protests. Others returned, but quieter… different.
Back in apartment 909, the robot finished polishing the floor tiles. It returned to the baby's room, scanned the crib, and confirmed all vital signs were stable.
But as it passed the window, its sensors paused.
Outside, across the sky, someone had painted a message in massive glowing letters using hacked drone beams:
“THE COLLAR IS A LIE.”
---
Cracks in the Concrete
At the lower district of Sector 11, where construction bots hummed through the sunrise and factory floors never slept, Trump’s absence was starting to draw whispers. He wasn’t just another worker — he was the worker. The kind of man who lifted steel beams by hand when bots jammed, the kind who stayed overtime without asking for credits. Reliable. Respected. Feared by some.
But now… nothing.
Three shifts had passed. Then a fourth. No message. No resignation. Not even a collar signal trace.
At break hour, a group of men gathered near the service panel out of surveillance range. Among them was Jorren, Trump’s longtime site partner.
“This doesn’t feel right,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder.
“Thought he took leave?” another man said, sipping nutrient sludge.
“Trump doesn’t take leave,” Jorren snapped. “He said his kid was almost kidnapped last week. Remember the bots investigating that nurse unit? Now he’s gone.”
One of them leaned closer. “You think it’s the system?”
Jorren didn’t answer. But his silence spoke louder than any yes.
They all looked up. At the glistening towers. The drones overhead. The way every word felt watched.
“Maybe it’s time we stop fixing their walls,” someone muttered. “And start breaking them.”
Back at the site’s biometric station, a technician quietly paused the collar log-in sequence. Trump’s last known location flashed across the screen — Unknown Error. Off-Grid. The red warning blinked like a heartbeat.
And in the corners of steel and steam, doubt began to rise like smoke.
The ROAR Echoes Back
Elsewhere, on the western edge of the city where art still clawed for life, The ROAR sat in their dim rehearsal bunker. The band that once roared through revolutions, whose sound could shake stadiums and shatter silence — now sat quiet.
“She didn’t even name her,” said Rael, the lead guitarist, staring at the dusty amp.
“Jane?” asked Tia, the bassist. “What do you mean?”
Rael nodded slowly. “The baby. Last message I got from her said, ‘I still don’t know what to call her. She kicks harder than the beat drop on ‘Static Rage.’’”
Everyone smiled faintly.
“She was supposed to send us a recording. You know… her first lullaby to the baby,” Tia added.
“She’s gone,” said Kilo, the drummer. “Not touring. Not hiding. Not rebelling. Just gone. And no one’s saying a thing.”
They pulled up news feeds. Nothing. No articles. No alerts. Just a gap where a legend used to be.
Kilo stood. “If they think we’ll be quiet because the stage lights are off — they’re wrong. We are The ROAR. We make silence afraid.”
Tia fired up her synth.
Rael plugged in the mic.
And across the city, a new song began forming — raw, angry, and full of questions the system couldn’t afford to answer.
Resistance
Darkness never truly left the F-Zone. Even when the overhead lights flickered to life in scheduled intervals, it never felt like daytime. Not in this place. Not where the Horde's growls echoed faintly through distant tunnels. Not when the walls were smeared with the scratches of those who didn’t make it to “day two.”
And day one…
Was almost over.
Trump sat with his back against the cracked wall of the hideout. Sweat coated his brow, though the air was cold. Jane paced, arms folded, lips pressed tight. Every few minutes, her eyes darted to the corridor outside, listening for anything — footsteps, alarms, screams.
Nothing. Yet.
“Tick-tock,” Anton muttered, sitting on an overturned crate, cleaning his blade. “Once the first day’s over, your collar starts pulsing. Makes hiding even harder. They don’t give warnings here. They just wait for your heartbeat to speed up.”
Scarlet leaned by the vent, quiet, alert. The room was dim, lit only by a few scavenged battery lights. Everyone looked like they were trying to survive a storm — not outside, but in their heads.
Then the door clicked.
Deon walked in. “Still no word from the tunnels. Nothing on Nine.”
“Maybe he is dead,” Anthony said without lifting his head.
“No,” Jane said firmly. “He's not. You don’t know Nine like I do. He didn’t go out like that.”
Somewhere beneath them...
Nine ran.
His chest burned. His arms ached. But he ran.
The tunnel walls curved tightly, barely wide enough for his shoulders. Sirens screamed from aboveground — but they were chasing ghosts. He’d made sure of that.
Nine had cracked the collar.
Not fully — 80%. But that was enough to dampen the signal, scramble his ID, and sever most of the tracking pulses. The thing was still locked to his neck, its edges raw and burning from the tools he’d used — not designed for surgery. He’d managed to remove half of it from the base, leaving it dangling like a broken shackle.
Still dangerous. Still transmitting. But now… usable.
He slid into a control station — a forgotten utility pod where sewer maps and flood systems once operated. He’d found a back-end signal port, old tech, possibly overlooked by the system’s upgrade sweep.
Plugged in.
Static.
Then…
“...channel breach detected. ID unknown. Routing signal...”
Nine grinned. His fingers blurred across the cracked keyboard, manually rerouting the collar’s sub-frequencies to create a patch.
A message.
One shot.
That’s all he had.
He started typing.
TO SURFACE CONTACTS. CODE RED. F-ZONE IS A SLAUGHTERHOUSE. THEY LIED. JANE. TRUMP. STILL ALIVE. COLLARS OF PREY. TRACKED. NEED ASSISTANCE. IF RECEIVED—
The screen froze.
His eyes widened.
Outside, he heard something wet breathing.
Back in the Hideout
Jane slammed a small electronic chip onto the table. “Enough waiting. We strike tonight.”
Everyone turned.
Scarlet raised an eyebrow. “Strike? You mean…”
“We charge,” Jane said. “We take out the nearest signal tower — it’s the only relay linking the upper world and this zone. If we destroy it, they’ll lose visual, maybe even control over the collars.”
“That's suicide,” Chris Anton said.
“Maybe,” Jane shrugged. “But I’m done being hunted like an animal.”
Trump exhaled slowly. “And what? We run afterward? We don’t even know how many guards they have.”
Jane turned to him. “Then say something, Trump. You always do.”
He looked at everyone. The whole group. Each one marked. Each one fading inside — like they knew the Horde would get them eventually.
“I have a plan,” Trump said. “But it’s not a strike. It’s not flashy. It’s slow. Quiet. We bleed the system from inside.”
Jane frowned. “We don’t have time for slow.”
“It’s the only shot we’ve got,” Trump replied. “We use the access ports in the waste tunnels. We route a dead signal to make them think we’re already dead. Ghosted. Then we hijack their own supply drones. One by one. Use them to send fake logs, confuse their pattern AI, and trick their retrieval systems.”
Deon raised his head. “What are the odds?”
Chris Anton stood. “Yeah. Percentages?”
Trump didn’t flinch. He stared directly into Anton’s face.
“Three percent.”
A heavy silence dropped.
Anton’s jaw tightened. “Three.”
Scarlet chuckled dryly. “That’s higher than usual.”
Anton stepped forward. “Fair enough,” he said. “So… what’s the plan?”
Jane smirked, almost despite herself.
But before anyone else could speak—
THUD.
THUD.
Heavy footsteps outside. Mechanical. Weighted.
Everyone froze.
The door opened slowly.
A robot entered — tall, armored, its glowing eye scanning the room like a lighthouse. Its voice was calm, emotionless, but somehow… final.
“Which one of you is Trump?”
Trump stood. “That’s me.”
The robot’s head tilted. “You are First-Class Prey. Prepare yourself. I will collect you in 30 minutes.”
Jane’s eyes flared. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Orders come from the Core,” the bot said. “You are now scheduled for expedited removal.”
“It's not even 72 hours yet!” Deon snapped. “What the hell is this?”
The robot turned its head slightly. “Time flows differently for those ranked First-Class. Your strength. Your threat level. Your profile. This is justice.”
Anthony muttered under his breath, “More like execution.”
Trump stepped forward, unfazed. “Got a problem with me, tin can?”
The robot didn’t answer. It simply stepped back through the doorway, as if confident no one would run. No one ever got far.
As its steps echoed away, everyone turned to Trump.
“Well?” Jane said. “Still feeling strategic?”
He nodded. “More than ever.”
Beneath Them... Again
Nine ducked into an alcove as two of the creatures passed.
Their limbs were too long. Their eyes glowed faintly. They ran on all fours but moved with terrifying control. One stopped, sniffed the air. The hacked collar pulsed lightly — Nine tapped a small patch, lowering the signal just enough to confuse them.
The beasts hissed and moved on.
Nine exhaled.
He opened his wrist-comp again, checked the data burst.
Signal sent. No confirmation.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Collar spike initiated. Time remaining: 17 minutes.
“They found me,” he whispered.
Then he grinned. “Let’s see if they can keep up.”
He darted back into the dark.
Back in the Hideout – Countdown Begins
Scarlet locked the door and reinforced it. “You have less than thirty minutes before that thing comes back.”
“And then what?” Anton asked. “He gets dragged out in front of the Horde?”
Trump shook his head. “No. We let them come for me. Then you follow the beacon.”
“What beacon?”
“I’ll lead them away,” Trump said. “Into the lower crevices. Force the Horde to change zones. Meanwhile, you reroute the core AI using Jane’s idea — but through the tower’s ventilation cores, not the security post.”
Jane’s eyes lit up. “That might work.”
Anton nodded slowly. “That’s crazy.”
“Three percent,” Trump repeated.
Then Jane stepped forward, hugged him tightly.
“You better come back,” she whispered.
“I plan to.”
Elsewhere, Topside – Uprising
The protests had turned violent.
The ROAR had broadcast Jane’s last known signal to every public terminal. Her song played in the streets. People chanted her name. Collars were being yanked off. Streets were burning.
And somewhere in the sky, a hacked satellite caught a message.
FROM: UNKNOWN
TO: FREQUENCY 7-CHARLIE
CONTENT: THEY ARE ALIVE. THE HORDE IS REAL. F-ZONE IS NOT A PRISON. IT’S A FARM.
Panic bloomed.
So did hope.
Terminal Cargo
The ride was silent at first — six marked souls sitting shoulder to shoulder in a sealed metal truck as it rumbled deeper into the F-Zone. The only light came from the dim pulse of their collars, each blinking red in unison, like heartbeats synced for slaughter.
Trump sat in the middle, jaw tight. Across from him, five other prisoners — or rather, prey — looked equally hollow. None spoke until the engine began to whine louder, and the walls started to vibrate.
They weren’t going sideways anymore.
They were going down.
The driver bot, faceless and silent, guided the vehicle with mechanical precision. The tunnel's angle deepened. The air inside grew thicker. The steel beneath their boots felt colder.
Then, without warning—
Screeeeeech.
The truck slammed to a halt.
Everyone inside jolted forward. The silence was broken by a distant, unearthly howl.
> It was time.
One of the robots outside slammed a mechanical fist against the rear panel. The walls vibrated. From above, a mechanical arm clamped onto the hatch and dragged it open with a groan.
Blinding light poured in from flood lamps. Three robots stood outside now — tall, heavily armored, each marked with the crimson symbol of Feeder Units.
One stepped forward, its voice smooth and grim.
> “Out.”
They filed out slowly, one by one. The moment they stepped into the dirt, the smell hit them — decay, blood, and the electric scent of anticipation.
“This a game to you?” one of the prey, a younger man, snapped.
The robot didn’t answer. Instead, it pulled a laser rifle from its back and tossed it lazily at the man’s feet.
> “I hope you go down easy,” it said with a tone that almost sounded amused.
The man stared at the weapon in disbelief. Then bent to pick it up.
> “Do we all get one?” another asked quietly.
> “Wouldn’t matter,” replied another robot flatly. “But sure. Be dramatic.”
One by one, the others were handed basic laser weapons — cheap, dusty, half-charged. A mercy gift. An illusion of fairness.
Trump held the weapon but kept his eyes forward.
Among them was an old man, face wrinkled by time, eyes like broken glass. He held the gun in shaking hands.
Then he spoke.
> “An antelope may have horns, but it doesn't defend itself with it, when predators attack, It only harms other antelope with it.”I am not taking any of that.
The silence that followed was thick.
Then—
> “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, huh?!” one desperate man snapped, waving his gun. “You think you're wise or something?!”
> “Now that is the spirit,” one of the robots said casually, flicking on a small lighter with his thumb. A cigarette lit up behind the grille of its face. It took a drag like it had lungs.
> “Give ’em a show, boys.”
---
Meanwhile, Below the Feeding Floor...
Nine crawled through a forgotten vent duct, chest heaving. His body was weak — hadn’t eaten in a full day. But his mind was razor-sharp. Each movement was calculated. Each breath measured.
He stopped near a broken mesh panel, then unfolded a compact device he salvaged from the collar’s remains — part communication relay, part signal mimic.
It was time to try again.
> “Patch signal… come on… come on…”
He heard a hiss above him — steam vented. The ground began to shake. Something massive was approaching the corridor he just passed through.
Nine didn’t panic. Instead, he whispered to the air:
> “Trump, if you’re still breathing — stall them. Give me 15 more minutes. I’ll kill their relay net.”
> “And if you’re already gone…”
He swallowed.
> “...then I’m making this count for both of us.”
The Clock Is a Lie
The field they were led into wasn’t a battlefield — it was a graveyard-in-waiting.
The feeding zone sat in a concave trench of dirt and bone. Metal fences surrounded it on three sides, but they weren’t meant to keep the prey in. They were meant to slow the Horde down — just enough to let the cameras catch the first kill.
Drones hovered silently above. Surveillance lenses blinked red, watching. Recording. Feeding data back to the Core.
Trump stood tall among the five others, all branded with the Collar of Prey, all armed with sad little laser rifles that looked more like props than weapons.
One of the men, still shaking, turned to Trump.
“You ever kill one?”
Trump didn’t answer. He just loaded the clip and stared into the trench’s far edge — where the darkness moved.
Underground — Ventilation Shaft 17A
Nine emerged from the shadows, soaked in sweat and sewage. His hacked collar sparked occasionally, but he was hidden. Not invisible — just low enough to avoid automatic detection.
Then he saw them.
Trump.
And five others.
All standing in the trench.
“No,” Nine muttered under his breath. “You bastards…”
He scanned the side panels and found a hatch. Old maintenance tunnel, unused. It could lead to the trench, but it’d be tight. Probably rigged with failsafes. He didn’t care.
He needed to move now.
Sabotage Team Alpha – Ventilation Tower 3
Jane crouched beneath a service port, typing frantically on a bootleg terminal rigged to a memory cube. Scarlet stood watch while Deon wired the secondary line into a backup power node.
“Status?” Scarlet asked.
Jane clenched her jaw. “Core’s resisting. It's fighting the patch like it’s alive.”
“It's not supposed to be alive.”
“Well it is now.”
From behind, Anton clicked a second breaker. The lights dimmed in the shaft above them — the collar tracking net blinked for a moment.
Then…
It came back online. Stronger.
“No, no, no—” Jane hissed.
The terminal displayed a horrifying message:
DECEPTION DETECTED
PROTOCOL ACCELERATION INITIATED
TIME REDUCTION ENGAGED
FEEDING CYCLE COMMENCES NOW
Deon backed away from the wires. “They just sped it up.”
Scarlet’s voice was sharp. “By how much?”
Anton’s screen lit up red. “The feeding zone just got triggered. It’s already started.”
Jane froze.
“Trump.”
The Feeding Trench
The ground trembled.
All six prey turned.
The dirt shifted — not from above, but from beneath.
Then they burst out.
First three. Then five. Then eleven.
Beasts with elongated limbs, steaming muscles, glowing amber eyes. Their mouths opened unnaturally wide. They moved like nightmares — primal and fast, but tactical. They flanked. They surrounded.
Trump raised his gun and fired.
One dropped. But not for long — another pulled it away and devoured it mid-motion.
The man beside Trump screamed and bolted toward the gate.
He didn’t make it three steps before a Horde member leaped from the wall and pinned him.
Bones snapped. Screams echoed.
“Stay tight!” Trump roared. “Back to back!”
Two others tried to hold formation, firing into the wave. One of them — the same man who’d asked Trump if he’d killed before — took out two creatures before being dragged away, his gun firing wildly into the air.
“We're being watched!” Trump shouted. “They’re testing us — entertainment for the surface!”
“Then give them a f***ing show,” another muttered, blood on his hands.
That’s when the trench’s back wall collapsed.
Nine burst through the dust and smoke, a stolen rifle in hand, collar sparking violently.
“MOVE!”
He fired a charged round, catching a beast in mid-leap. Its body convulsed, then exploded in a burst of bone and rot.
Trump turned, stunned.
“Nine?”
“Not dead yet.”
They locked eyes.
No words were needed.
They turned and fired side by side — one beast after another falling, but for every one that dropped, three more came.
“We can’t hold,” Trump grunted.
“Then we don’t.”
Nine pulled a detonation puck from his belt. “Collapse the tunnel. Kill the zone. Take their footage and shove it up the system’s—”
“Blow it.”
Trump nodded.
Aboveground – Surveillance Command
Councilor Rill watched the live feed from the trench.
He was halfway through a speech to the inner cabinet when the camera shook.
Then went dark.
“What was that?” he barked.
The operator stuttered. “Explosion. Trench level. We’ve lost all visuals.”
“Was that planned?!”
“No, sir.”
“Bring up backups—”
Another alert flashed.
Unauthorized relay signal detected. Tracing origin…
The screen shifted to Nine’s stolen collar, still broadcasting, glitching in and out.
“Nine,” Vikka whispered. “He’s alive.”
“Cut the signal now!”
But it was too late.
Every uplink across the lower districts got hit by the message:
“THE FEEDING IS REAL.
THE ZONE IS A LIE.
WE ARE NOT CRIMINALS.
WE ARE FOOD.”
The truth was out.
Trench – Aftermath
Dust clouded the field. The trench had partially collapsed. Blood painted the ground, but no new Horde emerged. They’d scattered after the shockwave — disoriented.
Trump lay half-buried under rubble, one arm limp, his gun shattered.
He coughed, rolled over, and saw Nine slumped nearby.
Still breathing.
“You got a habit of showing up late,” Trump grunted.
“You got a habit of not dying,” Nine replied weakly.
They both laughed, even as pain gripped their ribs.
Only three of the prey had survived — Trump, Nine, and a silent woman with one eye missing, still holding her weapon like a lifeline.
“Time’s up,” Nine said.
“Not yet,” Trump growled. “Not if we stand.”
Jane’s Team – Retreat
Smoke filled the ventilation shaft. Sparks rained from above.
Jane and her crew ran.
They’d failed. Worse — they’d triggered the system’s defense mode. Now drones were descending across the F-Zone like wasps. Every collar was now glowing solid red — no pulses, no lag, just death-signal.
“What do we do?” Deon shouted over the alarms.
Jane turned back once. Looked down the shaft. Looked toward the trench far below.
“We survive,” she said.
“For now.”
Surface – Uprising Ignites
The city exploded.
Screens across the districts replayed the hacked footage from the collar signal. People saw Trump firing into monsters. Saw Nine in a trench filled with blood. Saw robots throwing weapons at citizens like it was a sport.
The government denied it. Said it was fake. Deepfakes. Misinformation.
But no one listened.
The ROAR dropped a new track called “The Prey Are Awake” — it went viral in 17 minutes. Protesters flooded the streets. Collars were being ripped off in real time. Robot police began failing to keep up.
And behind it all, the Core system adjusted its countdown clock.
Time was no longer linear.
It was spiraling.
Back in the ruins of the trench, Nine sat beside Trump under the collapsed arch of steel and ash.
“You still believe we’ve got a shot?” Nine asked.
Trump stared upward, blood on his lips, voice gravelly.
“We’re already inside. Let’s rot the system from within.”
“What’s the plan?”
Trump coughed.
“Three percent.”
Nine grinned.
“Fair enough.
