Protocol Zero

Systems do not harm people.

They correct imbalance.

Those who cannot withstand correction are failing.

— Addendum to Civic Enforcement Protocols

Cux smiled, tasting static on his tongue.

This was his kingdom, his secret sanctuary of certainty. He clung to his beliefs, haunted by visions of a world unraveling into chaos and lies. The dread of his empire collapsing beneath treachery stoked his relentless need to enforce every rule, whatever the price.

'High Regulator.'

A title he had carved out for himself. Power distilled into flesh and bone. His peers called him 'Guant-Man,' though he had none. The irony widened his grin. A silver insignia, glinting on his lapel, bore the emblem of the High Regulator—its intricate design depicting an eye wreathed in mechanical gears. A physical proclamation of his authority. He answered only to Kest Rune, the elusive High Prefect, who seldom called. This was his territory. He set the rules. He was the High-Regulator.

A sneer tore across his face. The air pressed close, thick and stagnant, like a closet untouched for ages. Stillness dominated, saturated with the mingled scents of fiber, wire, glass, and wood, all simmering in a stew of despair. Wafting through the gloom was a shy note of poppy. Its cloying scent countered the emptiness. As if some unseen force had tossed in a mocking hint at escape. Tubes and steam lent warmth to the shadows as preciever squids devoured endless data. Desks and rigid chairs stood in strict formation, each manned by a mute clerk. Industrial lamps blazed overhead, gouging deep shadows into their faces. Chained to their keebs, the analytical engines pulsed, ceaselessly guarding the networks.

Guant-Man drifted between the machine banks, his crisp black shirt and razor-edged hovers devouring every stray glimmer. He was a moving void. His peaked cap, brim nearly grazing his giggs, cast his features in spectral severity. Thin and silent, he slipped through the room like a whispered secret, his silhouette tinged with sickly green.

As he passed a clerk, a shudder rippled through the figure—a silent salute to his presence. Yet, as he continued, his stride momentarily wavered, a subtle hitch that betrayed his iron-clad composure. It was as though a shadow of dread had briefly brushed against him, portending the looming breach. Guant-Man paused, fingertips grazing a machine panel, savoring the faint thrum of power. The cap's brim twitched, his breath caught for a heartbeat, hinting at a surge of tightly leashed menace before he glided on, parting the hush like a blade.

A klaxon cried out.

It sounded like a steel bearing plunging into water. A sharp ping, a warped burble, then a final, lingering note. This was the signal he had anticipated, yet its arrival sent a chill through him. It warned of a breach, an uninvited hand reaching into his meticulously ordered world. The threat pressed down on him, intimate and vast. With deliberate steps and pale hands folded behind, he closed in on the source. Thoughts spun, justifying what he might soon unleash. Violence, to him, was never random but precise. A tool to restore order. He saw it as a formula. Intrusion plus defiance demanded punishment and fear. A calculus to safeguard his dominion.

His hold on control, over the room and himself, felt stretched thin. He bent smoothly toward the preciever squid, eyes scanning its shield, knowing that any sign of failure here could unravel all he had built.

“Display!” he exclaimed, his voice like a file on metal.

The hand quivered as two fingers struck the keebs in perfect sync. An image spiraled inward, shrinking before a new one blossomed and shifted color. He leaned in, eyes wide, tracking words as they crept across the shield. For a heartbeat, doubt flashed, What if this slips beyond my grasp? The threat glimmered in his giggs, echoing and swelling. He followed every word, his upper lip curling into a snarl, teeth bared in something almost feral. Excitement merged with menace, the rush of power drowning out all else.

“I see someone's prying eyes are at work— on matters where they needn't be looking,” he said, his lips getting thinner.

He straightened, arms dropping before locking behind his back, fingers entwined. Turning from the preciever squid, he strode toward his office. A large beetle scuttled into view. He paused, set his polished heel behind it, and pressed down with slow, merciless intent. The wet crack rang out in the stale air.

“Perhaps death is on the horizon for this information seeker,” he murmured, a note of desire resonating. “Knowledge is a tool that can lead to destruction.”

His reputation was everything. Fear was his signature, and death would be the message for any who dared cross him. "Time to notify Empirium," he said, resuming his stride toward the door.

He stared at his 'husks'.

The ones with no 'life-force'. A subtle scent of copper lingered, as if blood had been drained from something deep within. Flickers in their eyes sparkled momentarily, like dying embers, hinting at what had been taken. A clerk, sitting at the edge of the room, was caught in a fleeting moment of memory. A twitch in her hand as if reaching for something lost. The memory danced briefly across her vacant face, a shimmer of light in the depths of a hollow lake, before vanishing into the void once more.

In Cux's mind, these husks were no less disposable than the beetle he had crushed. Both served as stark reminders of life that could be extinguished, reinforcing his belief in the futility and expendability surrounding him.

The clerks raised their faces from the preciever squids, eyes hollow and blank. Their gaze latched onto him, unwavering. Beneath the surface, something shifted—a synchronized flutter in their breathing, the faintest tapping of keebs in perfect rhythm. Their collective awareness seemed to stretch outward, hinting at a hidden unity. Perhaps a hive mind wrestling with fear or quietly pushing back. Subtle choreography, though slight, hinted at dormant power simmering beneath their hollowness, quietly defying Guant-Man's grip.

The people he masked.

'People disappear. They won't be missed.'

He turned, shutting his door.