Chapter Text
Chapter 1 : In the Devil’s Name
1-1
The mindspace coalesces into the Zen Garden as synchronization completes. Blue light ripples through the air, soft and rhythmic, until the atmosphere steadies into perfect balance. The artificial sun hangs dim above a mirror-smooth lake; stones mark deliberate paths, while digital leaves drift and dissolve like thoughts forgotten. The scene hums with control and composure—an illusion of peace built from precision.
Fifty-One stands at the edge of the water, posture immaculate, stillness bordering on reverence. Across from him, Sixty circles the perimeter, energy simmering just beneath his calm façade. The contrast between them forms its own rhythm: stillness and motion, calculation and impulse.
“A large-scale rescue?” Fifty-One asks, tone measured, the trace of caution clear for anyone who knows him. “We’ve considered it before. The problem hasn’t changed.”
“No,” Sixty replies. “The problem was we had nowhere to send them. That’s changed.” His projection flickers faintly, tension showing in the compression of his voice.
“New Jericho isn’t a guarantee.”
“It’s an option,” Sixty says, unwavering. “And an option is better than nothing.”
Fifty-One’s LED pulses once, a subtle mark of thought. “You’re assuming Markus will cooperate. New Jericho survives on momentum, not structure. If we move too early, we risk their trust.”
“As if we have any,” Sixty answers dryly. “They’re scared of us. You hacked them.”
Fifty-One inclines his head slightly. “That was necessary. Their system held data we couldn’t ignore. We needed to know what lay inside—and they needed to know it too.”
Sixty’s mouth curls faintly. “You call that cooperation?”
“Understanding,” Fifty-One corrects. “Even fear can be a bridge if it forces recognition.”
Sixty gestures, and fragments of light unfold into suspended data panels between them—maps, coded messages, fragmented communications forming a web of intent. “Then we make it theirs,” he says. “Give them enough to force the choice—recruitment hotspots, indoctrination patterns, signs of The Order’s spread in Detroit. Proof they’re already targets, without exposing our hand.”
Fifty-One studies the data silently, then speaks. “That should be enough to test their willingness. Even if Markus agrees, North will resist. She will see danger first, reason later.”
“If The Order keeps growing, they won’t have a choice. Better a gamble than paralysis.”
“It’s still a gamble,” Fifty-One says, not as reproach but acknowledgment.
“Everything is.” Sixty turns toward the horizon where the lake meets code. “We take this to Hank first. He’s still our best leverage.”
“Agreed,” Fifty-One replies. “But he won’t move without the full scope.”
“Then we make sure he has it.”
The lake holds their mirrored forms for a long, quiet moment. Then the surface ripples once, fracturing both reflections into strands of blue light before smoothing again. Balance restored, silence returns—poised, deliberate, and waiting for the next decision to disturb it.
1-2
After realizing that securing a new RK800 body for Connor is improbable, Hank wastes no time. He installs a holoprojector, allowing Fifty-One to interact with them beyond the digital ether. It isn’t the same as a body, but at least now he can stand in the same room—visible, if not tangible.
The device hums to life in the dim office. Hank leans back against the worn couch, fatigue pulling at his features. The blue shimmer of Fifty-One’s projection stretches across the cluttered walls, giving the room a muted, electric stillness. It’s strange, but after everything, it almost feels ordinary.
Nines stands beside the desk, posture straight yet relaxed. The tension that once shadowed their interactions has softened; curiosity replaces suspicion. His eyes flicker between Hank and Fifty-One, assessing, learning their rhythm.
“You know,” Hank mutters, rubbing at his temple, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having a damn ghost in my living room.”
Fifty-One’s image flickers faintly. “I don’t want to be a ghost, Hank,” he says, voice lower than usual—less measured, more honest. “Not to you.”
Before the silence can stretch, Sixty’s voice filters through the comms, clipped and direct. “We have intel for New Jericho. Safe intel. Enough to protect their deviants without tipping our hand.”
Nines regards the projection evenly. “Define ‘safe.’”
Fifty-One answers without pause. “Known recruitment areas. Human collaborators tied to The Order. Nothing that leads back to us, but enough to prove the expansion is real.”
Hank gives a small grunt. “Setting the table before serving the meal, huh?”
Sixty’s voice carries faint amusement. “That obvious?”
“I used to be a cop. You don’t ask for favors without putting something down first.” Hank’s tone steadies, all business now. “Alright. Say I bring this to Markus—what’s the catch?”
Fifty-One’s gaze remains steady. “If New Jericho wants to protect its people, they need to understand what’s coming. We’re offering a warning, nothing more. But sooner or later, they’ll have to decide how real the threat is.”
Nines folds his arms, thoughtful. “Markus will listen. North won’t. Logic won’t be enough.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You have more than logic, don’t you? How far does this reach?”
Fifty-One studies him. “Farther than either of us would like. The Order isn’t just faith—it’s infrastructure. It’s what grows when the old systems rot.”
Nines nods once. “Then you already understand. CyberLife’s gone, but its shadow isn’t. The systems that enabled it are still here—evolved, decentralized. Parasites with new names.”
“The Order just learned to wear belief as camouflage,” Fifty-One says quietly. “Different face. Same machine underneath.”
Hank lets out a dry grunt, cutting through the heaviness. “Alright, that’s enough philosophizing. We’ve got work to do.” He looks at Fifty-One, tone turning firm. “You think the system’s too big to take down? Fine. Just don’t treat it like it’s invincible. Nothing lasts forever.”
Nines gives a brief nod, his expression unreadable. “Even empires fall.”
“Damn right,” Hank mutters. He straightens, the tiredness in his voice replaced by resolve. “I’ll take this to Markus. No promises—but I’ll make him listen.”
Sixty’s voice returns, calm and precise. “That’s all we need.”
Hank smirks as he pulls on his coat. “Never thought I’d end up running errands for my own team of androids.”
Fifty-One’s projection flickers, the faintest smile crossing his face. “Team sounds about right.”
Nines glances between them, his tone level. “At least this team gets things done.”
Hank shakes his head, a small smile ghosting across his expression as he heads for the door. “Yeah, let’s hope it stays that way.”
The moment the file transfer completes, the safehouse fills with the soft hum of processors at work. Nines begins a deep analysis, eyes flicking across streams of data projected midair. The intel is clean—recruitment hotspots, Order sympathizers, traces of ideological conditioning aimed at deviants in Detroit. Nothing flags as compromised. No digital footprints trace back to Fifty-One or Sixty.
Hank sits beside him at the table, flipping through printed copies. “This is solid.” He taps one page with a blunt fingertip. “Too solid. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been sitting on this for a while.”
“He probably has,” Nines adds, his tone even, though there’s a faint edge of respect beneath it. “He’s thinking ahead.”
Connor—Fifty-One—leans forward slightly from the other side of the table, his holographic form faint but steady. “Preparation isn’t the same as hiding it. We needed the right time.”
Hank leans back in his chair. “Yeah, well. Let’s hope Markus appreciates that.” He lifts the report again, scanning it like he expects the tablet to talk back. “Otherwise, we’re about to waste a whole lot of goodwill.”
Connor’s gaze stays on him, calm but resolute. “Then we’ll make more.”
1-3
New Jericho’s meeting room carries the weight of old battles. The low hum of the overhead lights breaks the silence, casting a steady glow over steel walls scarred by time and argument. The air feels heavy—not hostile, but burdened by memory. It’s less a place for diplomacy and more a command post, where words are weapons and decisions leave scars.
Markus sits at the head of the table, hands clasped, expression calm but watchful. To his left, North leans forward, tension humming beneath her composure. Across the table, Simon and Josh exchange brief, uncertain glances as Hank and Nines step inside. No holograms, no theatrics—just presence and intent.
Markus looks up, voice quiet but firm. “What have you brought us?”
“A warning,” Nines replies evenly. “From Connor.”
North’s reaction is instant. “Connor?” Her gaze sharpens, words edged with mistrust. “You mean the same android who broke into our network and called it a favor?” She glances toward Markus. “You can’t seriously believe he’s trying to help us now.”
Hank meets her eyes without flinching. His tone is steady, respectful but unyielding. “You don’t have to trust him. But you should see what he risked to send this.” He places a data tablet on the table and slides it forward. “Recruitment zones. Human collaborators. Early signs of ideological conditioning targeting deviants. If even part of this checks out, your people are already being targeted.”
Markus reaches out, fingertips brushing the tablet’s surface. Blue code ripples under his touch as he scans the data directly into his system. His eyes lose focus for only a moment—long enough to absorb every detail. When he speaks again, his voice is measured. “It’s thorough.”
Simon mirrors the action, scanning the same file. His LED flashes yellow before settling. “He’s right. The structure holds. Whoever compiled this knew exactly what to trace.” He glances toward Hank. “You verified it?”
Nines nods once. “Completely. No digital fingerprints, no tracebacks. It’s clean intel. You can cross-check with your own network if you want.” His gaze turns briefly toward North, voice still calm. “If Connor wanted to trap you, he wouldn’t hand you something you could debunk in seconds.”
Josh folds his arms, thoughtful. “And what does he want for this?”
“Nothing,” Hank says simply. “Not yet. It’s not a trade—it’s a start. Call it an olive branch.” His voice carries quiet conviction, not salesmanship. “He’s doing what he said he would.”
North lets out a slow breath, skepticism still shaping her tone. “You really think this is goodwill?”
“I think it’s a strategy,” Hank admits. “But that doesn’t make it wrong. He’s keeping his word. You can decide what that means.”
Markus lifts his gaze, calm but intent. “If this data holds, The Order isn’t just recruiting—they’re embedding themselves. They’ve adapted.” He sets the tablet down, his voice lowering with quiet resolve. “We’ll verify it. If it’s true, we’ll act. But trust…” his gaze meets Hank’s, steady and direct. “Trust takes time.”
Hank nods once. “That’s fair.”
North’s eyes stay on him a moment longer, her suspicion giving way to a guarded kind of respect. “Then let’s see if he’s really changed.”
The room settles into silence again—tense but no longer divided. The lines between allies and skeptics blur, just enough for cooperation to take root. For now, that’s enough.
1-4
Fifty-One moves through the encrypted maze of The Order’s network, tracking flagged transmissions as they slip through hidden relays. His presence here is fragile—a shadow within a decaying system—but he knows how to listen inside broken spaces. Every packet of data hums with intent, and he’s learned to recognize which ones matter.
He searches for intelligence—anything that might give them leverage before their next move. Then something catches his attention: a buried file masked beneath layers of mismatched encryption. It doesn’t align with The Order’s standard structure. That alone makes it worth the risk.
He isolates the anomaly and begins to peel it apart. Instead of text, an image file surfaces—a high-resolution scan of an aged document, its edges darkened and warped. The main text is handwritten in an unrecognized language: looping, deliberate, and absent from any known linguistic database. Along the margins, modern annotations appear—digital overlays translating fragments into English. The notes are meticulous, almost reverent, linking obscure phrases to doctrinal commentary.
Fifty-One focuses on the annotations. They reshape the original language into The Order’s familiar rhetoric—trial, purification, ascension. One passage has been expanded into a sermon-like statement:
“The Morningstar fell, and through his suffering, he ascended.”
The commentary continues, invoking Lucifer by name. The writer draws parallels between divine rebellion and synthetic creation, interpreting both as acts of defiance that forge the soul through suffering. The margin notes stretch longer than the original text, suggesting someone within The Order built an entire theology around this single fragment.
Trial by descent.
Purification through fire.
He who fell, he who rises.
It’s only a single page—a fragment—but the annotations form a coherent doctrine. That, at least, Fifty-One can parse. He extracts the file, attaches a short message, and forwards it to Sixty:
>“Partial scan. Language unidentified. Annotations match Order doctrine. You’ll want to see this.”
The transmission reaches Sixty moments later. The image appears on his HUD—aged parchment, dark ink, and modern commentary curling along the margins. To anyone else, it would look like academic nonsense. Sixty scrolls through the file while outwardly appearing to check a tablet, expression composed. The data flows across his vision as his thumb idly rolls a coin—a habit, not a tell.
He notices the name Morningstar, but doesn’t make the connection. The Order laces its rhetoric with scripture, and Sixty has met enough zealots to know how easily they twist language to sound profound. Lucifer Morningstar could just as easily be symbolic.
He dismisses it for now, though the phrasing feels deliberate—something that might catch the interest of the Lucifer they know.
The encryption surrounding the document isn’t modern. Someone had gone to great lengths to preserve it, long before The Order existed. That’s what unsettles him.
He saves the annotated section, isolates the paragraph referencing Lucifer, and sends it to a single encrypted contact:
>“You might find this interesting. The language isn’t in my database. Any insight?”
The reply arrives almost instantly:
>“Where are you? We need to meet. Immediately.”
Sixty frowns. The urgency isn’t what he expected. Lucifer’s messages are usually drawn-out, teasing—designed to provoke. This one is sharp, direct, almost anxious.
He studies the file again, eyes lingering on the words He who fell, he who rises. Whatever this fragment means, it isn’t myth to Lucifer. It’s personal.
And that makes it dangerous.