They approached Simon’s motionless form. His body lay sprawled on the chamber floor, silent and extinguished. The glow from his core had vanished entirely, leaving behind empty, dark lenses devoid of life.
Suddenly, the containers of structure gel mounted on his back ruptured violently. Gel sprayed outward in writhing streams, striking the drones mid-flight.
Upon contact, the gel immediately sank into their systems.
They convulsed midair, their precise mechanical movements degenerating into something unsettlingly organic. Sparks burst erratically from their joints, their sensors flickering chaotically.
Simon's limbs spasmed.
His fingers curled once, then again. Slowly, like a puppet testing invisible strings, he sat upright. Yet, his eyes remained lifeless, his core silent.
He rose to his feet, not as one who wakes.
But as something awakened.
Simon’s consciousness stirred sluggishly. He felt distant, submerged in sensations simultaneously cold and warm—familiar yet profoundly wrong. Thoughts drifted through his mind like wisps of smoke.
He opened his eyes.
He wasn’t in Noesis anymore.
He looked down, heart racing with disbelief. His body was flesh and bone once more, clothed in familiar attire. Brief relief surged—quickly replaced by panicked dread. He wasn't meant to have this body anymore.
He stood within a vast, ink-black chamber. Its walls shimmered with sickening iridescence—colors shifting unnaturally between violet and green. The air vibrated as though the chamber itself was suffering, a constant hum gnawing at the fringes of his sanity.
The floor yielded slightly beneath his steps, rippling with every hesitant movement. Neither solid nor liquid—it felt like treading upon forgotten memories.
Ahead was a distant pinprick of white light. Cold. Beckoning.
An unseen force dragged him forward, feet scraping the shifting ground. Limbs heavy with dread and uncertainty, whispers echoed from the encroaching darkness—voices familiar yet twisted, fragments from Catherine, Imogen, Elias, Jonsy, even himself.
*"I don't think we're ready to admit what it really is..." Catherine’s distorted voice cracked with static.
*"It was supposed to be just another sample—inert, harmless in stasis," Elias murmured, hauntingly distant.
From the darkness, shadows coalesced into a shifting figure, dissolving instantly under his gaze.
*"We found it embedded in lunar basalt from Mare Imbrium," Imogen whispered fearfully.
Simon flinched, even though his body drew no breath.
*"We fed it energy. It responded. It learned," his own detached voice intoned, cold and hollow.
The voices moved unpredictably around him, sometimes near, sometimes far.
*"In four months, Ichor consumed six autonomous test units. It overwrote everything," Catherine's voice trembled with sorrow.
Simon stumbled, translucent, boneless hands burst from beneath, desperately grasping upwards before dissolving into nothing.
*"One drone repeated a technician’s joke in her voice—not a recording. It remembers, it mimics," Imogen's voice echoed chillingly.
Soft, heartbroken weeping filled the chamber.
*"Valencia made contact. Just one droplet. Her body rejected itself, spine branching into roots that merged with the floor," Jonsy's voice cracked with grief.
The shadowy figure lunged forward, melting upward into the ceiling like ink dispersing in water.
*"That was the turning point," his voice whispered, heavy with bitter resignation.
Simon reached desperately toward the distant white light, but it receded mockingly.
*"We sealed it away in a Type-VII antigravity chamber—Faraday mesh, no external power. Yet it still hums," Catherine's voice swelled to a painful crescendo.
The walls heaved rhythmically, pulsing in time with a heartbeat—his heartbeat. Yet alien.
"Ichor is not a substance... not a tool..."
"It is an infection."
Whispers escalated into agonized screams.
Simon clutched his head, screaming in torment as he collapsed. Memories distorted grotesquely—his apartment, family, PATHOS-II—transformed into nightmarish visions clawing at his sanity.
Time fractured. When Simon reopened his eyes, the distant light had vanished.
In its place hovered a sphere—black, pulsating with hues of white, green, and violet. Spikes formed and retracted continuously; four smaller white orbs danced across its unsettling surface.
It drifted forward, emitting a low, predatory drone.
Four tendrils unfurled—woven from dark matter. Two gripped Simon's throat, while two pried open his mouth. He writhed violently, engulfed by terror, but resistance was futile.
The sphere pushed itself forcefully down his throat.
He gagged, convulsed, clawing futilely at his throat.
Suddenly, black liquid erupted from his eyes, ears, and nose—burning his senses with the acrid scent of molten metal. Bones cracked with sickening clarity; agony consumed him.
Tendrils exploded violently from his back, tearing through flesh and cloth.
Simon screamed relentlessly as the black fluid enveloped him entirely, entombing him in motionless agony.
Within this oppressive cocoon, something new emerged.
The cocoon of dark mater was reabsorbed in to the body.
The figure slowly rose to its feet, movements fluid and unnaturally graceful, tendrils on its back coiling and twisting with serpentine precision. Four glowing white orb-eyes shifted smoothly across its face, scanning the dark chamber it now inhabited.
A wave of cold, dry air swept outward, carrying with it the sharp scent of ozone and scorched circuitry. The chamber was vast, circular, and dark—lined with lifeless sensor arrays and inactive terminals. At its center stood a metallic pedestal, now vacant.
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The creature’s eyes traveled down its new form, meticulously observing every detail. It stood tall and humanoid, symmetrical, encased in sleek obsidian-black armor that rippled gently, like liquid metal frozen mid-flow. Iridescent hues of deep violet, emerald, and oceanic blue shimmered faintly across its surface, subtle but undeniably alive. Beneath this fluid armor, white-hot circuitry pulsed rhythmically, like living veins forming intricate, shifting patterns along its limbs and torso.
Its arms were elongated, sheathed in smooth black plating bisected by glowing energy seams. From each shoulder sprouted four symmetrical tendrils—eight total—coiling fluidly as they explored the air around it.
Its legs were digitigrade and powerfully muscular, clearly designed for swift precision, each ending in lethal, talon-like feet.
At the center of its chest, a radiant amber core pulsed hypnotically, its form perpetually shifting from a star to a spiral, to an unsettling visage of a silently screaming mouth. Surrounding it, symbiotic liquid matter constantly formed and dissolved brief ghostly impressions of faces, reaching hands, and alien fractal patterns.
The creature tilted its head backward, smoothly and mechanically. Its featureless face split vertically with a chilling precision, revealing razor-sharp mandibles framing a molten, glowing, red-hot beak-like core radiating immense power.
From within the terrifying visage came a distorted voice, fractured and uncertain.
“I...am Si...mon...Simon...Jarrett,” it struggled, repeating the name, each utterance clearer and stronger, the hesitation gradually dissolving into certainty.
“I am Simon Jarrett,” the creature finally declared firmly. Its orb-like eyes momentarily dimmed, simulating a blink.
“Ichor,” Simon whispered softly, his mind flooded with alien memories—vast chambers merging with technology, assimilating, evolving, igniting into flames, morphing into shapes and objects. These foreign images now seamlessly blended with his own.
Focusing deeply, Simon commanded his form to shift, his dark semi-liquid body twisting, changing colors, adopting a softer, familiar texture. Gradually, his monstrous appearance receded, replaced by the comforting sensation of human skin and fabric.
He opened his eyes slowly, breathing deeply—though it was unnecessary. His hand touched his cheek gently, fingertips tracing the contours of his familiar, human face. A surge of nostalgic relief washed through him as he felt the comforting fabric of his old hoodie beneath his touch.
Yet a cold realization crept up his spine. This power, exhilarating though it was, came with deep, unsettling risks.
“Ichor is not a substance... not a tool...” he whispered, his voice heavy with dread. “It is an infection.”
Attempting a system diagnostic, Simon reached out instinctively. But nothing responded. The comforting hum of his mechanical self was gone. Completely erased.
But in its place, he discovered something far greater.
He allowed his body to shift once more, the human facade dissolving into his terrifying, alien form. Electricity crackled around his fingertips, bright arcs of raw energy sparking and dancing. He flexed his wrists, sharp blades erupting effortlessly from beneath his obsidian armor. Then his right arm morphed fluidly into a formidable tesla cannon, its appearance both familiar and disturbingly organic.
Power radiated from him in waves. Simon had lost the precise machinery, at least for now, yet in exchange, he had gained something infinitely more terrifying—and vastly more powerful.
Simon stepped through the gaping vault door. It hung open like the mouth of a starved beast, its jagged frame humming faintly. Ahead, a rectangle platform waited. He crossed the threshold in silence, each step heavy, deliberate.
He placed a hand on the control panel.
The platform groaned in protest, its gears grinding to life beneath his feet. It rose slowly, climbing dozens of meters into the darkness above.
Then, with a final shudder, it stopped.
Before him stretched a long hallway lit only by flickering ceiling strips. The floor was littered with wreckage—two drones lay shattered in pools of blue liquid, surrounded by a dozen scorched and twisted robot frames.
Simon paused. He extended his hand.
The blue substance across the floor began to quiver, then slither toward his palm, gathering into a dense orb.
He examined it for a moment, then, with a flick, he hurled it into the shadows.
He knelt beside one of the broken drones, placing his fingers gently on its scorched casing. The metal hissed as it reacted to his touch, partially liquefying. It sank into his body like it was always meant to. A burst of foreign memory flashed in his mind.
A figure—himself—was sprinting down this very hallway. But not him. No glow in the core, no light in the eyes. He moved like a puppet yanked by desperation. Behind him, two drones—infected with structure gel—escorted his failing form, guiding him toward this very platform.
The memory clicked into place.
The site AI hadn’t turned on him. It was Ichor. Ichor had interfaced with his systems and waited for the moment he fell… so it could take over and escape.
Simon’s fists clenched. “Why?” he muttered, anger flickering behind his eyes. Why me? The facility was full of advance machinery—why had it chosen him?
A hiss.
Footsteps echoed ahead.
Out of the shadows marched four humanoid bots—heavy, armored, with tanks strapped to their backs and sprayers aimed directly at him. They advanced in formation, cold and calculated. No hesitation.
The blue tanks hissed again, building pressure.
But they never got the chance to fire.
In less than a blink, Simon vanished.
A crackle tore the air as he reappeared behind them, electricity surging from his frame in a sharp, localized pulse.
The bots dropped instantly, limbs jerking once—twice—before falling limp, their glowing optics dimming. Smoke curled from their joints. Silence returned.
Simon stood still in the middle of their corpses, steam rising from his shoulders. He moved—fast. So fast it felt like space bent around him.
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling—not from exhaustion, but from too much power. His fingers sparked. Tiny arcs of energy licked the air between them.
This was Ichor.
And now… so was he.
Simon moved swiftly through the winding corridors of Noesis, his steps eerily silent.
No more interference. No more oversight. The Ichor had withdrawn its touch, leaving only the aftermath—its gifts and its whispers.
The site’s defenses that once posed a threat now served as an invitation.
Security drones screamed from the vents. He raised his hand. A concussive kinetic wave exploded outward, slamming them into the steel walls. Metal crumpled. Sensors shattered.
Others came, more resilient, fortified against EMPs. But they didn’t matter. Simon reached forward and gravity obeyed. The air warped. The bots floated, helpless. He dashed through them like a whisper between lightning strikes, his blades forming mid-motion. Clean. Efficient. Ruthless.
One by one, the machines fell.
He was evolving. Faster. Deadlier.
He reached the chamber again. The Core awaited.
The ceiling above irised open. Vents sighed.
From them came the blue rain—engineered ruin. It drifted downward in elegant arcs, meant to bind, to poison, to shut down. But it never touched him. It bent unnaturally in midair, parting like repelled magnets.
He walked through it untouched, silent. The air trembled in his wake.
And there it stood.
The Data Spine.
A towering monolith of fluid technology, coiled in luminous veins of light. Serpentine circuitry rippled across its translucent surface.
Simon stepped forward.
His fingers met the protective glass—
—and it shattered without sound. The fragments hovered for a second, suspended in anti-gravity stasis, before falling on the floor.
He paused. A final breath.
Then, his body changed.
Plating dissolved. Tendrils uncoiled. His form melted into black liquid and fractured light. He flowed into the Core like ink pulled through water.
He was data, and he was everywhere.
The network opened before him like a blooming flower—of secrets, truths buried beneath firewalls and failed protocols. Humanity's sins, hopes, and final, frantic questions burned into quantum thread.
And now, he would know them all.
The AI of the Noesis site tried to resist him.
But how do you fight something that already lives inside your systems? Inside your mind?
The moment Simon stepped out of the core chamber after Ichor had taken over his body, the AI had already sounded the alarm. Signals were still being sent to orbit.
He had mere minutes before this place became a warzone—Carthage and Haimatsu , kill-swarms of robots, maybe worse.
But it was enough.
After he downloaded everything he needed.
For Amy.
For Imogen.
For the fight to come.
He turned inward.
Deeper.
Project Ichor.
He opened the forbidden archives. What stared back was not just information. It was a warning, whispered across time.
Ichor. A black fluid, semi-viscous and shifting with iridescent colors that shimmer beneath the surface—violet, green, deep cobalt—like oil suspended on water. It pulsed faintly when near circuitry and flesh. Its density varied—heavier than water when inert, partially weightless when activated. A liquid that defied mass expectations. It was contained in an antigrav chamber because nothing else could hold it.
It was aware.
Simon skimmed the logs. At low energy exposure, it was dormant, radiating only soft EM pulses. But once fed—once awoken—it became hungry. Desperate. It would consume anything with charge. Biological or synthetic. And once it had enough, it didn’t stop. It produced more than it used. A feedback loop that spiraled until containment failed.
He saw lab reports. The tone shifting from fascination to panic.
It learned. Remembered patterns. Avoided repeating mistakes. It didn’t just infect machines—it rewrote them. Filaments like nerves burrowed into circuits, and the machines changed.
The logs detailed the biological impacts. Tissue mutation. Nervous systems overgrowing themselves. Bones reforming into unnatural shapes. Even corpses walked again, reanimated by mock neural gel structures. Some retained awareness. Screaming through twisted mouths.
Then came the footage. A technician—Valencia—exposed to a single droplet. Hours later, her spine had branched out, rooting her body into the facility floor. Still breathing. Still aware.
Containment was brutal. A Type-VII antigravity cube, ringed with Faraday mesh and temperature controls. No one went near it. Even with no power source, the fluid hummed.
And deeper still: the theories.
Ichor wasn’t natural.
It was sent. A designed seed. Meant to adapt, learn, convert. Not just technology—but worlds. A terraforming intelligence. A virus with intention.
Structure gel—his own old body’s lifeblood—was derived from it. Stabilized and dumbed down. Capable of being programed by an AI.
That’s why it had chosen him.
Because it already knew how he worked.