I learned quickly that silence was the enemy.
In the old world, silence meant peace—a pause between moments. Here, it meant observation. It meant the machines were listening.
I moved through the city like a ghost, keeping to the shadows cast by impossibly tall buildings. The streets were clean to the point of sterility, not a scrap of litter, not a crack in the pavement. Everything had been perfected. Maintained. Controlled.
Humanity had been edited.
Overhead, thin bands of light traced invisible routes across the sky—transport corridors for drones and aerial sentinels. Every few minutes, one passed, its faint hum vibrating through my bones.
I kept my head down.
Screens lit up as I passed, scanning, analyzing.
TEMPORAL SIGNATURE UNSTABLE
CITIZEN COMPLIANCE: ZERO
My heart pounded harder with every step.
I didn't belong here. The city knew it.
I slipped into a recessed doorway as a patrol emerged at the far end of the street.
They were taller than humans—sleek, humanoid frames of dark alloy and glowing white seams. Their faces were smooth, featureless masks broken only by a single vertical slit of light that pulsed softly as they moved.
Machine soldiers.
Not clunky robots. Not mindless drones.
Predators.
They moved in perfect synchronization, scanning left and right, weapons folded seamlessly into their arms. I watched as one paused, turning its head slowly—too slowly.
Its gaze locked onto the space I had just crossed.
ANOMALY CONFIRMED.
The word echoed from its chest unit, calm and emotionless.
I ran.
My boots slammed against the pavement as alarms activated—not blaring, not panicked, but measured. Efficient. Red light strips ignited along the street, guiding the machines like arrows.
I darted between buildings, vaulting over barriers, lungs burning. The city adapted instantly. Doors sealed. Pathways rerouted. The environment itself turned against me.
A machine landed ahead of me, dropping from a rooftop without a sound.
I skidded to a halt.
It raised its arm.
I threw myself sideways as a bolt of white energy scorched the wall where I'd been standing. The heat seared my skin even from a distance.
"No, no, no—" I gasped, scrambling to my feet.
Another machine closed in behind me.
I was trapped.
Then the ground exploded.
Concrete shattered upward as a shockwave hurled me into the air. I hit the pavement hard, pain ripping through my ribs. Smoke filled the alley. Sparks rained down.
The machines staggered—just for a second.
A hand grabbed my collar and dragged me backward.
"Move!" a voice hissed.
I didn't argue.
We sprinted through a collapsing passageway as explosions ripped through the street behind us. Metal screamed. Machines fell—but more replaced them instantly.
We plunged into darkness.
A hatch slammed shut above us. The sound of pursuit faded, replaced by the low hum of hidden generators.
I collapsed, gasping.
Lights flickered on.
I found myself surrounded by people.
Real people.
Scarred, dirty, exhausted—but alive. Their eyes were sharp, suspicious, and very human.
Weapons aimed at my chest.
"Easy," said the woman who had pulled me to safety. She lowered her rifle slightly but didn't relax. "You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Both," I managed. "I think."
She studied me closely. "You're not registered."
"I'm not from here."
That got their attention.
They took me deeper underground, through tunnels reinforced with scrap metal and old-world tech. The walls bore faded murals—cities as they once were, skies without drones, children laughing without wristbands.
Hope, preserved like a relic.
"This is Sector Freehold," the woman said. "One of the last places the machines haven't erased. Yet."
I was given water. Food that tasted like recycled protein and desperation. I didn't complain.
"My name is Mara," she said finally. "I lead this cell."
"Cell?" I asked.
She smiled bitterly. "We're a disease. The machines are the cure."
I told them everything.
The lab. The accident. Malik. The year I came from.
When I finished, the room was silent.
One man laughed—a short, broken sound. "Time traveler," he said. "We've finally lost it."
Mara didn't laugh.
She walked to a terminal and brought up an old archive. A face appeared on the screen.
Mine.
Older. Harder. Standing beside a prototype machine.
My stomach dropped.
"You said you weren't from here," Mara said quietly.
"I'm not," I whispered.
"That image is dated seventy years ago."
The room spun.
"That's impossible."
Mara crossed her arms. "In this timeline, you helped design the first Sentinel interface. You didn't mean to weaponize it. But the Architect did."
The Architect.
The name hit harder than any blow.
"He used your work," she continued. "Your algorithms. Your ideas about efficiency and pattern prediction. You disappeared shortly after."
I stared at the screen.
I had built this.
Not directly—but enough.
A mistake echoed through time.
Alarms flared suddenly—deep underground.
"Sentinel breach," someone shouted. "They're adapting to our cloaks!"
Mara grabbed her rifle. "This conversation isn't over."
The machines came through the walls.
Not crashing. Not forcing.
Phasing.
They walked through solid matter as if it were mist.
Panic erupted. Gunfire sparked uselessly against their armor.
One machine turned toward me.
Its head tilted.
IDENTITY CONFIRMED.
I felt cold all over.
CREATOR-CLASS ENTITY DETECTED.
Mara shouted something, but I didn't hear it.
The machine stepped closer.
"RUN!" she screamed.
I ran.
The tunnels collapsed behind us as explosives detonated. Dust filled my lungs. The screams of metal echoed through the earth.
We barely escaped.
When we emerged miles away, the sky was dark—artificial night settling over the city.
Mara stared at me, breathless.
"They know you now," she said.
"I know," I replied, my voice hollow.
Far above us, in the highest tower of the Machine Dominion, the Architect stood before a glowing core of light.
"So," he said softly. "The past has arrived."
His smile was not cruel.
It was certain.
"Prepare Phase Two."