SYNTEX

The sleepers will awaken, and the world will bleed truth.

11 APRIL 2025

THE SYNTEX HEADQUARTERS BREATHES like a living organism. Clean lines. Smooth cement. Light gliding down matte walls in perfect diagonals. Even the air has changed—filtered, scentless, neutral. Outside, the foothills of Denver’s tech corridor are cool and bright beneath a slate-gray sky. The sunlit barn corridors of Colorado Springs are long forgotten. In their place:

Precision. Structure. Hierarchy.

I walk across the expansive lobby, my heels clicking with engineered rhythm against the synthetic stone floor. In front of me, Steve stumbles slightly as he takes it all in, overwhelmed. Emilia is at my side, moving with the smoothness of a serpent in a chic pencil dress by Gucci. Above us, a suspended LED sculpture pulses with soft, hypnotic light, mapping cellular growth in concentric waves. No one stops to look at it. No one ever does.

The reception desk is staffed by a woman with pin-straight hair and perfect posture, who never once looks away from the terminal as they approach.

“Welcome back, Ms. Gorgo,” she says. Her voice is placid. Not warm, not cold. Just… still. “Dr. Chen is awaiting you on Level 2.”

“Thank you, Fern,” I say, not breaking stride.

Steve lingers, staring. “Wasn’t that the same woman from before? From the old place?”

“She’s been retrained,” Emilia says flatly. “Adaptation is key.”

We pass another employee in the corridor—a man in his thirties, clean-shaven, crisp SynteX badge clipped to his charcoal-gray collar. He smiles as we pass. The smile is wide, unwavering, just a little too bright. His eyes don’t blink until they’ve already passed.

“Is it me,” Steve whispers, “or is everyone here, like... super chill now?”

“Cultured,” Emilia replies, eyes ahead. “In the microbial sense.”

The motion sensor calls one of three elevators when we enter the bay. As we wait, Emilia makes corporate small talk.

“Since we spun GreenLit off under SynteX, margins have increased across our portfolio of 180 dispensary locations across thirty-nine states. All profits now go to fund Dr. Chen’s research, as requested.”

“Well done, Emilia,” I say proudly. Look at her. She was made for this, just as she was made for me. “If Steve wasn’t here, I’d give you a blowjob as a show of gratitude.”

Emilia slaps my arm with a laugh.

Steve perks up. “A what?!”

Ding. The elevator doors open. Inside, a pair of technicians already stand with their arms behind their backs, facing forward in perfect silence. One breathes in sync with the soft pulse of the floor lights. The other doesn’t seem to breathe at all.

I do not acknowledge them. Neither does Emilia. We part to stand across from one another.

Steve shuffles in last, uneasy. The only space is between the two technicians. He looks back and forth then, as the doors close, turns forward and whispers, “Pod people…”

As we rise, I study the reflection of Emilia’s face in the mirrored steel. Still. Beautiful. Empty in a purposeful way—like she’s already decided what the day will cost and paid it.

“Steve,” I say, just as the doors hiss open. “Dr. Chen has some legacy infrastructure from the GreenLit servers that needs cleanup. The server room is on Floor 3. They’ll show you where.”

Steve blinks. “Wait—you’re not coming?”

Emilia places a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll need your eyes on some code clusters. Metadata optimization. That kind of thing.”

He brightens at the mention of something technical. “Oh, totally. Yeah. Sweet. I’ll just—yeah.”

“Keep your badge visible,” I say as we step out.

“Okay, but if I disappear, please avenge me,” he calls out. The doors close on his grin.

And just like that, the air feels thinner.

The Level 2 corridor stretches ahead of us like the throat of something too big to name. Every footstep echoes slightly too long. The walls are seamless—no panels, no signage, no windows. It smells like nothing.

Dr. Chen is waiting just outside Observation Room 3.

He bows slightly. “Chairperson. Ms. Glazkov. Everything is prepared.”

“Subject briefed?” Emilia asks.

“She believes it’s a trial for neurohormonal balance agents. No indication of deeper expectations.”

He steps aside. The door unlocks with a gentle sigh.

Inside: glass, lights, quiet tension. Subject 13—female, caucasian, twenty six years old, childless, lean and symmetrical—is already seated on the padded exam table wearing a thin medical shirt and nothing else. Sensors dot her skin in an almost artistic pattern. No outward sign of fear. Only the quiet, obedient stillness of someone who has no idea what she’s just agreed to.

The vial waits on a small black tray beside the subject—matte glass, hexagonal, unmarked. The compound inside glistens darkly, pulsing in rhythm to the thrumming beat of my heart.

Beside me, Emilia stands with her arms folded, cool and unreadable. Her gaze is fixed, sharp. She hasn’t blinked in almost a minute.

Dr. Chen taps something into the control panel with a gloved hand, serene as always. If he’s excited, it never shows. That’s why I chose him. His calm is so complete it becomes unnerving.

“She doesn’t know?” I ask.

“She doesn’t need to,” Chen says.

Emilia folds her arms. “You’re certain the dosage is stable?”

Chen’s mouth curls ever so slightly. “Stable. Evolving. Responsive.”

I step to the glass.

The technician in the room—one of Chen’s, young, pale, loyal—hands the vial to the subject. She takes it with the ease of someone who’s never been taught to be suspicious. Her fingers tremble just once, and then she drinks.

The technician enters the test chamber—gloved, blank-eyed, one of our newer hires who hasn’t quite realized what kind of altar he’s serving. He places the tray in front of Thirteen with gentle reverence, then withdraws.

She picks it up. Without hesitation.

I study her hands—manicured, clear polish, faint ink smudge along the thumb. Right-handed. She hesitates just once, so subtly most would miss it—the brief microfreeze of prey just before the bite. Then she tilts her head back and drinks.

Unity hits the body fast, but it’s patient. The way a spider is patient.

Twenty-three seconds of silence. Then her spine stiffens. She exhales once, long and low, like the air inside her has changed density.

Her pupils dilate. Her body stiffens and teeters backward onto the table. The technician returns to apply straps, first to her wrists, then her ankles and a final one across her midsection.

For forty seconds, she is silent and unmoving. Then, her muscles begin to loosen, the rigidity giving way to peaceful relaxation. The technician uses the foot pedal to raise the upper portion of the bed, allowing us to see her face through the glass.

“Wait for it,” the doctor says, radiating charged anticipation.

Thirteen’s lips begin to move.

At first it’s just nonsense—soft consonants, consonant clusters with no linguistic structure. Then the cadence shifts. I feel it before I understand it. 

“Nugan nar’dur lor,” she says, then repeats. “Nugan nar’dur lor… nugan nar’dur lor…”

We are behind the eye. We are behind the eye. We are behind the eye.

It is a language older than written history, brought to this Earth by Vorazd and taught to the first tribes of man. Not gifted, not offered—implanted. It coils at the root of every word we’ve ever spoken, a spinal alphabet buried in the marrow of language itself. Sumerian, Egyptian, Sanskrit—they are the cracked mirrors of a tongue too perfect to survive unshattered. Vor’gotan, as it was named by primitive tongues, is not meant to be spoken aloud. It’s meant to be dreamed, bled, and etched into the skin of the world. Every syllable opens something. Every word remembers too much.

Her voice multiplies. Three registers layered out of sync. One calm. One sobbing. One laughing too hard.

Emilia leans closer. “Is she hearing It?”

“No,” I say. “It’s hearing her.”

And I know why.

After GreenLit, I gave Chen a component. A sample. Just a small vial, no more than five milliliters. My blood—still warm, drawn without ritual. No ceremony. Just biology.

But it wasn’t about the blood.

It was what lived in it.

Vorazd had taken root in me long before the Chrysalis was touched. What I gave Chen wasn’t just an accelerant—it was a link. A thread. And now, in the cadence of this girl’s spiraling, corrupted speech, I can hear the thread pulling taut.

The subject turns toward us. Not with her eyes—with her self. Every monitor begins to spike.

Then, from her mouth:

we see you now.

Red spirals bloom across the biometric feed. Not errors. Symbols. Recursion mapped onto the flesh. Chen doesn’t flinch.

“She’s achieving resonance loops,” he says, almost admiring.

“What kind?” Emilia asks.

He exhales softly. “The kind that teach themselves.”

I step back.

“Shut it down.”

Chen’s disappointment is evident, but he doesn’t hesitate to do as commanded. His hand returns to the control panel and taps the screen. Inside the chamber, a red light brightens above the bed. The technician, without hesitation, draws an auto-injector from his pocket.

“That was… very impressive,” the doctor says as the needle is inserted in Thirteen’s neck. Within three seconds she begins to thrash violently on the table. Silent to us, but the mind can imagine the sound of leather stretching as arms and legs beat on the examination table.

“Impressive,” Emilia says with a singular brow perked. “That’s an understatement.”

“I agree, Dr. Chen,” I say while stepping toward the glass. In the room, the trashing has ceased with cold finality, like a fish too long out of water. “It is impressive.”

The technician has his fingers pressed to her carotid artery. Slowly, his head tilts upward, and his soulless eyes find mine. He doesn’t need to mouth the words or motion with his head. I can hear the answer in his head, like the flutter of notes along a pentatonic scale.

She’s dead.

Chen stares at the subject with scientific curiosity absent of human connection, like an entomologist dissecting a new species of fly under a microscope.

He says, “This is, of course, our most potent extract. I call it… Substance V.”

The technician is removing the restraints as Chen turns around to face me with a soft, amused expression. He says, “As requested, we have been testing the effects of our more restrained dosage of Unity on our employees here at SynteX. As you have seen, our staff have been fully assimilated. Productivity has risen sharply and employee satisfaction scores are perfect across the board.”

My eyes meet his and I ask, “What about when they go home? This doesn’t work if they are mindless husks. They have to blend in.”

“They are functional members of society,” he answers. “Do you recall the sculpture in the lobby? I call it The Resonance. It is constantly emitting an ultra-low frequency sound, too buried in the subharmonic frequencies to be heard by the human ear.”

“I felt it,” I say.

He offers a narrow smile. “Of course you did. You are… uniquely attuned to electromagnetic fields that are beyond human perception, but worry not. To you and Ms. Glazkov, it is harmless, but for our workers, it amplifies the efficacy of the serum, making them more docile, focused, and pliant.”

“Perfect,” I say, my voice warm with appreciation. “It’s truly amazing what you have accomplished in such a short period. I trust you have the first batch ready? We want to take it back to Miami. Marisol’s retreat is tomorrow night and Unity is the key to its success.”

He bows his head. “Of course, Chairperson. Seven vials, as requested. Also I took the liberty of synthesizing the original Scarecrow formula. While it lacks the more nuanced effects of Unity, it still is a powerful psychoactive substance.”

“For what purpose?” Emilia asked with authority.

His eyes sweep to her and he dips his head. “I do not presume to suggest any purpose, Ms. Glazkov, but you and the Chairperson have many enemies. If it has a use, I am certain you will find ways to exploit it.”

“One more thing,” I say.

His gaze quickly moves to find mine.

“Yes, Chairperson?”

“I need a Resonance, too. Did you build a second one?”

Dr. Chen nods once, calm as ever.

“Of course I did, Chairperson.”

He returns to the terminal and taps in a short command sequence. A soft chime plays. Somewhere nearby, a door unlocks.

“I’ve had it stored in a soundproof vault,” he explains, “so it wouldn’t interfere with the baseline cognitive data during trials. Shall I have it transferred to your jet?”

“Yes,” I say. “Have it taken to the airport, along with Unity and the Scarecrow formula.”

Emilia steps forward, her voice smooth. “We’ll need calibration specs for the Resonance. Voltage, output range, harmonic frequency.”

“I’ll forward the documentation.”

I glance through the glass one last time at the test subject as the technician pulls a sheet over her face. Long dead, but I can feel the Substance V inside her. I can taste its hunger.

“We must return for the retreat,” I tell Emilia. “Marisol will need you.”

She meets my gaze.

We both know what comes next.

12 APRIL 2025

I LEAN AGAINST THE DOORWAY of the compound, one hand resting on the frame as torchlight ripples across the lawn like fire dragging itself through water. Seven of them kneel before Marisol—four men, three women—each carved from the same obsessive discipline. Every tendon, every lean muscle, every dollar of aesthetic surgery is on display beneath their custom VilaroFIT gear. They are beautiful, yes. But more importantly, they are willing.

Marisol paces in front of them, measured and radiant, her voice spun gold and wet wire. She speaks of devotion, of perfection, of the body as altar and weapon. She reminds them of how far they’ve come, and what remains ahead. Her gaze cuts through them one by one, and each seems to shudder as if she’s naming them in their secret places.

Emilia stands to her right, unreadable behind dark lenses. Angel to the left—composed, languid, almost regal in her stillness. The triumvirate. The holy theater of Black Rainbow.

I do not step outside. I do not need to. My presence bleeds into the air whether I will it or not. I simply watch, still as the night.

When Marisol gives the signal, the servants emerge—black-clad, gliding, silent. Each carries a tray bearing a single vial. The liquid inside is thick, black, and viscous. Unity, in its newest form. My form.

The moment teeters. Then the first vial tilts back. One by one they follow.

The change begins in the eyes. Pupils widen, swallowing all light. Spines snap back. Mouths gape in silent cries. Their bodies jerk and writhe—violent, ecstatic—then crumple into stillness, the air thick with the scent of sweat, ozone, and something deeper. Something spiritual and biological. Something alien.

They begin to rise.

One by one, they come to their feet, heads cocked at slight, unnatural angles. Their smiles widen too far, too fast. Dark veins pulse just beneath the skin. They are reborn—not as individuals, but as a symphony. Seven instruments now tuned to a single key.

Marisol clasps her hands at her waist. The smile on her lips is faint, reverent. She knows what she’s done. She has never looked more powerful.

I turn from the doorway and step inside.

The atrium glows faintly beneath the skylight, and the Resonance hangs above like a suspended heart—dark crystal and metal humming at the edge of perception. I feel it vibrate beneath my skin, in my marrow. A reminder of something beyond language.

And there she is. Billie Morgan.

She stands barefoot on the stone floor, her cowboy boots dangling from two fingers. Her cutoff shirt is vintage Shenandoah, the sleeves frayed like the pair of Daisy Dukes riding her hips. She tilts her cowboy hat back, causing blonde curls to fall around face like something wild, and her eyes glance up at the Resonance. Her expression is part reverence, part skepticism.

Then she notices me.

“Well,” she says, voice thick with drawl, “ain’t that somethin’. Guess I picked one hell of a time to move in.”

All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.