We stepped through the shimmering veil, and the world changed. The chaotic, glitching tunnels of the Undercroft, with their oppressive darkness and the constant whisper of dying data, gave way to the impossible, silent grandeur of The Archivist's library. The transition was instantaneous and jarring. One moment we were in a sewer of corrupted code; the next, a cathedral of pure information.
The endless, circular shelves stretched up into an infinite, starless darkness, each one filled with billions of glowing, crystalline data-cores. Each crystal pulsed with a soft, internal light—blue, green, gold, red—a silent heartbeat containing a single, stolen secret. This was The Archivist's hoard. The repository of a million forgotten lives, a million erased memories. The weight of all that stolen knowledge was a physical pressure in the room.
In the very center of the vast, circular space, on its simple, throne-like chair made of the same non-reflective black material as the shelves, sat The Archivist. Its form was a mesmerizing, constantly shifting kaleidoscope of light and complex, flowing geometry. It was a living equation, a being of pure data. It had no face, no limbs, but I could feel its immense, ancient consciousness focus entirely on us the moment we entered its domain.
[The Marked Man returns,] its voice resonated from all directions at once, a calm, multi-layered chorus of a thousand voices speaking in perfect, chilling unison. [You are damaged. Your systems are offline. Your companion is crippled. You have come back for another cure? Another trade for a piece of your fractured past?]
"No," I said, my voice steady, echoing in the vast, silent library. It felt stronger than it had before, stripped of the desperation that had defined our last meeting. I did not approach the throne. I stood my ground near the entrance, a defiant figure in the heart of its power. Anya stood beside me, leaning on me for support, her hand resting on the pistol at her hip, a silent, grim-faced guard. "I'm not here to trade for a cure. I'm here for answers."
[All answers are information,] The Archivist replied, its form shimmering with a soft, placid blue light. It was projecting calm, an almost bored superiority. [And all information in my library has a price. You know my currency. A unique experience. A memory.]
"I remember the deal," I said, my voice hard as stone. "But things have changed. You didn't just give me a cure last time. You made another deal. A deal with him. With the Ghost. With Sergeant Ben Carter."
At the mention of the name—the real name from the real world—The Archivist's form flickered for a fraction of a second. The placid blue light shifted to a colder, more analytical white. It was the digital equivalent of a raised eyebrow, a subtle but undeniable sign of surprise. It was surprised that I knew. That a mere player could possess a piece of information that it thought was solely its own.
[The data-form you refer to as 'Ghost' did indeed enter into a contract,] it confirmed, its voice still placid, but with a new, sharper edge to it. [Its service as an Enforcer in exchange for the delivery of a single data packet to you upon its termination. An elegant, if sentimental, transaction. It has been fulfilled. My obligations to that entity are complete.]
"It's not enough," I said, taking a single, deliberate step forward. Anya's grip tightened on my arm, a silent warning, but I ignored it. "You didn't just give him a host. You had a client. Someone hired you to turn a trapped, human soul into a personal assassin. Who was it? Who wanted me hunted by my own best friend?"
The Archivist was silent for a long moment. The library, which had felt vast and neutral, now felt like a courtroom, and I was on trial. The light of its form shifted again, this time to a deep, cautionary crimson, the color of a system warning. [That information is part of another transaction. It is confidential. To reveal the identity of a client would be a breach of contract. A violation of the very principles upon which this library is built. I am a broker. My reputation for discretion is my most valuable asset.]
"Then make a new contract," I challenged, my voice ringing with a confidence I didn't know I possessed. "With me. You trade in secrets. And I have secrets you don't. Secrets from the real world. From before the crash."
This was my gambit. My only gambit. I was betting that its hunger for new, unique information—for data that didn't already exist somewhere in its hoard—would outweigh its loyalty to an old client.
[You offer memories,] The Archivist stated, its voice flat, analytical. [This is my currency. I have already sampled your memories, Marked Man. A memory of professional pride. A memory of love. A memory of regret. What memory could you possibly possess that is equal in value to the identity of one of my patrons?]
"I was a soldier in the United States Army Special Forces," I said, my voice clear and strong. I stood straighter, the muscle memory of my old posture returning unbidden. "I have memories of classified operations. Mission briefings. Intelligence reports on experimental military technology. Things that never made it onto the public network. Things your data probes and system crawlers could never have reached. I'm offering you information that exists nowhere else in this entire system. True, original data from a world you can only observe."
The Archivist's form began to shimmer violently, its colors shifting rapidly through the spectrum—red, yellow, green, purple. It was processing, analyzing, calculating at a speed I couldn't comprehend. It was intrigued. The digital dragon was stirring, smelling a new kind of treasure for its hoard, something rare and priceless.
[Your offer is… compelling,] it finally resonated, its voice holding a new tone, one of sharp, acquisitive interest. The predator had seen its prey. [A memory of a classified military operation. Data on pre-crash military hardware and tactics. The potential value is... high.] It paused, its form coalescing from the chaotic storm of colors into a stable, brilliant golden light. It was the color of wealth. The color of a deal about to be struck. [Very well. I will consider this trade. But the price for betraying a client's trust is steep. A simple memory will not suffice.]
A new kind of dread washed over me, colder than the fear I had felt facing the Enforcer. It was going to ask for something more. Something worse.
[To break one contract, I must forge a new one of greater significance,] The Archivist explained, its voice now laced with the smug satisfaction of a merchant who knows they have a customer cornered. [I will not take a memory from you this time, Marked Man. The past is finite. The future, however... the future is a tapestry of infinite possibilities. I will take a piece of your future. I will take a skill. One you have not yet learned.]