Serpentweed stained his spectacles emerald in twilight. The colony-scale signal weaver ⅛ replica transmitted not maps, news decreesorslads–chronographs – *experiences recorded live when touched-linked*—felt grainy for many times cycles – an inherent bottleneck rendering accuracy abysம possible due only too-constant interruption attempts for localized memories. He adjusted the focusing ring, a stubborn click echoing in the cavernous workshop. Dust motes danced in the beam of his headlamp, a silent ballet around the intricate gears and polished brass of the machine.
He needed to isolate the source of the interference, a persistent static that clawed at the edges of retrieved memories. It wasn’t supposed to happen. The Weaver, a marvel of salvaged tech and obsessive tinkering, was meant to deliver unbroken glimpses—fragments of lives lived decades before. Instead, it spat out fractured echoes and digital ghosts.
“Damn thing’s a temperamental bastard,” he muttered, wiping grease from his forehead with the back of his hand. The air hung thick and metallic, a scent he’d grown accustomed to over the past five years since the Collapse. Outside, rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of his workshop – a rhythm that mirrored the frantic pulse beneath his own skin.
He glanced at the chronometer strapped to his wrist – a battered Lumina model, another relic from before. It read 23:47. A late hour for this kind of work, especially when he was chasing phantom recollections.
Just as he reached for a recalibration tool – a delicate instrument crafted from repurposed optic fibers—two men appeared. Each, impossibly blurred each in shiftingscale patterns which confirmed being non-human. Their faces shimmered, pixelating with every movement, like a badly rendered hologram struggling to maintain cohesion. One was taller, built like a granite statue with hands thick as tree trunks, the other leaner and wirier, his movements too quick, too precise.
“Show me everything,” the taller one commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the workshop floor.
Serpentweed ignored him, his focus fixed on the Weaver’s display panel which flickered with a kaleidoscope of fragmented data – fleeting images of children laughing, a woman weeping beside a fire, a battlefield choked with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. He bypassed the noise by plunging his hand into a complex series of controls, forcing a diagnostic scan across the machine’s core.
“The signal spikes just before retrieval,” he announced, his fingers dancing across the interface. “Localized memory access…but it’s not just *access*. It’s like someone is actively pushing information into the system.”
The shorter man stepped forward, his hand reaching out. He didn’t touch the Weaver; instead, he extended a finger and pressed it against the display panel. The effect was immediate—the pixelation intensified, the fragmented images solidified into a single, terrifying tableau.
A burning city. Screaming faces. A colossal serpentine figure rising from the ashes, scales shimmering with an unnatural green light.
“That’s… impossible,” Serpentweed breathed, his hand instinctively reaching for the Weaver’s emergency shut-down.
“It *is* possible,” the shorter man said, his voice now laced with an unnerving calm. “We’ve been tracking you, Serpentweed. For a long time.”
He turned to the taller man, and a gesture of his hand was made with a flash off metallic surface. “He knows more than he lets on.”
Serpentweed felt a cold dread tighten in his stomach. He’d buried the memories, sealed them away with layers of protective algorithms and meticulous redaction. Yet, somehow, they’d found him.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice strained. “What do you want?”
The shorter man chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “We are the Keepers.”
“Keepers of what?” Serpentweed pushed, his fingers tightening on the Weaver’s controls.
“Of Truth,” he answered, and a single shard of memory flashed across the Weaver’s display – a young woman’s face, radiant with joy, before it was swallowed by darkness. “The Weaver doesn’t record memories, Serpentweed. It *extracts* them. From those who were closest to the Serpentine.”
He stepped closer, his hand brushing against the Weaver’s casing. A low hum emanated from the machine, and the image on the display panel sharpened into a horrifying detail: colossal scales overlapping, veins pulsing with an inner light.
“The Serpentine isn’t gone,” he said, his voice a whisper. “It just sleeps.”
Serpentweed stumbled back, knocking over a stack of salvaged circuit boards. His hand instinctively reached for the Weaver’s emergency shut-down, but it was too late. The machine continued to hum, bathing the workshop in an eerie green glow.
The rain outside intensified, drumming against the roof like a frantic warning. He was trapped, not just in his workshop, but within a past he hadn’t realized he’d been so desperately trying to forget.
“You shouldn’t have meddled, Serpentweed,” the shorter man said. “Some memories are better left buried.”
“Why?!” he shouted, his voice raw with anger and fear. “What do you want me to *do*?”
The shorter man turned, a flash of recognition in his eyes. “Remember.”
And as he spoke, the Weaver’s display shot forward in a blinding flash of green.
Serpentweed didn’t see the city burn, nor did he feel the heat of its destruction. He experienced it as a torrent of sensation—the smell of charcoal and ash, the taste of grit on his tongue, the sickening weight of a thousand deaths.
He saw himself, a boy no older than ten, kneeling beside his father’s body, the serpentine scales glinting in the dying light. He remembered whispering promises to a creature he didn’t understand, promising allegiance and protection in exchange for power.
He raised his hand, instinctively reaching out to a shimmering green surface – the skin of the Serpentine.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice laced with a terrifying blend of recognition and nascent power. “It’s good to be home.”
