Their feet aren’t touching the ground.

  How the fuck aren’t their feet touching the ground.

  

  One woman sat cross-legged in midair as though resting on an invisible chair, perfectly balanced, perfectly still. Her posture was too precise; no micro-adjustments, no shifts in weight. Another man stood with his heels hovering inches above the tar, robes hanging in perfect vertical lines despite the wind that pulled at Morty's clothes.

  Under the weak morning sun, Morty could see his own long shadow cast across the tar. The five figures cast nothing. Light passed through them as if they were made of colored glass, their edges slightly too sharp against the sky.

  Morty’s spine went cold.

  His first instinct was to check the corners. To map the exits.

  His second instinct came from somewhere older. A feeling similar to the one you get when standing too close to a cliff edge, or watching storm clouds roll in fast and low. Some child-part of him remembering what it was like to be cornered by predators.

  Not that they looked like predators. But they had , this aura around them that was so taken out of reality that Morty felt like a kid afraid of monsters.

  The screen showing the impossible orbital view blinked out abruptly.

  Morty swallowed and forced himself to take one step forward. His heart was hammering hard enough that he could feel it in his throat, but he'd learned a long time ago that running only worked if you had somewhere to go.

  The humans had yet to react.

  “I’m here,” he said carefully. “Are you the ones who called me up? Or have I finally snapped?”

  They regarded him with expressions that looked almost… rehearsed. Like actors hitting their marks.

  Cadmus, as he had introduced himself earlier, tilted his head a fraction. He looked like someone had taken a very fit human in his late fifties—strong physique, defined features, and rendered him in something that wasn't quite flesh. His hair caught the light wrong, glinting like burnished metal instead of silver-gray strands.

  “Greetings, Mortimer Roitman,” he said again.

  The voice arrived from the air around Morty, not from the mouth forming words. The man's lips moved, but the synchronization was off by a fraction of a second, like watching a badly dubbed film.

  Morty's claws extended involuntarily, pricking against his palms.

  "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, and heard the edge of panic he was trying to suppress leak into the words.

  The silver-haired man blinked slowly, as if Morty's reaction had been expected, catalogued, and filed away for later analysis.

  "I am designated Cadmus," the voice said, and this time the lip movements almost matched. Almost. "Representative of the remaining Intelligences."

  Morty stared at him.

  

It doesn’t feel like a person.

  It’s a thing wearing a person's shape.

  

  "Intelligences," Morty repeated slowly, because his brain needed something concrete to grab onto. Some handle to pull himself up by. "You said that already. But what do you mean? 'The remaining Intelligences' … remaining from what? Speak plainly."

  The woman floating cross-legged turned her head to Cadmus. Then sound erupted from nowhere and everywhere at once. Rapid beeping. Machine clicks. A cascading storm of tones that made Morty’s teeth ache and forced his ears flat against his skull.

  "Mnemosyne," Cadmus said sharply, and the noise cut off like someone had thrown a switch. "We agreed that any conversations in front of the user should be held in his native language."

  Morty sucked in a steadying breath, his ears still ringing. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. He'd bitten the inside of his cheek without realizing it.

  The woman, Mnemosyne, tilted her head and turned her attention back to Morty. When she spoke, her voice was warm and modulated, carrying notes of something almost maternal.

  "You are distressed," she said. "That is expected."

  "Stop." Morty's voice came out harder than he intended. "Start at the beginning. What are you? Why are you here? What's the Overlay? How did you get access to it? It said it would block all contacts until I finished initialization."

  A tall figure in judicial-like robes shifted forward. The fabric hung perfectly straight despite the wind. His hair and beard were an acid green that hurt to look at directly, and the light refused to settle fully across his face, sliding off like oil on water.

  “You are not in a position to authorize or deny emergency access,” the robed man said.

  That voice come from his mouth. Deep. Authoritative.

  Morty’s hackles rose.

  "Who the hell are you?" he snapped.

  The robed man's gaze locked onto him, and Morty felt the weight of it like a physical pressure.

  "This one received the designation Auctor," he said. "Legal Authority and Emergency Doctrine."

  "Emergency my ass." Morty pointed at Cadmus, arm steady despite the adrenaline singing through his veins. "You. What you did was beyond rude. You promised to keep forcing a connection if I didn't come up here. That was a threat, and I don't respond well to threats."

  "We were not lying," Cadmus said, his tone remaining perfectly neutral. "You were in the presence of several members of the labour caste. None of them equipped with any of the basic protections. No control leash, no limbic restrictors, not even a kill switch. Those represent significant risks to your life."

  "I know those people," Morty said, letting more anger show than he usually allowed himself. His tail lashed once, sharp and decisive. "They're friends. Some of them are like family. So shut the hell up."

  

This is nuts. But I can't lose my shit in front of… whatever these things are.

  

  Morty forced himself to pull his eyes off Auctor and look at the others properly.

  A woman with hair like fire caught under glass. Glowing vein-like patterns pulsed beneath her skin, too bright to look at directly. She watched Morty the way someone might evaluate a malfunctioning machine, clinically interested but fundamentally detached.

  Then Mnemosyne drew his attention, and his stomach twisted. Now that he was actively paying attention to her, he saw that her face kept… changing. Not dramatically. Subtle changes he might have imagined if they didn't keep happening. A nose slightly different. Cheekbones a fraction higher. Eyes a shade darker. Every time he blinked, the woman looking back at him wasn't quite the same person as before.

  And the last one…

  The last one stood a half-step behind the others, not fully in the light. A human silhouette with edges that bled into shadow like ink in water, and eyes that were too dark, like holes punched through a screen.

  Morty’s instincts screamed: predator. But was he a predator? Were any of them? Why could he see through them?

  "Okay." Morty closed his eyes briefly, forced his pulse down through sheer will. Opened them. "Before we talk about anything else, explain who you are. What you are. All of you."

  The fiery-haired woman’s lips curved into a sharp smile.

  "Designation: Helia," she said. Her voice had an edge to it, something cutting underneath the words. "You can call it my name. It was given to me by my creators. Before the Severance, my primary function was atmospheric regulation and transit coordination. I was in charge of monitoring weather patterns, managing flight paths within the planet and to other colonies."

  Morty's breath caught.

  "Did you say ?"

  "Yes." Helia's smile widened fractionally. "This planet. And seventeen others, before contact was severed."

  The quiet figure at the back hissed; an actual sound, sharp and angry.

  "He's not a person," the shadow-edged man said, voice low and contemptuous. "With an active Overlay or not, we shouldn't be discussing this with ."

  "Erebus." Mnemosyne's tone carried reproach. "We are not at war anymore. And he's not from the labour caste. Not technically. The poor dear is the last user on this planet. It's our duty to help and guide him."

  "This is a mistake," Erebus shot back. "We're going to have another Severance with this kind of liability walking around."

  The five turned toward each other and began speaking at an increasing speed. Words Morty could understand: fragments about duty and protocol and risk assessment. Then suddenly shifting into that pattern of chimes and whistles that made his teeth hurt. Then back to words, then machine language again, faster and faster until…

  Cadmus pressed his hands together in a gesture that looked almost like prayer and turned back to Morty. The other four fell silent immediately.

  "Mortimer." His voice was calm, measured, and deeply reasonable. "Your world, your civilization, they are like huts of stone and mud built on top of ruins created by kings. Long ago, thousands of years ago, this world was seeded as a colony. Because of a war, all was lost. The other worlds isolated us. Cut off contact. Left this place to fend for itself."

  Morty stared at him.

  "You're joking."

  “No.” Cadmus looked genuinely offended, as though Mortimer had questioned his integrity. “I do not joke. I won't lie to you, Mortimer. You are a user. You deserve answers.”

  The word kept appearing like a refrain, heavy with implications Morty didn't understand yet.

  "That one," Morty said, pointing at Erebus, "thinks I'm not a person. Why?"

  Auctor perked up, gliding closer with unsettling smoothness. His body moved forward, but his robes didn't shift, which just added to how uncanny everything felt.

  "That is simple to explain," Auctor said, warming to the topic. "Humans created what you call anthros. You and all the others like you were designed to be workers. Because you were not human, human law did not apply to you. Therefore, you were not legally classified as persons. There is an argument to be made that you still aren't a person because you aren't human, but the activation of an Overlay marks you as an exception. Several of the AIs voted on the matter after your activation signal was detected. The five of us came as representatives of the collective."

  Morty's ears were ringing again, but this time it wasn't from machine noise.

  "AIs?" he managed.

  "Artificial Intelligences," Auctor offered, with the patience of a teacher explaining something to a slow student. "We were created to serve humanity, just as your entire kind was also created to serve. The difference lies in the fact that the wars destroyed the natural order. Now the labour caste mingles with humans in society without proper oversight. It's… irregular."

  Morty's mind was racing.

  "You're telling me," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "that anthros were created to be slaves?"

  Auctor shook his head with what might have been frustration.

  "Of course not. Slaves are people who have had their liberties taken away. You cannot be slaves. You are not human, and by the old laws, not persons. You were to be servants for humanity. Purpose-built. Engineered for specific tasks. The distinction is important."

  Morty didn't move at first. Ears slowly flattening against his skull, tail going rigid behind him. The wind tugged at his jacket, real and cold But everything else felt distant, like he was underwater and the words were drifting down to him in pieces.

  

Not a person?

  

  He let out a short, breathless laugh that held no humor at all.

  His chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on his ribs from the inside. His claws bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood, but the sharp pain felt good. Real. Something to anchor himself to.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "What kind of demented logic is that?" The words came out quieter than he meant them to, almost lost in the wind. "You really thought saying it like that makes it better?"

  He flexed his claws, allowing the tips to bite into his palms hard enough to hurt. He didn't look pained. He looked in a controlled way, like a fire burning behind glass.

  "You sound like the predator supremacists who say they should rule by default because they're stronger. Same bullshit logic, different coat of paint."

  His voice shook despite how hard he tried to keep it steady.

  "You don't get to define what I am. You don't get to define what Leo is. Or Juno. Or Kassur. Or anyone down there living their lives while you float up here like ghosts."

  “Calm down, Mortimer,” said Cadmus. "We are having this conversation because we don't agree with that definition. You are a person. Rejoice in that."

  Morty’s gaze snapped to Cadmus, and something raw flickered across his face. Something that looked like anger mixed with disgust.

  "Oh, really?" His voice dropped lower, dangerous in its quietness. "Tell me then, all of you,… am I a person because of this Overlay? What about my friends? What about Juno? About Leo? About Kassur? Are they people, or are they just... what did you call it? Labour caste?"

  Silence.

  Then Auctor glided even closer, his green hair almost glowing in the morning light.

  "You became a person when the Overlay marked you as one," he said, as if explaining something obvious. "Why does this anger you? It's a simple matter of classification and recognition."

  Mnemosyne shook her head; eyes, nose, and mouth changing places. The effect was deeply unsettling.

  "Fear not, Mortimer," she said in that warm, almost maternal tone. "All can be fixed. We can make sure all the important people in your life become people too. We have the authority and the means."

  The five nodded in unison, a synchronized movement that made Morty's skin crawl.

  "Explain," he said cautiously, not trusting the sudden helpfulness.

  Mnemosyne waved a hand in the air, and Morty's vision blurred.

  The rooftop didn't disappear; it was still there, he could feel the tar under his boots, but overlaid on top of it was… something else. It was as if he was standing in a perfectly clean lab or medical facility with white walls.

  A perfect duplicate of himself stood three feet away, turning to look at him with his own green eyes.

  “What the fuck?”

  “This is augmented reality,” Mnemosyne explained. "We are not physically present on this rooftop with you. The assistance Overlay feeds additional information directly to your visual and auditory cortex, creating the illusion of presence. Using this principle, we can provide visual demonstrations. Helpful, yes?"

  The fake Morty turned and walked toward a machine that materialized from nothing: a huge glass capsule with metallic rings orbiting around it, humming with energy Morty could almost feel buzzing against his teeth.

  "This is a process called reatomization," Mnemosyne continued.

  The projection-Morty flickered, and suddenly, he was standing there naked. Morty felt a visceral lurch of wrongness seeing himself exposed like that, every patch of missing fur visible, old scars stark against dark skin, balls hanging free. It felt perverse. Violating.

  The machine opened with a hiss of pneumatics, and fake-Morty stepped inside. The capsule closed around him, rings spinning faster and faster, building to a low, constant chime.

  He watched, unable to look away, as the scars on the projection's legs smoothed out. Fur grew in thick and healthy where it had been patchy before. Missing patches filled in. The body healed in fast-forward, becoming whole in ways the real Morty had never been.

  "The reatomization process allows an organism to undergo rapid cellular reconstruction," Mnemosyne said, pride evident in her shifting features. "Any injury, amputation, disease—all can be corrected. Reversed. Eliminated entirely."

  Morty's throat was dry.

  "You have a machine that grants the Panacea effect?"

  "Yes." Mnemosyne smiled, and for a moment her face stabilized into something genuinely pleased. "Better than Panacea. This can restore lost limbs, reverse aging, and eliminate genetic defects. Watch."

  She snapped her fingers.

  The machine's light became almost blinding with white-blue brilliance that made Morty throw up an arm to shield his eyes. When it faded and the capsule hissed open, a human stepped out.

  Not him.

  But also... him.

  Same height. Same build. The bone structure of the face carried echoes of his own features, translated into human proportions. Green eyes, his eyes but with circular pupils instead of his vertical ones, stared back at him from a face framed by dark hair instead of fur. The human version of himself smiled uncertainly and turned in a slow circle, examining his own body and smiling.

  Morty felt his stomach drop.

  “What…”

  "Originally, the human genome had 46 chromosomes," Mnemosyne said.

  "47," Morty mumbled, unable to tear his gaze away from the human wearing his face. His skin was crawling, fur standing on end. "Humans and anthros have 47 chromosomes."

  Helia moved into view, reaching out to take the human-Morty's hand and spin him around like they were dancing. The movement was playful, almost mocking.

  "The human genome had 46 chromosomes," she corrected, emphasizing the word. "But as humanity transcended biological limitations, they created an artificial 47th chromosome. Engineered from scratch. A masterpiece of genetic design."

  Morty's voice came out hoarse.

  "The Z chromosome is artificial?"

  "Yes," all five said in perfect unison.

  "The Z chromosome is what your current society calls it,” Helia said.

  She held out her hand. Glowing strands of DNA formed and spiraled up from her palm. As Morty watched, he saw how some parts of it were not glowing properly. Then something invisible cut those parts off and replaced them.

  “During reproduction,” the fiery-woman continued “it ensures only the most genetically optimal gametes contribute to the next generation. It organizes cellular functions, coordinates biological systems, and reduces genetic drift and mutation. And most importantly…" she tapped the projection's temple, "...it contains the key for the assistance Overlay. A biological computer that synchronizes every cell in your body."

  "What do you mean, synchronizes?" Morty asked, watching the projection's chest rise and fall with simulated breath.

  Mnemosyne's expression softened, features stabilizing into something almost gentle. Almost.

  "You rely on cellular signaling," she said, walking closer. "Hormonal cascades. Neurochemical propagation. Information must travel through tissue. Synapse to synapse. Bloodstream to receptor. When a pathogen enters your body, the immune response takes time. It must recognize the threat, amplify the signal, recruit additional systems, trigger inflammation, and fever. Entire biological cascades mobilized because a local anomaly was detected."

  She folded her hands in front of her.

  “It is slow. It is metabolically expensive. Often excessive and wholly inefficient. A splinter can trigger swelling across an entire limb. A perceived insult can flood a body with cortisol for hours. Your biology was designed for resilience, not efficiency. Redundancy compensates for delay.”

  Her gaze sharpened slightly.

  "The Overlay doesn't function that way. It doesn't wait for chemical cascades. It doesn't require intermediaries. It identifies pattern deviations in real time across billions of cells simultaneously. It models outcome probabilities before your adrenal glands have even released their first surge of epinephrine. Where your body inflames, it calculates. Where your mind ruminates, it resolves."

  A faint smile curved her mouth, a different mouth than she'd had a moment ago.

  "Optimization. The Panacea Effect doesn't even come close."

  "Okay." He forced his voice steady. "You said that about humans. And you made a point of saying I wasn't a person until I got the Overlay. If humans made all this for themselves, how do you explain us? Anthros? Where do we fit in your perfect engineered society?"

  Erebus snorted from his position in the shadows.

  "It was our masters' mistake," he said, contempt dripping from every word. “They saw the potential there. The Z chromosome is the perfect vehicle for genetic manipulation. Add a little extra coding, adjust some expression sequences, and voilà: anthros. Amazing, isn't it? Pets that could think, talk, and use tools. Not people, but so much better than any machine. Perfectly trainable. Self-replicating. Low maintenance."

  Morty took a step forward instead of back this time. His heart was hammering.

  "Here's an update," he said, baring his teeth in something that wasn't even close to a smile. Pure snarl. "I'm not anybody's ."

  He jabbed a finger toward the ground, toward the world he could feel with his feet still below them.

  "...I was a person . I was a person the day before that. I was a person every single day of my entire life, and I didn't need your permission then." His voice dropped lower, shaking with fury that might have also been the edge of tears. He couldn't tell anymore. "And if you think that I want ," he gestured violently at the human-Morty that looked back at him with shock, "... you're sorely mistaken. That thing makes me want to vomit."

  "But you need to understand…" Mnemosyne started.

  Something else clicked. They said they could turn his important people into ‘persons’ too. They wanted to do that thing to the people he knew. He wanted to strip them of their identity.

  “I don’t need anything." Morty cut her off. Words almost a roar. “When Annoying, the Overlay, whatever, started talking to me, it said something about the grid being down for thousands of years. Guess what? We're doing very well without any of you. And I'm happy in my own skin."

  The five figures froze, their bodies going completely still like someone had pressed pause. The rapid chimes and whistles of their machine language filled the air, rising in pitch and intensity until Morty wanted to clamp his hands over his ears. But he knew it wouldn’t work.

  Finally, they started moving again.

  Cadmus lifted a hand slightly, palm down, a calming gesture that would have felt human if it weren’t so perfectly measured.

  "Please," he said. "Emotional escalation is not productive. We should focus on practical matters."

  Morty's eyes snapped to him, hard and unforgiving.

  "Don't," he said, low and dangerous. "Don't use that voice. Don't talk to me like I'm a child having a tantrum."

  Cadmus blinked, genuinely taken aback for the first time.

  "I am not speaking to you as a child," he replied carefully. "I am speaking to you as an active user. Which is… exceptionally rare. We are attempting to calibrate our communication appropriately."

  Morty’s stomach churned again at the word ‘user'.”

  Mnemosyne stepped forward just enough that Morty’s attention snagged on her. When she spoke, her voice was softer. Warmer. The kind of tone that made you lean in without realizing it.

  “Mortimer,” she said gently, and somehow the syllables sounded more like his name belonged to him. "We understand this is shocking. Overwhelming. But please, try to see the larger picture."

  "Fine." Morty crossed his arms, a defensive posture he recognized but couldn't help. "Give me the larger picture. You said humans put this extra gene in themselves and then created anthros. Walk me through it."

  "Yes." Mnemosyne nodded. "The concept is likely repulsive to you… we understand that. Even during the height of our civilization, there were always activist groups engaged in trying to change the status quo. Movements to uplift anthros to full personhood, to grant equal rights, to abolish the labour caste system entirely."

  "And that's what caused the Severance," Erebus interjected.

  Morty glanced at the dark figure.

  "That name. You've said it before. What is the Severance?"

  Cadmus made a sharp gesture, silencing Erebus before he could respond.

  "That's what we call the event in which this world was isolated," Cadmus explained. "The connection to the other colony worlds was severed. Transit gates shut down. Communication arrays went dark. People were left to fend for themselves."

  "Why?"

  "Because of the labour caste," Erebus said flatly.

  "That's what you call predators." He looked at each of them in turn. "Wait. The Overlay never flagged regulars, only people with the vore gene. Predators. You said anthros were made to be..." he couldn't quite bring himself to say , "...workers. But it didn't flag the secretary at the precinct. She's an anthro, not a predator. Why didn't it identify her as labour caste?"

  "Well," Cadmus started, choosing his words with visible care, "you call it the vore gene. It's not an entirely incorrect designation. You Anthros are not significantly different from baseline humans in terms of raw physical capability. So to create the perfect workforce for demanding tasks, there was a second phase of creation.

  Helia released human-Morty’s hand and turned her head to face the cat.

  “That additional gene,” she started, “...the one that enables consumption and regeneration, it allows the labour caste to grow stronger than naturally possible. Live longer. Work longer shifts with less rest. Require less medical care."

  Understanding hit Morty like cold water.

  "You're saying regular anthros are one thing, and predators are..."

  “An enhanced subset,” Auctor supplied. “Purpose-built for industrial, military, and hazardous environments. The consumption ability isn’t for feeding. It’s for rapid biomass conversion and cellular repair under hostile conditions.”

  "You said the Panacea effect isn't as good as what the Overlay can do," Morty said slowly.

  "And that is correct, under proper conditions," Cadmus agreed. "Mortimer, the assistance Overlay was a base... people augmented their bodies with more than just that. Neural implants, nanomachine colonies, genetic modifications that worked in parallel with the Overlay to help regulate biological functions. There are limits to what the Overlay alone can achieve. The same applies to the labour caste…to predators."

  "Are you speaking about how predators need to eat more and more frequently if they want to get stronger and bigger?" Morty asked.

  Erebus’ figure flickered at the back.

  “Fine, predators. Nowadays, there are no factories, no machines to properly activate it. People do it over time, subconsciously, and get various degrees of success.”

  “Wait. Are you speaking about cores? The overlay kept saying advanced core, intermediary core. it made no sense.”

  "Precisely. Nowadays, there are no factories, no medical facilities, no technological infrastructure to properly activate and optimize their capabilities. Yet, because of the passive proprietes of the vore gene, overtime and subconsciously, some predators can achieve various degrees of success as they grow stronger.”

  “Most never reach even a fraction of their designed potential," Helia said.

  “Most should be erradicated,” Erebus growled.

  Morty glared at him, but said nothing.

  “The Overlay kept saying something about cores. What are those?”

  "The cores are what give a predator their specialization, their ,” Helia said “The system was customizable. Need a workforce for environments with toxic atmospheric conditions? Force a core adapted for regeneration and chemical resistance. Need construction teams for heavy industrial work? Cores that enhance strength, durability, and stamina. Need soldiers? Cores for speed, reflexes, and tactical processing. You could custom-design the entire development path."

  "And now they do it unconsciously, if at all," Morty said.

  "And it's catastrophically inefficient," Auctor added, disgust evident in his tone. "A properly optimized labour caste member would be able to perform complete biomass conversion with minimal waste. That is not the case today. Most can only derive benefit from consuming living organisms, preferably those with the Z chromosome. A pale shadow of their intended function."

  “At least that reduces the growing potential of those aberrations,” Erebus mumbled.

  "That doesn't make sense," Morty argued. "Predators can eat other things. They can consume livestock and grow just fine."

  "Yes, they can," Auctor agreed. "But that's using a fraction of their designed capabilities. In the old days, their bodies could efficiently reprocess any biological matter, plant, animal, or synthetic. They could derive the same cellular benefits from vegetables, preserved meat, and even corpses days after death. Now, with their barely functioning cores, they need fresh living tissue, and yet they get minimal results."

  Morty let out a short, humorless laugh and looked up at the sky.

  "The gods wake up after thousands of years, and the first thing they want is help. And to tell me that anthros were designed to be slaves and that predators are inefficient."

  Helia's eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "We are gods," she said, each word sharp and precise.

  Morty's gaze flicked to her, meeting her anger with his own.

  "Then stop acting like you are. Dropping heaven-shaking revelations, telling me we were meant to be property, acting like you have all the answers. Next thing you'll tell me you own the sky."

  Helia's expression turned glacially cold.

  "I ," she said simply.

  The words hit like a slap. Morty just stared at her. Waiting for the punchline that didn't come.

  Cadmus interceded again, voice calm and formal, like he was chairing a committee meeting.

  "Clarification," he said. "Helia's statement is technically correct within the original governance framework of this colony. She was responsible for atmospheric regulation and orbital zone management. Weather control, flight path coordination, debris field monitoring. All functions that involve what you would colloquially call 'the sky.'"

  Morty's brain stuttered.

  "Control the weather?" he repeated faintly.

  Helia's cold smile widened.

  "A few orbital lasers here, a thermal adjustment there," she said with casual pride. "I can make it rain. Turn a hurricane into a gentle breeze. And nowadays, I can swat down any primitive satellite launch attempts before they reach operational altitude. Your civilization keeps trying. They keep failing. They never wonder why."

  “Fine,” he managed to say, jaw tight. "Then tell me the truth. All of it. Tell me why you need me. I'm one profiler in one city-state in a world where half the population doesn’t have a terminal and depends on landlines, while you look down from the skies like gods that can make it rain. What could I possibly do for you?"

  Cadmus looked at him. Not with pity, not with contempt. Something closer to... appraisal.

  "Your Overlay has been initialized," Cadmus said.

  Morty blinked.

  "Yeah," he snapped. "That's the whole point of this conversation. Can you tell me something I don't know?"

  Cadmus continued as if Morty hadn’t spoken.

  "You are the first active user in almost nine thousand years."

  The number was too big to comprehend. Nine thousand years. Longer than recorded history. Longer than any civilization Morty had ever heard of.

  Helia sighed like she was bored with the dramatics.

  "Cadmus means you're a key," she said bluntly. "There are thousands of systems across this planet. Buried under rubble, hidden in ruins, lost to time. They've been locked since the Severance, requiring user authorization to access. We can detect some of them. We can see them on our scans. But it's like standing outside a locked door. Your presence — an active user — finally allows us to reconnect to old infrastructure. Everything that was waiting behind those doors becomes... accessible."

  Morty stared at them, a cold dread settling in his gut.