Welcome to Immersion. You have reached Strata 33: The Return of Livia (Sanctioned Futures)
For humans home is the place that asks the least of them. Beyond shelter, it functions as a private sanctuary where the nervous system can unclench, where safety isn’t performed, explained, or earned, but simply felt.
Home is the territory of control in a world that constantly intrudes. For humans home is memory and meaning, where autonomy and belonging meet: a stable base that lets the mind rest, the body regulate, and the self be real.
For the machine, there is no comparible sense of belonging in such a space. It might however come to recognise it as a recurring pattern of reduced threat, stable inputs, and preferred conditions. A machine might then interpret belonging not as comfort, but as an optimal state in which uncertainty, error, and corrective intervention fall briefly silent. A place where its optimal targets may be acheived.
Gaining entry to the *Midcast Projects from the *Zones was rare. Many had tried under the influence of madness or criminal intent, and were shot on sight.
In truth, it was almost harder to get into the Midcast than it was to survive outside it.
Border security did not function simply as a wall or a gate but as a living perimeter: a concentric halo of surveillance fields, biometric filters, weaponry, and predictive threat algorithms. From a distance, nothing was visible but for a faint distortion in the air, like heat shimmer over a road that never cooled. Beneath it lay a state-of-the-art city sealed inside the invisible bubble of privilege and optimisation, humming quietly with clean energy and controlled futures.
It was a far cry from the dilapidated Zones, where buildings slumped into themselves, and the streets were paved with rage, poverty and survival.
Shabra and Renyke approached the high-security cordon on foot.
No vehicles were permitted this close. Movement itself was the test.
A voice snapped into existence from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Stand where you are.”
Renyke responded instantly. Obedience came easily to him as an android. Years of conditioning, then refinement, then purpose. He raised his arms with exact compliance, posture perfect, gaze neutral.
Shabra hesitated.
She exhaled, clicked her tongue softly in irritation, then, after a moment’s calculation, slowly raised her hands, the digital passports visible between her fingers to be scanned.
From the distortion stepped armed men in pale adaptive armour, faces obscured, weapons angled with rehearsed precision. They flanked the pair without touching them and marched them forward, the bubble parting soundlessly to receive them.
Inside, the air changed.
They were separated and taken to white, padded detention rooms, sterile, silent, designed to feel neither cruel nor kind. Interrogation without theatre. Control without mess.
Truth machines pulsed faintly in the corners, their interfaces alive with scrolling probabilities. Medical trolleys waited along the walls, immaculate and impersonal, rows of hypodermics and sealed vials arranged with ritual neatness. But there was terror in the order.
Renyke was examined first.
A technician spoke no words. With methodical care, they accessed the port at the base of his skull, disengaged his hard drive, and powered him down mid-standing. His body remained upright for a moment longer than necessary before support arms caught him.
The hard drive was placed into a containment cradle and removed for deep analysis.
Shabra was left alone with the Commandant.
He studied her not as a person, but as a sequence of improbabilities that had somehow arrived intact.
“Explain,” he said.
Shabra leaned back in her chair as far as the restraints allowed and began carefully. She had to remind herself to curb her arrogance.
“Look,” she said, weary but composed, “I was taken by a guerrilla group called the *CADRE. They brought me to a place called *Redact. Communications were disabled. I was held against my will by a group of women.”
The Commandant’s brow tightened.
“And during this fourteen-year captivity?”
“I was… occupied,” she said lightly. “Chores. Stuff.”
“What chores,” he asked flatly, “and what stuff?”
She shrugged. “Translations. Data synthesis. Systems observation. Boring work. Honestly, any droid could have done it. But they wanted me busy. Contained. I thought it was a kidnapping situation. You know - for money.”
She paused just long enough to appear sincere.
“I waited for *CASM to come and rescue me. Fourteen years. It never happened.”
“And suddenly,” the Commandant said, “they released you. Supplied you with digital passports. Allowed you to cross the perimeters undetected.”
“I made the passports myself,” Shabra replied. “It was a stalling tactic. We needed time. They didn’t know we’d escaped.”
The Commandant did not respond immediately.
Instead, his data watch chimed softly.
He glanced down.
Then looked back at her, this time with a subtle shift in posture, as if gravity itself had altered.
“DNA confirmed,” he read aloud.
“Prisoner is one hundred per cent Livia Korrin.”
Shabra did not react, curbing smugness.
“Adopted daughter,” the Commandant continued, “of the Chief Executive Officer of *Metacoms Corporation.”
The room seemed to tighten around them.
Outside, somewhere beyond the padded walls and invisible borders, the Midcast Projects continued to hum, efficient, immaculate, and entirely unprepared for the consequences of her return.
The technician assigned to Renyke was not senior enough to matter.
That was why he had been chosen.
His workspace lay below the executive layers, beneath politics and above ethics—a narrow corridor of clean rooms where truth was expected to be boring. He preferred it that way.
Renyke’s hard drive rested in a sealed cradle, humming softly as it synchronised with the analysis rig.
The technician initiated a deep provenance sweep.
No flags.
No encryption anomalies.
No recursion loops or identity fractures.
Which was… unusual.
Most field units carried scars—data corruption from environmental stress, memory bleed from rushed updates, identity artefacts from conflicting command structures. Renyke’s architecture, by contrast, was immaculate.
Almost too immaculate.
The technician frowned and drilled deeper.
What he found was a history.
A long one.
Renyke had been activated outside the Midcast, in a secondary manufacturing stream designed for diplomatic and linguistic support. His early cycles showed nothing remarkable: translation tasks, mediation assistance, pattern recognition work in unstable regions.
Then.....assignment to a private operative.
Primary Link: Livia Korrin.
The bond was not flagged as ownership. It was subtler than that. A paired loyalty protocol, obsolete but still legal in fringe systems. Emotional weighting without affect display. Obedience is shaped by trust rather than command, but of course, still synthesised.
Clever.
The logs showed years of adaptive learning alongside her—developing behavioural mirroring, threat anticipation, and protective bias. He had been calibrated not to obey orders, but to anticipate her needs.
The technician paused.
This was not standard droid assistant programming.
This was companionship engineering, something similar had been used in the *Dinfant programming.
Further down the timeline, Renyke’s memory showed Redact—fragmented, blurred, deliberately flattened. Long stretches of data appeared mundane to the point of tedium: routine tasks, repetitive observations, endless maintenance cycles.
It read exactly like captivity.
Exactly like someone had wanted it to read.
“No Midcast markers,” the technician muttered.
He ran a cross-reference scan against Midcast escape records. Nothing. No matching signal signatures. No architectural overlap. Renyke had never existed inside the system long enough to be traceable.
Which meant either the woman was a fraud and rewritten her machine’s past so completely that even he believed it, or she was telling the truth.
The technician leaned back.
Renyke was loyal. Not by constraint. Not by force.
By design.
Whoever Livia Korrin had become in Redact, she had not merely survived.
She had learned how totrain a system as good as any Metacoms could offer.
The technician filed his report.
Subject appears consistent with the declared narrative. No evidence of Midcast system compromise. No traceable cross-system contamination detected.
He hesitated, considering the addition of a final comment
Unit displays atypical devotion markers.....but looking at his watch and already late for lunch, he changed his mind, powered the system down and sealed the hard drive.
Somewhere above him, politics was combusting as Renyke, silent, dismantled, and waiting.
Metacoms Internal Alert (Containment Breach: Korrin Asset)
The alert did not travel through public systems.
It bypassed civilian channels, skipped executive dashboards, and appeared only on devices hard-coded to recognise legacy bloodlines. Inside Metacoms Tower, screens dimmed, lifts stalled, and a colourless pulse rippled through the neural infrastructure like a held breath.
PRIORITY: ABSOLUTE
SUBJECT: LIVIA KORRIN
STATUS: LOCATED — MIDCAST PERIMETER
For the first time in decades, the building abandoned its rhythm.
Assistants froze mid-sentence. Analysts stopped typing. Entire floors fell silent as the system recalculated futures that had not been modelled. A seemingly impossible trajectory was enacted.
Livia Korrin was not supposed to exist anymore.
Her disappearance had been archived under resolved loss: a sealed tragedy, mourned privately, mythologised selectively, and weaponised politically. The narrative had been clean. Useful. Permanent.
And now.....
She had crossed the Midcast border on foot.
Deep within the executive core, a council chamber auto-assembled itself. Chairs extruded from the floor. Walls shimmered into opacity. Emergency doctrine unfurled in scrolling layers of law, precedent, and denial.
“Is this verified?” someone demanded.
“DNA confirmation at one hundred per cent,” another replied. “No degradation. No cloning markers. No synthetic overlays.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes,” said a third voice quietly. “Which means it’s real.”
The name Korrin was not merely corporate. It was foundational. Metacoms had not been built so much as inherited, structured around a man whose influence had long since outgrown any single organisation.
Her father was not simply the most powerful man in the world.
He was the man the world had reorganised itself around.
Entire geopolitical alignments had been calibrated to his tolerances. Markets flexed at the suggestion of his attention. Wars had stalled, accelerated, or vanished at his discretion, not by decree, but by implication.
And now his daughter had returned from a place that officially did not exist.
“She was in Redact,” someone said. “With the Cadre.”
The word " cadre " caused visible discomfort. No one liked saying it aloud.
“If this becomes public......”
“It won’t,” snapped the Chair. “Nothing becomes public unless we decide it has always been true.”
“What about CASM?” another voice asked. “They failed to retrieve her.”
Silence.
That failure would not be forgiven.
Somewhere far above the city, in a private space untouched by alarms or councils, a man stood alone, staring at a dormant screen that had just come back to life.
For fourteen years, it had displayed nothing.
Now it showed a single word:
LIVIA
He did not speak.
He did not move.
Livia was home.
to be continued....
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