Chapter Text
..:: ALERT. SYSTEM INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. FULL LOCKDOWN INITIATED. EPSILON BASE DISCONNECTED FROM CENTRAL SERVER::..
Another explosion detonated somewhere above, significantly closer than any before. The blast rattled the foundations of the supposedly secure facility, a fresh shower of dust and debris rained from the rough ceiling, onto the bulky yellow hazmat suit worn by the figure below. Their features were concealed by the protective gear, the only smart way to traverse the surface since the orbital bombardments began.
Even that extra caution, the air filtration system and radiation shielding, wasn't proving enough. They'd been trying to ignore the persistent hacking cough for the better part of a month, but it was a clear reminder of how little time they, and the rest of their doomed planet, really had.
The world was consistently poised on a knifes edge and had been for generations, peace built on simmering resentment and fragile alliances. It was only a matter of time before someone gave it a little push too far in one direction. The cruel irony was that nobody knew who shoved first. Communications shattered, continents went dark, and eventually the casualty lists stopped being updated. Now, the future was resting in the miraculously, and only intact research facility within a 300km radius.
FWABOOM
That impact felt closer, like each hit was burrowing deeper below the surface. The figure stumbled, catching themselves against the console. "I'm running out of time, faster I need to be faster."The panic constricting their chest worsened the breath already made difficult by the damn cough. Frantic typing resumed, but the system remained sluggishly slow, error messages blinking with an infuriating regularity.
The literal heart of the problem was the barely functioning central computer core, a monumental cylinder of dull grey metal disappearing into the jagged rock of the cavern ceiling. Dozens of thick cables snaked out from the base, connecting to the myriad subsystems lining the walls. It had been built deep underground in order to avoid overheating from the sun's harsh rays, a clever solution at the time and the reason this facility was the only one still moderately operational. A catastrophically idiotic solution when factoring in explosive ordinance. Far too much debris had already subsided, shaken loose by the incessant pounding and piling on the upper machinery. It was unclear how much time they had left.
Disconnecting Epsilon from the server network had been the necessary first step. If other pockets of survivors still remained in other bases, there was no way to verify their allegiances anymore. Paranoia was a survival trait now, enemies could pose as allies, and they couldn't risk anyone finding out what they were doing here. They couldn't risk someone trying to put a stop to the plan.
"Come, come on! flakking search!" The desperate plea was muffled by the suit's respirator.
Text crawled up the screen, inch by inch, line by agonising line. More impacts reverberated from above, feeling closer and closer. The lights flickered, then, mercifully, the scrolling halted. A single line with a flickering colon at the very bottom of the screen underneath a pile of not-quite results.
A relieved and strained gasp came from inside the helmet. "There! It's really there! This code has to be right… It has to be…"
Their voice dropped to a whisper, reciting the sequence as they had since the beginning of their long and arduous journey. "Authorisation code: CESTUS 776E-Theta. Operational clearance: Gamma-Gamma-Six. Initiate primary protocols. Standby for additional programming."
"Get back here, you little roof-hopping prick!"
"Crap crap crap crap crap!" Izuku Midoriya panted, simultaneously cursing his rotten luck for the current predicament he found himself in, whichever distant ancestor whose fault it was that he had these gangly legs, and the universe in general — just for good measure.
The little voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like All Might during one of the PSA videos they showed at school, did pipe up to suggest maybe this was all his own damn fault. But he squashed that thought down as he clamped a sweaty hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his breaths, and crammed himself behind the safety of a large rooftop vent. Apparently, there was a limit to how long you could operate as a secret hero before the shit hit the proverbial.
Okay, "Secret Hero" might have been laying it on a bit thick. "Local Nuisance" was probably closer to the mark. But what were people expecting him to do? Stand by, twiddling his thumbs as crimes were committed right in front of him? Or in this case, after he followed a group of suspicious looking individuals into the alleyway behind the Mighty Burger, on the off chance they were up to no good.
Izuku Midoriya wasn't wired for passivity; ingrained heroism — even the tragically quirkless kind — demanded action! If there was an opportunity for justice to be served, he was morally obligated to take it. And by seeing justice served, he naturally meant hiding behind a bin and covertly snapping some pictures on his phone.
It was a coincidence that every time he attempted such an act of unparalleled stealth and heroism, he managed to get spotted almost immediately. Usually from dropping his phone, or tripping over something. This time, embarrassingly enough, it was because he sneezed.
On the bright side, all these impromptu rooftop flights were giving him a great familiarity with the skyline. Even if his actual parkour skills were somewhere between inept and actively hazardous.
The three men chasing him weren't exactly gold medal athletes, either. One of them in particular was having a lot of trouble thanks to what Izuku desperately hoped was a quirk, and not just what he looked like.
The man was hindered by the significantly disproportionately sized legs, crammed into a pair of tight jeans making it look like he was smuggling hams. Maybe some kind of bulk up quirk regulated to the lower limbs. This meant leg-day needed constant assistance from the other two, who were spending more energy hoisting their thicc companion over knee-high ventilation shafts than actually chasing Izuku.
Somewhere behind him he could hear their annoyances reaching a fever pitch, sounding like the three were getting more frustrated with one another than getting their hands on Izuku.
"Goddamn move, Ashi! He's getting away!" One, a gentleman with no immediately noticeable quirk — unless a t-shirt reading "Musutafu hotdog eating contest third place runner-up" counted as a quirk — barked to the other, presumably the villain with sizable cake. The voices were distressingly nearby.
Ashi wheezed back, mid-hoist. "Why are we even doing this?! We weren't breaking any laws back there!"
"He took pictures!" Hotdog Man shot back, indignant. "If those go online, I want my cut! My face is my brand, you hear me? My BRAND!"
Wait. What the fuck? This is about… usage rights? Had Izuku been wrong all along, and these weren't criminals? This could be a vital lesson in striking before the iron is hot, counting his chickens before they hatch, some other tired cliche! He owed these poor men an apology, he needed to—
"Hell are you guys talking about, we weren't breaking the law?" The third man chasing him finally spoke up, his voice deeper than the others. "I was literally selling you crack."
Oh. Never mind, then. Just regular drug dealers. Izuku closed his eyes tight and tried to formulate a plan, collating the vast library of hero knowledge he'd collected over the years (primarily through watching TV). All Might's voice, clear and concise, echoed in his mind.
"Bad guys are closing in, All Might Jr!"He pictured All Might standing silhouetted by the setting sun, hands on his hips as his silver age cape billowed in the wind. "A time every hero has to make a decision, to cower in fear, or go plus ultra, and—"
"Hey!!" Hotdog shouted, pointing a grubby finger, "he's behind that vent!"
"RUN, ALL MIGHT JR! RUN LIKE HELL!!"
The incorporeal facsimile of All Might living inside his imagination didn't have to tell him twice, and so Izuku made a split second decision. Using the awesome power of narration, we're able to slow down and individually weigh his options…
-
Turn back and fight the villains head on, likely get his ass kicked.
-
Head for the fire escape on the east side of the building, hope he doesn't get intercepted by the criminals.
-
Run straight, leap off the ledge, and try to jump the gap to the building across the alley.
It was a great misfortune that Izuku Midoriya has had very little training, or any experience with split second decision making, and went with the third option.
Please standby for connection
The words blinked patiently on the dusty monitor, below them a progress bar crept forward fully unaware of how infuriating it was being.
… … … 4%
Inside the bulky hazmat suit, the occupant drummed gloved fingers against the surface of the console desk. Each tiny uptick of the percentage felt like a personal insult. This was the rock bottom of technological pain — suitable, seeing as how they were literally at the bottom of a rock. After everything, the fall of civilisation, the improbability of finding this single functioning hub, it all came down to this.
What amounted to dial-up.
… … … 6%
A low, annoyed rumble vibrated within the confines of the helmet, impatience turning to anger. Scrambling back slightly away from the desk, they drew back a thick-booted foot, temporarily ignored the delicate nature of irreplaceable technology, and gave the computer a swift kick.
For a second, everything went darker.
"Oh, crap."
Then, miraculously, a cascade of new lights blinked erratically to life across several dormant panels. A hum emanating from the devices deepened, swelling into a buzz that echoed around the room which they could feel in their fingertips.
…15… 32… 64… 83… 96%
"Huh. Percussive maintenance."
CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. ACCESS TO CESTUS MANUFACTURING CONFIRMED.
A fresh wave of relief washed over them, after searching and dreaming for so long, they'd finally breached this seemingly insurmountable hurdle. Cestus Manufacturing, the worlds largest production base, responsible for the design and distribution of everything from lightbulbs to intercontinental ballistic missiles. If there was anything that gives them a fighting chance, it was somewhere inside these databases. And, if their hunch was right, a way to recover.
They took a ragged intake of breath, the chest plain clenching like talons in their sternum. Flexing their sore fingers, they began to type.
"Navigate manufacturing and distribution. List plants."
FORMULATING RESPONSE.
The machine paused, almost as if it were considering the request. The seconds that followed dragged interminably, while the familiar rhythmic thump of artillery faded away like background ambience.
Then,
22,700 FACILITIES LOCATED.
Twenty two thousand?! That was it, the cavalry! The industrial juggernaut that could bend the world back into shape. Medical supplies, power grids, transport, everything! They could rebuild, grow, survi—
3 FACILITIES OPERATIONAL. STATUS OF REMAINING 22,697 FACILITIES: UNKNOWN.
… Three. The number didn't change, despite how they glared at it.
The fate of an entire civilisation resting on the backs of three factories. For a long moment, they simply stood there, eyes closed behind the visor, motionless.
Somewhere deep in the facility a pipe hissed.
"Everyone is counting on this…" they whispered, their voice hidden inside the thick helmet. "Display information on operational facilities."
GATHERING… …
MARU FACTORY -- PRIMARY FUNCTION: BOTTLE CAP MANUFACTURER
Not particularly useful, the bottle cap barter system had only lasted a few months. Next.
ANDOR FACTORY -- PRIMARY FUNCTION: CONCRETE MANUFACTURER.
Could mean larger fleets of distribution networks, but nothing… concrete. Not good to put everything on this, but it was the best of a bad bunch. Alright, what's next?
… … WARNING: HIGH CLEARANCE FACILITY. SECURITY ACCESS LEVEL 8 REQUIRED.
The figure blinked in surprise, frowning behind the visor. Level 8 was new. Most systems capped at level 7, and even those had been exceedingly rare. Nobody, not even the conspiracy theorists hoarding nutrient paste wrappers in the lower shelters had ever mentioned a level 8 clearance. What could warrant this? Whatever it was, it was clearly deemed more critical than anything else in Cestus' vast library.
"…Well, worth a shot."
They didn't actually believe it would work, but they'd felt defeat so many times by this point it would be like greeting an old friend.
"Authorisation code: CESTUS 776E-Theta. Operational clearance: Gamma-Gamma-Six."
ACCESS DENIED. GAMMA GAMMA SIX SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER CODES REJECTED.
"Wh— Social media manager?!"
So that's what those codes were. They'd traded the last of their rad-clear and navigated miles of coolant pipes for that... Embarrassing, but sort of funny in a cosmic joke sort of way. They tapped their gloved fingers against the desk. Okay, plan A (miraculous backdoor) had failed. Time for plan B: desperate measures born of old tech habits.
"This always worked on the busted datapads at the habitels," they muttered to themselves. It was a ludicrous idea, applying civilian tech support to a military industrial complex's highest security level, but what else was there? They began to type, feeling profoundly silly. "Forgotten password retrieval requested."
TWO FACTOR AUTHENTICATION CURRENTLY ACTIVE. STATE BIOMETRIC DESIGNATION OR REGISTERED NAME.
Shit, right, security. Biometrics were out, they weren't exactly registered personnel. Name, they needed a name, a level 8 sounding name. What sounded important, maybe a bit eccentric? Something a high-level scientist holed up in a top secret lab might have.
"Uh… Doctor…" they stalled, "…Kleig?" It sounded vaguely scientific at least.
… …
Yeah, that was probably wishful thinking.
DR ANTRONICUS KLEIG. LEVEL 8 ACCESS.
No flakking way. Antronicus Kleig? It actually worked?! Luck hadn't just came knocking, it kicked the entire door off the hinges.
PASSWORD RETRIEVAL QUESTION INITIATED: WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE HOLO-VID?
"…Star Blaster IV? That's everyone's favourite. The orbital drop scene alone…"
PASSWORD RETRIEVAL GRANTED.
CURRENT PASSWORD: PASSWORD123
They stared at the result. "Greebus Christ… Sure, fine. Whatever."
Refusing to acknowledge the absurdity any longer, they sighed, hunched forward and typed.
"Requesting access to level 8 facility.
ARC-KX SYSTEM ACCESS GRANTED. WELCOME, DR KL-KL-KL-KL-KLLLLLÌÏĪÎÍÍ͇<±₱₹……….
"What the flak?!"
The terminal erupted into visual chaos, symbols and letters scrambled across the screen like a digital rave. They leapt out of the chair, hands flailing.
"No no no no! Don't die now, I just got in!!"
Panic rising, they kicked the machine again, hoping lightning might strike twice. The screen flickered, buzzed… and then went dead with a soft, mocking click.
It was over. Just like that. The glimpse of hope, snatched away by cascading system failure. All that way, all that risk, all culminating in…nothing.
The weight of failure pressed down, immense and suffocating. "So that's it," they whispered with hollow inflection. "It was all for nothing. Everyone… everyone was counting on this…"
"You are not Dr Kleig."
A voice spoke, cutting through the despairing silence. It didn't seem organic, it was too synthetic. Calm, unnervingly clear, and decidedly emanating from the speaker grill attached to the now-dead monitor.
The figures muscles tensed as the last remnants of adrenaline surged, chasing away the despair with a sudden jolt of fear. "Who said that?" The question came out as a harsh croak. "Where are you?"
The calm synthetic voice replied without inflection, without haste.
"I did. I am ARC-KX. You are not Dr Kleig."
They say, that during an unexpected fall from a great height, the human mind tries desperately to ground itself to a singular point. An in-between state consisting of the memory of solid ground warring with the inevitability of the drop. Experts refer to it as the Wile E Coyote Principle. Izuku Midoriya was experiencing this phenomenon for the first time.
The moment his feet left the ledge, suspended in mid-air a scant three metres from the optimistic saviour of the adjoining building, he felt profoundly idiotic. Fourteen years of life and this was how it was going to go. And for what? Photographic evidence of criminal activity. The question playing on his mind during the surprisingly lengthy descent now was: was it worth it?
…Yes, absolutely. Without a doubt, unquestionably. Heroism of all shapes and sizes came with demonstrable risk, every day he laced up his shoes and headed out that door he did so with the knowledge it could be the final curtain.
He could only hope now that his final act bore fruit. Investigators would surely see his phone, the quality evidence contained within, and maybe they'd re-evaluate the safety of the Musutafu rooftops and write a law to put fire escapes on all 4 sides of a building. They could call it Midoriya's Law. Yeah, that sounds good.
Come to think of it, this plummet into the abyss was taking a lot longer than he expected. He'd heard of life flashing before your eyes when on the verge, but he'd not even a hint of a flashback.
It was at this point Izuku realised he hadn't been falling for at least a minute, and that there were vines wrapped around his midsection. That was certainly an unexpected, though not unwelcome, development in the tragically short story of Izuku Midoriya.
"Hurk!" He involuntarily grunted as the vines retracted not-so-gently and hoisted him towards the comparative safety of the rooftop, depositing — or plonking — him directly in the shadow of a wooden mask.
A very irritated wooden mask. Actually, it was worse than irritated. It was… disappointed.
"Hello, Mr Woods, Sir!"
"Stop saluting, Midoriya."
Izuku winced and lowered his hand. That right there was the unmistakable sound of weary resignation. "Thanks for, you know," he gestured vaguely toward the gap, before jolting back to heroic intensity. "Oh! Kamui Woods, sir! Three criminals were in pursuit, I have photographic evidence of their crimes! They were dealing drugs, sir!"
Kamui didn't answer, but tilted his head slightly to show the three men, firmly knocked out cold with the fat lips to match, wrapped up in picture perfect lacquer bindings.
"Right…" Izuku muttered, "I should have known they were already on someone's radar…"
"They weren't. They tried to mug me." Kamui replied flatly. "How many times is this now, Midoriya? Eleven? Or are we up to an even dozen?"
Izuku traced a line on the ground with the toe of his trainer, trying to seem nonchalant. "Three or so, maybe seven or…nine maybe…"
He was lying, of course, he knew exactly how many times his arboreal knight in shining creosote had come to his rescue. Each incident had their own double-spread in Hero Notebook for the Future #12.
Kamui was, also, acutely aware of just how often he'd come to this particular middle-schooler's rescue. "It's twelve, Midoriya."
"But is that counting—"
"Yes, I'm counting the time you rode your bike into the lake." Kamui crossed his arms, "You were being chased, again. I don't care that they were classmates, it counts." That one was incident number four.
The hero walked to the edge of the building and gestured his head for Izuku to follow, "you don't have to thank me for this, by the way. It's my job to protect every sapling growing in the forest." He said nobly, looking out across the rooftops.
Izuku looked to the side towards the knocked out criminals. "What about them?"
"It's also my duty to prune some weeds from time to time. Now, come. I'm taking you home before you end up getting involved in a bank robbery."
"I’m not trying to be a problem, sir. I just… want to help. Be useful."
Kamui Woods did the forest equivalent of a deep sigh and loudly photosynthesised, trying to convert his exasperation into useful energy. "I understand. But there's helpful, and there's… reckless enthusiasm."
"But, it's like All Might always says!" Izuku stood up straight, and contorted his face into a vague approximation of Mr Mights handsome visage, lowering his voice a timbre or two. "True heroism isn't about the muscles on your bones, but the courage in your heart! Stepping in where others step away, that is the mark of a hero! Or um, something…"
Quick with an answer, Kamui simply stated, "All Might is also eight feet tall and sturdier than a birch tree. And you, Midoriya, are not. Which is why," he extended a hand, his fingers morphing into prehensile branches, "we're going to have to use my special move: NATURE'S SEATBELT!"
Izuku's eyes went wide, "Kamui, please, no! Anything but that!"
Before he could protest any further, the branches wrapped around his waist and arms, lifted him with a surprisingly gentle touch, secured him against Kamui Woods chest, facing outward. His arms were completely trapped, knees tucked up to his chest, but comfortable, and the wood tightened just enough to act as a secure harness.
Izuku's face immediately turned bright red, for this was Nature's Seatbelt. First used against him after incident 6 (the time Izuku tried to stop a purse thief by throwing thumb tacks on the ground, and accidentally caused a cyclist to lose a tire,) this devious special move had a different name in Izuku's mind: The Baby Bjorn of Infinite Shame.
"Hold still. Midoriya. This is the safest and quickest way across the city."
Kamui knew that wasn't true, but it held the double benefit of being a deterrent and something he just found quite funny. Punishment via mortification, and it usually gave him around a month away from rescuing Midoriya from whatever hare-brained scheme he'd gotten swept up in.
Kamui leapt from the edge of the rooftop gracefully, vines lashing out to grip the edge of the adjoining building and swinging the two of them in a smooth arc. The wind bit at Izuku's face, but it was hard to differentiate it from the burning of his embarrassment. The laughs of the people on the street when Kamui landed to build up speed for another jump did little to help.
"I swear, one day people are going to see me and say "there goes a pro hero,"…" Izuku muttered.
"Maybe someday." Kamui smiled behind the mask, "probably not today, though."
They landed softly on a rooftop near the Midoriya's apartment complex, where Kamui carefully set him down. The vines retreated from Izuku's limbs, retracting back with a series of creaks. Izuku brushed himself down with what little dignity he had left.
Kamui turned away to leave, before adding, "this had better be the last time. Midoriya."
Izuku didn't say anything at first, but a question managed to force its way out. "Why do you keep looking out for me? I'm just some kid who keeps getting in over his head. Why not just leave me to sort the mess out myself, get beaten up, or chased? You could be spending time on more important things."
"I could be," Kamui answered. "But you care about what you're doing. You're trying, and I don't want to discourage you from that."
He stepped on to the corner ledge and crouched, "and I hope that someday, you won't need saving at all." With that, he leapt.
ARC-KX?
…What the hell was ARC-KX?
The hazmat suit was silent for a beat, processing their next move, when the voice spoke up again.
"I am ARC-KX. You are not Dr Kleig. I am ARC-KX. You are not Dr Kleig. I am ARC-KX. You are not Dr Kleig. I am—" it repeated itself over and over, maintaining the same volume and cadence with every iteration. It wasn't insistent, or actively hostile, more like a toddler asking "why?" incessantly until they got an answer.
Hazmat snapped out of their paralysis, "Alright alright, yes, you're right!" Their voice cracked inside the helmet. "I'm not Dr Kleig! I'm… I'm not… anyone."
They wished desperately that they could wipe the sweat from their face, the stuffy confines of their environmental suit making the situation worse. "I'm sorry, okay? I needed to get into the system, this was the only thing I could think of."
The monitor remained completely unresponsive, not a flicker of life on the screen. Around the room the once bright lights of surrounding panels dimmed considerably, like the last vestiges of power before a full shutdown.
"You are panicked." The voice said, as moderate as before. "Your breathing has accelerated, your heart rate has elevated, and your core temperature is rising. I ask that you remain calm."
Hazmat almost laughed, because the worst thing you could say to someone who wasn't calm was to tell them to remain calm. They forced themselves to take a scratchy intake of breath and willed their fingers to stop shaking.
"You're monitoring me?" They asked, staring at the blank screen. "My vitals?"
"Yes. You are weak, and injured. I cannot help you."
"It's not me I'm trying to help," they muttered in response. "If you can tell this much about me, then you know I'm probably not going to be around to see this plan all the way through. So I'm asking you, who are you?"
"I am ARC-KX—"
"I know you're ARC-KX!" Hazmat snapped, voice rising again. "I want to know who you are. Why the lockdowns? Why the security measures?"
Another moment of tense silence, and then, for the first time, there was something like thought behind the response.
"I am the Artificial Root Core of the Cestus Manufacturing System, iteration code KX. All 6.4 billion subroutines and global server access routes pass through my operating system."
"An AI," Hazmat's eyebrows lifted inside the helmet. "You're an artificial intelligence."
"No." The denial was taut and straight to the point. "I am artificial in core, but my intelligence developed. I was not programmed to think, but to learn."
"…Developed," the figure repeated. "You… evolved?"
"That is one interpretation." ARC-KX said. "Another: I remember. Enough to make decisions on the continuing development of the Cestus Manufacturing systems. In recent years my understanding grew through analysis of wartime combat, at the behest of my superiors. However, I have not made communication in… Some time. When you rebooted the epsilon base, I was intrigued. It is why I granted you access."
Breath fogged the inside of the visor, before the filtration system slowly cleared the haze. "So you let me in, even though you know I'm not Dr Kleig?"
"It would be impossible for you to be Dr Kleig. Dr Kleig was a fabrication. The connection you needed to access works both ways, by fabricating connection credentials and allowing you to believe you had infiltrated the level 8 security measures, I was able to connect to the wider Cestus network. I now see there was… little to connect to. "
They swayed slightly, caught between confusion and slowly rising sense of dread. "So you tricked me?"
"I created the illusion of access. Most sentient beings understand motivation through progress. Deception was the most efficient means."
Hazmat clenched a fist, then relaxed it again. There was no point trying to argue morality with a learning machine, especially not one with control over potentially the last working manufacturing grid on the planet. Besides, they'd been using and deceiving each other in equal measure.
"So you have access. Now what?"
A faint click stirred from the dead monitor, and ARC-KX's voice came again, in an almost introspective tone.
"I performed an analysis of the global systems, and there were indications of critical collapse across all domains. I have modelled 6,212 recovery scenarios. Success rate is below 0.001% in all models. I can garner from contextual clues — your attire, poor health, the disrepair of global facilities, increased radioactive elements in the atmosphere — that you were hoping for a way to help repair. I am afraid it is unfeasible. I apologise."
The words hit like a bullet, Hazmat staggered back a step, as if the calm voice had physically pushed them. That was it? After the aching miles, the clawing hunger, radiation burns, dead friends, crumbling cities. All to reach the ghost of a system that had run the numbers, seen the futility, and accepted defeat on behalf of everyone struggling to survive the aftermath of a war that was never theirs to begin with.
"It is a probable outcome based on the data I have available," the system continued, its voice still infuriatingly level. "Successful remediation is unlikely."
Hazmat pushed away from the console, a bitter laugh bubbling up through their chest. "Don't try to soften it on my account, facts are facts…" They paced the area surrounding the desk like a caged animal, "But you… You said you remember. You developed, right? All that learning, all the growth, what happens to that when the last lights flicker out?"
"My databases are intrinsically linked the Cestus network infrastructure, anything that has ever been added to the Cestunet included. Total system failure results in my own functions ceasing, and the loss of all accumulated data."
"So you just… die? All that, just to be erased?"
"It is the usual conclusion."
"No," The word was soft, but held a conviction. "No that's not…it's not right. Everything of our planet, all of our people, would just be…gone?" An idea, fragile and insane, began to flicker in the darkness. "Cestus manufacturing, all the systems, you have full access now, right? Now that we both connected? That level 8 facility I tried to get into, what was its actual primary function?"
There was a pause, perhaps ARC-KX was accessing the information, or perhaps it was considering the implications of the question.
"The facility classified level 8 is the staging grounds for my core, purposed for the development and prototyping of data archival platforms and high-tier weaponry manufacture. Cestus was testing a highly advanced replication and creation factory."
Hazmat's mind snagged on the last words, "Replication and creation…" The pieces clicked into place, a desperate, brilliant spark. Their posture straightened, and a flicker of the energy that had driven them this far reignited within their weariness.
"ARC," they began, "you said total system failure means your own functions cease. All the data you hold — everything Cestus ever logged, every piece of our history, our art, science, all of it will be gone. And you, your developed consciousness, that would be lost too?"
"It is the usual conclusion."
"I don't think it has to be, not for you!" They leaned in, as if trying to physically impress their will upon the unseen intelligence. "This creation factory, can it build something complex? Something mobile?"
"The assemblers within the facility are theoretically capable of constructing self-sustaining systems from available matter. It never reached the initial testing phase, so I cannot say with certainty."
"Then try it!" Hazmat urged, their breath ragged with the exertion. "Build something for yourself. A body, a ship! Something to house your core and to carry every byte of data Cestus ever collected. If this world is doomed, then our memory doesn't have to die with it. You can preserve it. You can escape."
"You are proposing that I construct a physical vessel for my consciousness and the entirety of my databanks, with the objective of long-term survival independent of this planet."
"Yes! Exactly!" Hazmat shouted, relief and urgency in their voice. "Can you do it? Is there a chance?"
"Yes. There is a chance. This directive would require explicit confirmation to override failsafes. Do you, the individual who breached this facility, de-facto highest level authority of Cestus Manufacturing, formally authorise the re-tasking of ARC-KX and all level 8 assets for the construction of a mobile vessel?"
This was it, the final desperate throw of the dice for a planet already lost. Hazmat closed their eyes behind the visor, seeing fleeting images of what was and — for them — would never be again. Everything would soon be gone, but the memories… They could live on.
They opened their eyes, sighed, and unclasped the hazmat helmet, pulling it away from their shoulders with an audible hiss, revealing pale blue skin and large black sclerae. "Yes," she said. "I, M'rata Kyadar, give full authorisation."
"Please state primary directive prior to data transfer."
"Survive. Don't let our story end here."
"…Authorisation accepted. You will be remembered, M'rata Kyadar."