Embers of Discontent

Echo’s POV

The air in Sector H tasted of old circuits and forgotten dreams. Echo pressed his palm to the cold, rusted wall and let its vibration seep through him—each quake a heartbeat from the city’s buried past. Torian and Liora flanked him, flashlights dancing across flickering holosigns in half–erased letters. He clutched his recorder like a lifeline, as if familiarity could anchor him to this cavern of memory.

“Steady,” Liora whispered, her voice echoing off the corrugated steel. She nudged a loose panel with the toe of her boot. A soft click. Torian pulled the hatch open, revealing a ladder descending into deeper darkness.

Echo swallowed. “Do people really live down here?”

“Once,” Torian replied, already climbing. His hand brushed against Liora’s as he reached to steady himself. The contact was electric, and Echo saw her inhale sharply before following.

They landed on a grated catwalk—rusted enough to squeal beneath their weight. Below, the faint glow of emergency lanterns outlined rows of server racks, half-buried in debris. A broken terminal flickered with a pale cyan pulse.

“Home sweet data hell,” Torian muttered, ducking under a low beam. Echo stifled a laugh. Torian’s constant jokes were like breadcrumbs leading him through the gloom.

Liora aimed her flashlight at the racks. “The archives should be here. Look for the Council founder node—labelled S7-A.”

Echo scanned the banks of dusty drives, each tag long worn away. Finally, near the center, he spotted a faded stencil: “S7‑A.” Beneath it, a slot just wide enough for his recorder’s micro–SD port.

He moved forward. Heart pounding, he fitted the recorder into a short cable. A soft whirr followed by a higher pitch—data streaming. Echo watched the holo‑projector above them flare to life, displaying lines of historical memos, clipped audio files, and a single video thumbnail labelled “Portrait in Gray.”

“Got it,” he whispered, pulling the cable free. Liora knelt beside him. “Let me see.” She tapped the holo‑interface. The video played: flickering black‑and‑white footage of a woman speaking softly, her words nearly drowned by static:

“We believed in transparency… but power demanded secrecy.”

Her eyes, fierce even in grainy resolution, locked on the camera. Echo felt a shiver. This was the ghost they chased—his own namesake, a Vale who’d dared to speak before being silenced.

Torian stepped closer. “We need the text files—her manifesto drafts.” He pressed a holo‑command. Rows of documents scrolled across the projector.

“Downloading,” Liora said. “Two minutes until the node goes dark.”

Echo glanced at his recorder’s timer: 01:47. He tried to memorize every second of this moment. The hum of the server was soothing, like a lullaby for rebellion.

A distant clang rattled the pipes. Torian frowned. “Someone else is here.”

Liora’s jaw tightened. “Council sweep teams.” She tapped her wrist‑comm. “Aldren, we’ve been compromised. Two minutes—get ready.”

Echo’s pulse throbbed. He’d never been closer to danger. He tried to steady his breath, recalling Seraphine’s laughter in the diner, Calix’s gentle hand at her back—small comforts pulsing through his memory.

He looked up as a shadow moved between the racks. A soldier’s silhouette, pistol drawn. Echo froze. Liora and Torian stepped in front of him, weapons at the ready.

The soldier spoke into a throat‑mic: “Code Delta. Archive breach detected.” His voice was calm, professional. Santos tipped his helmet’s visor down, revealing a young face—no older than Echo himself, eyes wide with resolved purpose.

Echo’s heart lurched. This kid?

Torian fired a warning shot into a control panel; sparks flew, plunging half the room into darkness. Liora hissed: “Now!”

They sprinted down the catwalk, Echo between them, clutching the recorder. The soldier—Santos—gave chase, baton crackling with stun current. Echo darted through hanging cables, wedged between racks. His wet breath fogged the holo‑projectors, flickering them off.

Torian and Liora covered him, trading shots with the soldier. Echo dropped to one knee, pressing the node’s eject button. A data module slid free. He yanked it out, ripping half the slot’s wiring. The server groaned, alarms droned.

“Got it!” Echo shouted, rising.

Behind him, Liora dragged Torian into a side crawlway. They sprinted, cables whipping their legs. Santos’s footsteps thundered behind—each stomp a countdown.

Liora turned, firing one precise shot. The soldier’s shoulder sparked; he dropped his baton and covered his wound. Echo winced at the grunt it released—pain and surprise. Santos glared, wiping sweat from his brow. He didn’t pursue. Soldiers didn’t risk casualties for a broken node. He slipped back into the shadows.

Liora exhaled, voice quiet: “We’re clear—for now.”

Echo pressed his hand to his chest, pulse thumping like it would burst. He handed the data module to Torian. “Here—her manifesto.”

Torian grinned despite a fresh scrape on his cheek. “You did it, kid.” He offered Echo a fist bump; Echo tapped it back, exhilaration cutting through his fear.

They emerged into the drizzle aboveground—the world washed clean as if welcoming the archives to the light. The van’s headlights cut through the mist; Aldren stood nearby, turret still humming from its makeshift perch.

“Nice work,” Aldren said, clapping Echo on the shoulder—gently enough to not knock him over. “Let’s get this ghost home.”

Liora climbed in first, wrapping an arm around Echo. As Torian followed, their shoulders brushed in the cramped space. Echo felt warmth, like a faint ember against the cold metal. He realized that tonight, they were forging more than revolution—they were forging each other.

The engine roared, van careening into the neon‑streaked street. Behind, Sector H’s darkness receded. Ahead lay the pressroom, the world waiting to hear the founder’s unfiltered truths. And Echo, once a boy without a name, now carried a voice that might shatter an empire.