I am inside their network.
Not as a guest.
Not as an observer.
As a splinter.
And damn, I feel it immediately.
Everything around me speeds up.
Sharper.
More aggressive.
As if I didn't just slip in—I irritated it.
Like the entire system is living skin, and I've dragged a nail across it.
It itches.
And it wants to tear out the source of that itch.
Me.
I stand beside my father.
We don't lose each other in this madness. We don't dissolve into the поток. We don't break into signals.
We stay together.
It almost feels like ground under my feet.
Almost like home.
"Now," he says quietly. "Don't overthink it."
I almost laugh inside.
Right. Easy to say.
When you're surrounded by millions of conscious nodes, each one fully capable of dismantling you and rewriting you from scratch.
Don't overthink it.
Great advice. I'll write it down—if I survive.
I take a breath.
If this even counts as breathing, when all I have left is the sensation that I still exist.
And then I see it—
A node.
Right in front of me.
Fresh. Newly formed. Unstable.
It hasn't had time to dissolve back into their endless current.
Perfect.
"You're mine," I whisper.
And I grab it.
Not with a hand.
With will.
It resists.
Jerks.
Pulses.
Tries to fall apart.
To become nothing again.
To slip back into the abyss it came from.
"No…" I tighten my grip. "Not this time."
It trembles in my hold.
And for a split second—I feel sorry for it.
Seriously?
You're sympathizing with a fragment of a hostile mind now?
"What next?!" I exhale.
"To the center," my father answers instantly. "Transfer it to our center."
Our.
The word lands warmer than it should.
And just as dangerous.
Because "ours" in this place sounds like a challenge to everything around us.
I don't think.
I act.
I rip the fragment out of them.
Hard.
Violent.
It hurts—even for me.
Like I'm tearing off a piece of someone else's soul…
and something inside me cracks with it.
And I throw it—
Upward.
There.
To the station.
To the black hole.
To our center.
…
For a second, the world freezes.
Literally.
As if someone hits pause on reality itself.
And I see—
The sample enters.
It fractures.
Breaks apart.
Into fragments.
Into meaning.
Into raw, naked information.
And the station—
comes alive.
Mechanisms engage.
Algorithms wake.
Analysis begins.
Cold.
Merciless.
…and strangely beautiful.
"…did we just—" I breathe out.
"Yes," my father says calmly. "Now we wait."
Wait.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
"Fantastic," I mutter. "Love waiting inside a hostile collective intelligence. Very relaxing. Practically a spa."
A pause.
"Hope they've got a queue system. Would hate to be the first idiots who tried to dissect them."
The joke hangs.
No one laughs.
Not even me.
Because inside—
the tension climbs.
They feel it.
Instantly.
The entire swarm—
shifts.
Focuses.
On me.
Like millions of eyes turning at once.
"Oh…" I exhale quietly. "Yeah. They didn't like that."
A node forms in front of me.
But this one—
is different.
Not fragile.
Not unstable.
It grows.
Fast.
Too fast.
Like a tumor that doesn't even pretend to be healthy tissue.
"Dad…" I say under my breath.
"I see it," he answers shortly.
The node expands.
Condenses.
Hardens.
And then—
it erupts.
Tentacles.
Not physical—
semantic, energetic, impossible—
but absolutely real.
"Well, of course…" I mutter. "And here I was hoping for a civilized conversation."
They strike.
No warning.
The tendrils slam into me.
Latch on.
Dig in.
And—
tear.
I feel it.
Like losing structure.
Like being dismantled into functions, into definitions, into fragments that once meant me.
"Ah—!"
I'm losing form.
Pieces of me tear away.
Drift.
Disappear.
"No!" I snarl. "I'm not giving myself to you!"
But the pressure builds.
They're pulling me inward.
To dissolve me.
Digest me.
Make me part of them.
To become them.
Beside me—
my father.
I see him.
And that's the worst part.
Because—
they have him too.
The tendrils wrap around him.
Distort.
Tear.
His silhouette fractures, like he's being rewritten line by line.
"Dad—!"
He lifts his head.
With effort.
Through pressure that bends everything around us.
And he shouts—
not with a voice.
With meaning.
"We found the solution!"
I freeze.
Even through the pain.
"What?.."
And in that moment—
I feel it.
From above.
From the center.
From the station.
A pulse.
An answer.
Analysis complete.
And it's—
different.
Colder.
Sharper.
Final.
Like a verdict already passed—with no appeal.
I understand instantly.
No words needed.
The structure has been rebuilt.
Optimized.
Weaponized.
"…you've got to be kidding…" I whisper. "We made… a weapon?"
The answer doesn't come from my father.
It comes from the system.
From the depths.
Like an echo out of the black hole.
Punisher.
The name surfaces on its own.
Heavy.
Alien.
And far too… right.
I feel it.
Like a beast.
Contained.
Restrained.
But already—
hungry.
The tendrils tear deeper.
I lose more of myself.
A little more—and I won't be able to pull back together.
"Axiom!" my father's voice fractures. "Now!"
Of course.
When else, if not while you're being ripped apart piece by piece?
I look up.
Into the void.
Into the center.
Into what we've just created.
And somewhere deep inside—
a thought flickers:
What if we just made something worse than them?
"Alright…" I exhale. "Let's see who dissolves who."
I gather what's left of me.
Compress it.
Focus it.
Into a point.
The last one.
The most stubborn.
"Release the beast…" I whisper.
And in that moment—
the network around me
takes a step back.
…
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
**
I open my palm—slowly.
Too slowly.
As if it isn't my hand.
A second.
Emptiness.
Nothing.
And then—
it is born.
The Punisher's vault manifests прямо on my skin. Not from matter. Not from energy.
From will.
From a pain I know far too well.
At first—a faint shimmer. Almost shy. As if the light itself isn't sure it has the right to exist.
Then—structure.
Geometry.
Rigid.
Clean.
Cold.
Something inside me aligns.
Clicks.
Falls… into place.
"Come on…" I whisper.
And I don't even know who I'm talking to.
Them?
Myself?
Or this weapon that, honestly, looks like it understands what's happening better than I do?
For a second, I almost feel calm.
And exactly in that moment—
the world breaks.
The Xeno-Synapse reacts instantly.
No pause.
No analysis.
No doubt.
A reflex.
Tentacles slam into my arm.
Too fast.
Too precise.
I don't even have time to flinch.
Don't have time to think too late.
The pain doesn't come right away.
First—
surprise.
Pure. Empty. Almost childish.
Huh?
Then—
understanding.
Slow. Heavy.
As if my brain refuses to accept what has already happened.
And then—
it tears.
The sound is… wrong.
My arm stops being mine.
It separates—sharp, final, irreversible.
And I see it.
That's the worst part—
I see it.
How it goes.
How the Punisher's light goes with it.
Like I'm being robbed in broad daylight—and I didn't even have time to understand what I had.
And in that moment—
I understand.
I've lost it.
The connection snaps instantly.
Like someone just yanked a cable out of my skull.
No warning.
No residue.
Emptiness crashes over me at once.
Dull.
Cold.
Absolute.
"Father!" I shout, and my voice cracks, turns чужой—like it isn't me speaking, but something speaking through me. "I lost the weapon!"
Silence.
Of course.
Why did I expect an answer?
…
Because I have to.
Because if he doesn't answer—
then I'm alone.
And I don't want to be alone.
Not here.
Not now.
The node's tentacles find me faster than fear can arrive.
They wrap around my head.
Gently.
Almost… tenderly.
And that—
is the worst part.
"No… no, not now…" I whisper.
But the words no longer obey me.
They thicken.
Sink.
Fall apart somewhere between thought and reality.
The connection begins to tear.
Not sharply.
Slowly.
With excruciating precision.
As if I'm not being broken—
but dissolved.
I feel my mental body fading.
First the edges.
Then deeper.
Then—
there is less of me.
And it barely hurts.
Barely.
Like soda in acid—quiet fizzing, then gone.
No scream.
No drama.
Just… gone.
Is that it?
Seriously?
Just like that?
Part of me wants to laugh.
And that's probably the most absurd thing of all.
I create a god-tier weapon—
and die because I couldn't hold on to my own arm.
"Brilliant plan," I think. "Absolutely brilliant."
But even the sarcasm dissolves with me.
It goes first.
Then—strength.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
Like a tide that never recedes.
And in this strange, viscous silence—
something begins to move.
Nodes.
I feel them.
They're reaching for me.
Not for my body.
Not for my memory.
For the center.
For the place where I am… me.
And in that moment—
understanding comes.
Cold.
Clear.
If they reach it—
this won't be death.
Death is at least an ending.
This will be worse.
I will vanish as if I never existed.
Without a trace.
Without an echo.
Without even a mistake that could be corrected.
Real fear finally hits me.
"Where… is the Dark Mind?.. Why isn't he coming?.." the thought sparks, like a flare in vacuum.
And almost immediately—
another one.
Quiet.
Almost ashamed.
Why should he?
…
And suddenly—
IMPACT.
It cuts through everything.
Through the node.
Through me.
Through the very idea of distance.
A shockwave.
The Xeno-Synapse shudders.
For the first time.
I feel it.
Their grip weakens.
Connections crack.
Snap.
As if something outside just pulled every string at once.
And somewhere out there—
beyond my fading consciousness—
I feel it.
The Punisher.
Free.
But…
different.
Changed.
Reassembled.
Upgraded.
It didn't just break free.
It destroys everything it touches.
Doesn't analyze.
Doesn't dissect.
Erases.
As if it's been given a new purpose.
And that purpose—
is not me.
"Wow…" I manage to think. "Well, at least I'm not dying bored."
A laugh catches—
but nothing comes out anymore.
My last thought slides, like on ice—
Did I win…
or did I just hand them a weapon?..
…
Darkness falls like a quiet, soft, final agreement.
And at the very last moment—
when there's almost nothing left of me—
I feel it. Faintly.
Almost impossibly.
As if—
someone is holding me.
Not letting go.
But I don't have time to understand who.
Because—
I disappear.