Chapter 1 - Willow
Cutlery clinked softly against porcelain, slicing through the suffocating silence of my spiraling thoughts. My gaze had drifted toward the window. Framed by heavy, dusty burgundy drapes, the towers of Facility 13 loomed beyond the trees in our front yard, smoke billowing from its chimneys and dissolving into the ever-present smog. Colorful holographic advertisements clung to every structure, proclaiming the glory of enhanced human evolution.
“Lovely steak, this one,” my father said calmly, pulling me back. “I’m happy to see Helen’s bionic arm has made her recovery so much faster.”
My eyes wandered instead across the dining room. Dusty elegance clung to every surface: old oil paintings, embroidered tapestries, carved furniture, all darkened by age and pollution. The room felt frozen in time, entirely out of step with the sleek, hyper-technological world pressing in beyond its walls.
“Yes…” my mother murmured, absent-minded, her attention fixed somewhere far beyond the table.
Above us, the chandelier hung like a silent witness, its once-brilliant crystal dulled by years of neglect. The only elements that clashed violently with the room’s muted tones were the bright, glossy spines of my father’s books, neatly arranged in the carved mahogany bookcase—now slightly crooked with age. Every title praised the miracle of dark crystal: how it had revolutionized bionic implant technology, how it would be used to “improve” humanity. Muscle enhancements. Artificial organs. Prosthetics. There were no limits, at least not on paper.
My father had been a pioneer in the field, devoting his entire life to harnessing the versatile dark crystal the government harvested so aggressively. His office was based at Facility 11. Like Facility 13—and all the others scattered across the country—it offered the poor and desperate a chance at stable income in exchange for participation in “innovative studies.”
Of course, it had all begun under the banner of unprecedented medical advancement.
And of course, it hadn’t stayed that way.
During the past few years, since I had started my second Master’s degree at Appleton University, I had learned what my father’s company—Smithson Bioelectronics—was really providing. Not healthcare, but human test subjects. Not healing, but weaponization. Bionic technology was being tested on living people, folded into the government’s deluded pursuit of “enhancement”: the transformation of men into super soldiers.
With a superior army, our country could continue its wars. Continue mining dark crystal in newly conquered territories. Our leaders spoke endlessly of salvation—of a future where death and disability would be obsolete, where monopoly over dark crystal would allow us to export peace, stability, and perfect healthcare across the globe.
But I knew better.
Appleton University bred the sharpest technical minds, and some of them were too intelligent—and too curious—to simply sell their skills for profit. Some were stubborn enough to look behind the veil and call technological “progress” what it really was. And a rare few were brave enough to try to stop it.
Somehow, I had befriended those people.
For the past two years, I had quietly used my knowledge of my father’s work—and some of my personal finances—to aid Arc: a rebellious, student-founded non-profit organization dedicated to hacking and sabotaging Facilities. Through them, I had learned the grotesque, inhuman truth behind the so-called medical trials. Far from being eradicated, death, war, and disability were the true products of Smithson’s work.
The utopia my father helped sell was a lie.
“Be good, princess,” my father said, pulling me from my thoughts as he leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “I can’t wait to hear about your projects this evening.”
He said that every day. And every day, he worked late enough that the conversation never happened.
His cologne lingered, sharp and familiar, tugging memories loose from my chest. When I was little, he used to play with me whenever he found the time—building tiny plant incubators together, watching them grow into self-sustaining little worlds. That was where my fascination with plant-originating energy had begun. Now, I designed systems that sustained oxygen-producing plant life while simultaneously generating electricity or filtering water.
He had been a wonderful father, in pieces.
My mother, too. Despite her long hours as head accountant for Smithson Industries, she had always made time for me. She braided my long auburn hair, read me fairytales, laughed as I paraded around in her sparkly dresses and shoes. Without her, I probably wouldn’t have learned how to appear like a proper lady at all.
My chest ached.
I loved my parents. I knew how much my father hoped I would follow in his footsteps, or at least use my skills to sustain what he had helped build. I knew how fortunate I was to be born into generations of wealth and education. But I could no longer stomach the suffering and injustice I now understood that fortune was built upon.
I didn’t know then that this day would be different.
Halfway through it, Ellie — Artificial Intelligence in Bionics student by day, Arc hacker by night, and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met — stopped me in the corridor, her face pale as she whispered that Arc had been compromised by government agents. Panic slammed into me. My vision darkened at the edges, a sharp ringing filling my right ear. At first, I thought it meant frozen accounts, blocked access, digital lockdowns.
Then it sank in.
They wouldn’t just shut Arc down.
They would hunt us.
By the time the realization fully landed—that they would hunt me—it was already evening.
I heard my father’s voice the moment he stepped into the house, far earlier than usual. He wasn’t alone. There were other voices. Men. Many of them.
Clarity struck, followed by terror, wild and imperative. I don’t remember exactly how I moved. Only that somehow I threw clothes into a bag, climbed out my bedroom window, and slid down the water spout to the back terrace. I don’t know how his men missed me as they fired from my window, bullets tearing into the ground behind me while I ran blindly into the forest that bordered our back yard.
I only knew relief when I remembered I had left my BioWatch behind. No tracker. No signal.
No way to call for help, either.
At least I still had my electronic wallet—and some cash I’d kept separate, careful to conceal how much of my money had truly gone to Arc.
Sweet Ellie, brilliant Ellie, had thought ahead. She managed to pick me up farther down the dirt road in her tiny, ancient car. Combustion engines were nearly obsolete now, but her battered old Ford was a lifeline—electric vehicles were too easy to hack, too easy to track.
It died just past the outskirts of Greyville.
Ellie begged me to come with her, to hide at her aunt’s house in a nearby village. But something in me screamed to go farther, to disappear completely. Familiar places felt dangerous. Familiar people, even more so.
We parted in the dark, relying on nothing but the night to hide us.
