The rain came down like it always did—hard and unforgiving on the windward side of the volcanic peaks. On the other side? Nothing but sand and bones. That's how the world works when you've got mountains taller than God's mistakes and a pass so narrow you could choke on the air going through it.
The Archons knew what they were doing when they set up shop here. Control the pass, control the people. It's the oldest game in the book—older than the mountains themselves, and twice as cruel.
In this town—this whole damn world—power doesn't come from guns or gold. It comes from air. From truth. Or what they tell you is the truth. The Archons control the Record, and the Record controls everything else. History isn't what happened; it's what they say happened. And brother, they've been saying it for a long, long time.
FIELD NOTE: The Archive of Rescinded Truths is buried deep beneath the Green Plains. It holds the Original Maps—the ones that show what the South really is. The Archons have been lying about it since before anyone can remember. But someone always remembers. Someone always knows.
I've seen men killed for less than knowing where that bunker is. Hell, I've almost been killed myself. But that's the job, isn't it? Digging up what should stay buried. Finding the truth in a world built on forgetting.
Every fifty years, like clockwork, the world forgets. The sky goes white. The air hums. And then—nothing. People wake up in the Green Plains with blank stares and empty minds, like they just crawled out of a fever dream. The Archons call it the Memory Plague. I call it convenient.
It's a beautiful system, really. Wipe the slate clean, shuffle the deck, and deal everyone a new hand. The Archons assign you a Labor-Tier while you're still trying to remember your own name. By the time you figure out who you are, you've already accepted who they tell you you are.
INVESTIGATOR'S NOTE: Radiation patterns suggest artificial origin. Natural phenomena don't respect political boundaries. This one does. Someone's finger is on the trigger, and it ain't Mother Nature's.
I've got three things keeping me alive in this mess. Three things the Archons don't know about, and three things they'd kill me for if they did. A ring. A dagger. And a pair of earrings that used to belong to someone who knew too much.
The ring hums against my finger when the plague comes. It feels like ice and fire at the same time, like my brain's being squeezed through a sieve. But I remember. Not everything—never everything—but enough. Enough to know what they took. Enough to keep asking questions.
OPERATIONAL SECURITY BREACH RISK: All three assets emit trace signatures detectable by Archon scanning equipment at ranges under 15 meters. Recommend avoiding checkpoint zones during active patrols. Risk assessment: CRITICAL.
You don't survive long in this world by asking nice questions. You survive by reading the room. By watching how a man's pupils dilate when you mention the South. By catching the micro-tremor in his hand when you say "Archive." The Archons train their people well, but everyone breaks. It's just a matter of finding the right pressure point.
Then there's the Semantic Trap. You don't ask a man if he's lying. You ask him to explain the lie in detail. You let him build the walls of his own prison, brick by brick, until he's boxed himself in so tight he can't breathe. That's when the truth comes out—gasping, desperate, ugly.
FIELD WARNING: Archon operatives are trained in counter-interrogation. They will attempt to reverse the dynamic. Trust nothing. Verify everything. And for God's sake, don't let them see you sweat.
I've been walking this beat for longer than I care to remember—and in this world, memory's the only currency that matters. The Archons want everyone to forget. They want the past buried deeper than their bunker under the Green Plains. But here's the thing about the past: it doesn't stay buried. It claws its way back up, dirt under its fingernails, hungry for daylight.
The South isn't what they say it is. The maps are wrong. The history is wrong. Everything they've built is a house of cards on a foundation of lies. And I've got the ring, the dagger, and the earrings to prove it.
So yeah, I'll keep walking. I'll keep asking questions. I'll keep reading the fear in their eyes when I get too close to the truth. Because someone has to remember. Someone has to care. And in a world designed to make you forget, that makes me the most dangerous man alive.
FINAL DIRECTIVE: Locate the Archive of Rescinded Truths. Retrieve the Original Maps. Expose the lie about the South. Do not trust Archon personnel. Do not engage in direct confrontation. Survive. Document. Transmit.