The voice had told Alarion that the security might behave irrationally, but those words had not prepared him for the reality of the situation.

The first three he came across were dead, with still-smoldering wounds blown clear through the angular black stone of their heads. He found another crumpled in the corner of a hallway, staring down at its empty arms. The next stood motionless in the flames of a ruined conference room, its body heaving as though gasping for breath.

Or crying.

A handful did attack him, but these proved less of a threat than their earlier brethren. Their arms shook as they sighted in on him, their shots poorly timed. Without backup, each sentry was carved apart in a matter of moments. Some stopped fighting altogether as soon as he reached melee, as if their attacks were not intended to hurt him, but to provoke him into hurting them.

The path was easy to follow. A green light raced ahead of him, strobing down the length of the nearest wall wherever he turned. It was always one step ahead of him, but the emerald green never outpaced him, even when he stopped to gawk or to fight.

From the outside, Alarion had expected the tower's pinnacle to be a temple, but the reality felt anything but holy. If he had to describe it in a word, Alarion would have chosen practical.

Unlike the atrium and its vast open spaces, everything here appeared to be purpose-built, even if Alarion could not begin to guess its purpose. He passed row after row of glass-walled offices, some with desks, chairs, and those strange black mirrors; others with long exam tables, intricate machinery, and shimmering steel tools. The ceiling was low, the lights dim, and the floor matte and smooth. It gave off a claustrophobic air of subtle malice, like creeping through a market square well after the shops had all closed.

It was also quite a bit larger than he would have guessed, with stairways separating the multi-layered facility at various intervals. More than once, Alarion was sure that the light had malfunctioned, that it was somehow leading him in circles. Only the lack of Soulless bodies or the presence of new threats convinced him otherwise.

Eventually, after four floors and what felt like an hour of walking, the light made good on its promise. It streamed into a broad archway leading into an oversized room, swirling slow circles over the walls, floor, and ceiling to assure Alarion that he had arrived.

Emulation, as it turned out, was a chill room filled floor to ceiling with glass-windowed wardrobes. These cabinets were arranged in neat, orderly rows that filled nearly the whole floor. There were hundreds, if not thousands of them, each glowing a gentle blue from lights set in and around its frame, with multi-colored lights flickering within the glass interior.

The entire room hummed with energy as Alarion stepped inside, waiting for… something. He wasn't sure. The voice had directed him to come here, so surely something would happen.

Right?

Seconds ticked by, and Alarion's certainty wavered. Perhaps the voice assumed he knew what to do when he got here? Or maybe he had to get its attention?

"Hello?" Alarion asked to empty the air.

Nothing. The voice had not replied or commented on anything he'd said since he'd left the interrogation chamber. Either it couldn't hear him, or it didn't care. He was not sure which he preferred.

Absent any better solution, Alarion began to walk up the length of one immense row, hoping some solution would present itself. Up close, he could feel the vibration of each cabinet through the floor. The monotone thrum of power. He touched a hand to the glass and felt the hair on his arm stand at attention.

Then a voice spoke.

<H-hello?>

Alarion whirled instantly, his greatsword full size, and held it before him in a defensive posture. But there was nothing. Just rack after rack of equipment, as far as his eye could see.

"Who is there?" Alarion asked as he stalked to the next intersection for a better vantage point. "Show yourself."

<Are you real?> it asked.

It was not the voice. That one had been unnatural and feminine, while this one was masculine and extremely human. Alarion could hear the trepidation in its tone, the hope and dread mixed in equal measure.

<I'm over here,> it said. This time, Alarion was ready for it, his [Detection] skill working overtime to give him a rough estimate of the speaker's location. <You can follow the sound of my voice.>

It didn't take Alarion long to find the source. It took him longer to comprehend what he was seeing. A moving image above a platform of runic characters. It depicted a young brunette man, but was somehow unfinished. As though someone had sketched the outline of a human standing in a barren room but lacked the talent to fill in the finer details, the pores and wrinkles, birthmarks and blemishes that distinguished an actual person from a caricature.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

<Y-you really are here,> the man said, his voice unsteady. <Are you going to do what you promised?>

<I… didn't promise anything.> Alarion winced as he saw half-drawn horror blossom on the other man's face. <Someone else was here before me, right? Ashadi?>

<Professor Vitali. He said they were part of the Ashadi Research Institute, a successor organization,> the man agreed. <You are not with them?>

<Not directly.>

The image nodded in resignation. <Why are you here?>

<I was trapped here with a…> Tutor? Mentor? Friend? What was Sierra to him? <An acquaintance. The revenant who trapped us here demanded that we disable your security system. In exchange, he'll let us leave. >

<I can help you,> the man said, almost instantly.

Alarion met the image's gaze, his own eyes brimming with skepticism. <You agreed to betray this place awfully fast.>

<There is nothing left to betray. That you are here proves that this place has fulfilled its purpose. Preventing human extinction.>

<Extinction?> Alarion asked with considerable alarm. <From what?>

<From…> The man drifted off, his head tilted to one side, a grimace on his face. The image turned away from Alarion, pacing within the confines of a spartan room before it growled in frustration. <… something. I am not sure. The information is restricted. Or corrupt.>

Alarion gave him an entirely unconvinced look. When there was no follow-up, he turned, as if to leave.

<Wait. Wait, wait!> The man pleaded without an ounce of humility. <I'm not lying. I'm not. You need to understand, there are things they didn't want you to know until you were ready. Weapons. Technology. They might have restricted it for that, or… or I might have forgotten. It might have fragmented.>

<Fragmented?> Alarion asked.

<Workload emulations were never designed to stay active this long. Fragmentation begins at four, maybe five years at the latest. Pieces of you go missing, but the pointers to that information remain, like words you know on the tip of your tongue but can never find again. I've been active for…> The projection closed its eyes tightly, focusing on some forgotten memory, <Fourteen? At least? It is a wonder I am as sane as I am.>

<Are you a person?>

<Sort of?> he responded. <A copy of one, imitated by software. The real me is long dead. Everyone is. These shades of us remain to do tasks that are too dangerous or mundane. Or in my case, to serve as a guide long after everyone else was gone.>

Alarion spun his shrunken greatsword between the digits of his right hand as he considered the implications. <What was, is, your name?>

<I'm Alex.>

<Alarion,> he replied. <You know what I want, and you said you can help me. What is it that you want?>

<Out.> Alex did not mince words with his demand. <I want out of this environment, then I want you to shut down emulation. This needs to stop. It is not just immoral, it…>

The machine man trailed off, unable to find the words to describe the gravity of the crime. His jaw clenched, the half-rendered image appearing almost comical despite Alex's clear rage.

<Emulation is meant for months, maybe a year or two, for the most sensitive tasks. Images are meant to have substantial downtime to recover between tasks, and are retired when service is over. The end state for an image is supposed to be subjective millennia in a paradise server until they choose to self-decommission. But hundreds of them have been left active for, gods above, centuries. Help me shut this down, and I'll do whatever you want.>

Alarion listened and considered, but he did not need to ponder long. For once, the right thing to do was staring him in the face. <How do I get you out?>

Relief flooded Alex's image, his shoulders visibly sagging as he pointed. <Down and to your left, there is a drawer on the panel beneath this machine. Do you see it? Inside are several items; you're looking for a thin band of iridescent material, roughly as wide as your thumb. Grab one.>

Happy to have a simple goal for once, Alarion dutifully followed instructions. It took some doing, given the sheer amount of odds and ends stuffed into the drawer, but he soon found what he was looking for, a 'stick' of shining material about an inch thick, nearly a foot long, and paper thin. <This?>

<That is the one. Slap it against your wrist>

Alarion did so and found the item collapsed with a sharp crack as it wrapped neatly about his wrist. <Done.>

<Now wave it over the right side of the keypad, the thing below the picture of me, for about five seconds.> Alarion's expression was dubious enough that Alex quickly added. <It is safe, I promise.>

If anything, the promise only deepened Alarion's unease, but with no other avenues but to trust this stranger, he did as instructed.

The machine whirred a few times, lights flickering in a nearby cabinet. Then it fell silent, and Alex vanished from the screen as it flicked instantly to black.

<Oh, thank goodness,> Alex said from Alarion's wrist. His voice was bliss, the sound of a man who had spent his whole life standing and was finally allowed to sit down. <You have no idea how much better this feels.>

<So you are inside this bracelet?> Alarion inquired, having brought his wrist nearly up to his mouth.

<Yes. And please back off. It is loud, and your breath is… not the best.> Alex laughed in sudden delight. <Oh. I can smell again. I never thought I, um, sorry about that comment. I meant no offense.>

<Mm.>

<The system they had me running on before was meant to stand the test of time. To possibly outlast the tower. But that meant it ran with low fidelity. I had sight and sound, but not touch, taste, or smell. And no virtual environment.> The sound of crunching accompanied Alex's words as the virtual human groaned in delight. <Chips. Do you know how long I've->

<Can we focus?> Alarion's tone was perhaps harsher than he meant it. Still, it succeeded in snapping Alex back on task. <You said we can shut this down.>

<Far end of the room.> Alex responded quickly. <If you look up, you can see that the cable harnesses all run in that direction. The comm and access nodes are all down there. It is a bit of a walk.>

Unfortunately, the crunching continued for most of that walk.

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