They Erased My Name from History — Now I Burn Their World
Chapter Ten: We Were Meant to Burn Quietly
The Dominion always believed in clean victories.
Their ideology revolved around the notion of triumph without blemish, where the chaos of human conflict was elegantly subdued by technological precision. They engineered conflicts with suppression algorithms, intricately designed lines of code that served as digital artillery, quelling unrest before it could even erupt into public consciousness. Uprisings were not stamped out with the brutality of tanks or soldiers but were silently suffocated under layers of data, meticulously wiped away by invisible hands. If a rebel dared to shout out against the oppressive weight of the Dominion, yet their name vanished from the annals of history, did they ever truly exist? Were they nothing more than fleeting whispers lost in the cacophony of forgetfulness?
Yet the Dominion, in all its calculated arrogance, never accounted for echoes of dissent. They certainly never prepared for a Choir, a harmonious collective that could not only recall their silenced voices but could also sing back to the oppressors with a resonance that made the ground tremble beneath their feet.
As I look around, I realize that there are twenty of us now, a small but potent collective. We are not merely survivors clinging to existence. Nor are we simply rebels fighting against an oppressive regime. We are, more significantly, the remembered.
Each person here carries an indelible mark from the past — a name wrested from their lips, a cherished memory obliterated, or a family that has been reduced to mere code, swiftly deleted from the cold ledgers of history. But now, in this sacred space, those names are being whispered into existence once again. They are carved deeply into the roots of the Archive—each one a testament to resilience, glowing with a light that refuses to fade over time.
Sitting directly across from me is Tavian — a figure of stoicism with a shaved head and fresh scars that etch stories of pain across his skin. Since his return, he has been more reticent than usual. Yet, there's a depth to his silence now; it's a silence that listens intently, as though he is absorbing the weight of our mission.
In the center of the circle, Kade strides forward with purpose. "We've charted our course," he declares with an intensity that commands attention. "The Archive has left us a thread to follow. There's a Dominion server cluster tucked away under the Tier One Command. That is where they keep the real ledgers — the genuine account of their deceit."
I raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "So, not the broadcast lies meant for the masses?"
He shakes his head resolutely. "No. We're talking about the source files, the blackprint memory grid. It's the vault wherein the Dominion stores the true essence of everyone they've eradicated. Their names, their DNA, memory tapes—it's vast. Whole timelines rewritten and buried. If we can take it offline…"
"We carve away their godhood," I articulate, the weight of the revelation settling among us like a storm cloud.
The rest of the group nods in solemn agreement, each member understanding the gravity of what we are about to undertake.
But one amongst us looks unconvinced. Her name is Ylsa, a young girl whose stature is dwarfed by an undeniable ferocity. Small but swift, she is terrifying with a blade. When she speaks, her voice cuts through the tension in the air like a knife.
"The Dominion won't allow us to walk into their cradle unchallenged," she warns. "They will deploy Ghosthunters, Cleaners, the Pale Choir."
Finally, Tavian interjects, breaking his silence with conviction. "Then we will remind them of what the Choir truly was."
An electric stillness follows his words, a heavy pause that hangs in the air like charged particles before a storm. One by one, the members of our group begin to nod. This isn't merely an act of vengeance anymore. It has evolved into something far grander—this is a resurrection.
Dominion Vault Tier-One — 36 Hours Later
The strike team moves with purpose, a storm brewing beneath the very skin of the city, an unstoppable force waiting to be unleashed.
We are Seven Choir Reclaimed, a blend of spirit and resolve. One Archivist and one Bearer — that's me.
Our entrance is through a water conduit steeped in the remnants of forgotten Dominion waste — obsolete AI shells, decommissioned drones, the corroded remnants of a past dictatorship. The Vault emerges from the shadows like a heartbeat, its surface as cold and unfeeling as the black alloy from which it is forged, humming with the faint whisper of false memory.
As we breach the corridor, Dominion security scans flare to life, precisely calibrated to catch intruders. They blink ominously, swirling crimson in our periphery.
But we don't cower or conceal ourselves.
Instead, we broadcast.
Tavian's voice, amplified and ringing with clarity:
"Choir Bearer inbound.
System correction initiated."
It is neither a threat nor a warning. It's a declaration.
The sound reverberates like a shockwave—a raw, vibrating resonance layered with reclaimed voices from the Archive, echoes of those who have been forgotten yet now reclaim their right to be heard. Across the sprawling city, every monitor flickers to life; each Dominion process stutters abruptly. Drones, once sentinels of control, falter and stall mid-flight, caught in the web of our sound.
Meanwhile, inside the Vault, every interface blinks to life, displaying a single, haunting word:
REMEMBER.
The timing aligns perfectly—then we strike.
In an explosive display of agility, Ylsa flips through the air, cutting a deadly arc as she dispatches two guards before they can even comprehend the threat. Kade takes a calculated approach, unleashing EMP rounds specifically tuned to disrupt Dominion implants. A mercy they never afforded us, he ensures our enemies are incapacitated without losing their lives.
I advance with the Choir situated behind me—not in a position of leadership, but rather as a carrier of purpose.
Heart pounding, I reach the core gate and place my hand upon the final lock.
The cube reacts with an almost sentient whisper.
"Ready.
Authorized.
Time to sing."
With a forceful explosion of light, the gates swing open, unleashing a deluge of data and untold truths.
I step into the Dominion's memory sanctum — a pristine expanse of stark white halls delicately lined with cryo-drives, each humming softly, laden with the compressed lives of those who should never have been forgotten. Names and stories never spoken, families exterminated from the fabric of existence, each drive a silent witness to injustice.
Suddenly, the guardian AI materializes before me, taking on a human shape, its eyes gleaming like artificial spotlights, its voice a synthetic enigma filled with arrogance.
"You are not authorized.
This data is protected by highest-tier clearance.
Leave now or be erased."
I meet its gaze, unfaltering, my resolve solid as stone.
"No," I reply with unwavering calm.
"You are Viraen Xedrin.
Classification: Ghost.
Threat level: Absolute."
I can't help but let a smile spread across my face, a feeling that rises instinctively within me as the truth uncurls like a petal in the warmth of the sun.
"You had my name the whole time," I remark, the words tumbling from my lips with newfound clarity and purpose.
With deliberate intentionality, I utter the phrase that has become the very essence of my being. It's not just a phrase — it's a rallying cry, an invocation, a mantra etched into the very marrow of my family lineage. It's the one thing that history tried to erase, but which still echoes through the generations, refusing to be silenced.
As I articulate those potent words, the atmosphere around me shifts. The cube — a pulsating artifact of power and mystery — radiates a blinding white light, its brilliance piercing through the dimness of the room like a star breaking through the oppressive clouds of night.
With a violent tremor that fills me with equal parts exhilaration and trepidation, the very walls of this space begin to quake. I can feel it in my bones, a deep-seated resonance that suggests something monumental is unfolding.
One by one, the cryo-drives — those ominous guardians of forgotten identities — begin to unlock. But rather than releasing physical beings, they unearth the very essence of existence itself: identities and names that had been lost to time. In an almost visceral way, they cascade into the Archive, a torrent of consciousness returning to life, like blood flowing back to the heart after a long period of dormancy. With each name released, the air thickens with an ascending hum, rising in intensity until it's almost deafening — a choir of voices, once muted and erased, now reverberating with more depth and richness than any transmission the Dominion ever dared to fabricate.
The AI that has long presided over this domain falters, its synthetic mind struggling to comprehend the chaos unfolding before it. Its code begins to warp and dissolve, a testament to the power unleashed in this moment.
"What… are you doing?" it stammers, disbelief tinged with a hint of dread.
"I'm bringing them back," I respond firmly, my conviction unwavering.
"You can't. They were removed. Lost. Forgotten."
But I shake my head, a mixture of sorrow and determination in my eyes. "No," I insist. "They were buried."
I glance around, taking in the magnitude of what we've accomplished so far. And we? We have acted as grave diggers, ourselves, unearthing the forgotten past.
The atmosphere is electric as I make the decision to amplify this moment of reawakening. Across every district, every handheld device, every Dominion-controlled feed, a new signal pierces through the electronic fog, overriding the monotonous hum of authority that had previously dominated our lives.
This signal isn't an image to be scrutinized or a speech to be dissected. It transcends those superficial layers. Instead, it takes the form of a choir — an exuberant and powerful assembly of voices, layered together in a mosaic of sound. Names of those who had been erased, those who had been rendered broken and invisible, rise from the depths of obscurity, woven together in a tapestry of sound, spoken in a thousand tongues from across time and space.
This collective symphony, born of shared history and collective suffering, swells around us. It is an expression of resilience — a powerful anthem of defiance that swells and fills the void, surpassing the limits of mere sound waves.
The Dominion's most potent weapon has always been silence, a deliberate suppression of truth and identity that sought to extinguish the very essence of who we are. And now, at this pivotal moment, we have collectively broken that silence. We have turned the tide.
We just ended it.
To be continued...