Three months before Ciprian saw the first forbidden memory.
Three months before humanity began remembering.
The elevator had no buttons.
Ciprian-8 noticed that immediately.
No controls. No markings. No mirrors. Just polished black walls that reflected him in fragmented pieces.
One version of himself looked nervous.
Another looked older.
Another looked like a stranger.
A voice emerged from nowhere.
“Citizen designation?”
“Ciprian-8.”
“State your purpose.”
“Final interview for Myth Engineering Division.”
Silence.
Then:
“Heart rate elevated.”
“Is that disqualifying?”
No response.
The elevator moved.
Down.
Farther than any building should logically go.
His stomach tightened.
He adjusted the collar of his gray Ministry-issued jacket. Everyone dressed the same now. Same cuts. Same neutral fabrics. Same acceptable colors.
No individuality.
No noise.
No smell except sterile recycled air.
He suddenly remembered something strange—
—his grandfather’s cologne?
No.
Impossible.
That memory vanished before he could grab it.
The elevator stopped.
Doors opened.
The room was too white.
Not hospital white.
Worse.
Engineered white.
Perfect white.
No shadows.
No windows.
In the center sat a single chair.
Across from it, three people.
Motionless.
A woman in severe black.
A thin bald man with translucent skin.
And someone behind smoked glass.
Only a silhouette.
The woman spoke first.
“Sit.”
Ciprian sat.
No table.
Nothing between them.
That felt deliberate.
The bald man studied a tablet.
“Citizen Ciprian-8. Age thirty-seven. Occupational record: logistics systems, archive indexing, educational synthesis drafting.”
He looked up.
“No disciplinary actions.”
“Correct.”
“No relationship pair-bond applications.”
“Correct.”
“No reproductive applications.”
“Correct.”
“No anti-state commentary.”
“Correct.”
The woman leaned slightly.
“No ambition?”
Ciprian blinked.
“What?”
“Ambition is often correlated with dissent.”
He considered the trap.
“Ambition redirected toward state usefulness is considered healthy.”
The woman’s eyebrow moved.
Tiny.
But enough.
The bald man typed.
The silhouette behind the glass shifted.
The woman spoke again.
“Why Myth Engineering?”
Ciprian inhaled slowly.
“Stories shape civilization.”
“That is textbook.”
“Yes.”
“I did not ask for memorized doctrine.”
Silence.
Ciprian adjusted.
“People obey numbers temporarily. They obey stories forever.”
The room changed.
Subtly.
Attention sharpened.
The bald man stopped typing.
The silhouette leaned forward.
The woman asked:
“Examples?”
“Ancient empires used divine kingship.”
“Continue.”
“Religious narratives created moral cohesion.”
“Continue.”
“National myths created sacrifice.”
“Continue.”
“Consumer mythology created identity.”
Pause.
Then:
“Even anti-myth cultures create myths about rationality.”
The bald man looked up.
The woman folded her hands.
“Interesting.”
The silhouette finally spoke.
A male voice.
Deep.
Mechanical calm.
“What is truth?”
Ciprian turned toward the glass.
“Context-dependent.”
“Cowardly answer.”
“Practical answer.”
“Define truth.”
“Consensus reinforced over time.”
“Incorrect.”
Silence.
The voice continued:
“If all humanity agrees the sky is green, is it green?”
“No.”
“Then truth is not consensus.”
“Objective reality exists. Social reality also exists.”
“Which matters more?”
Ciprian hesitated.
Dangerous.
Every answer dangerous.
He chose carefully.
“For governance?”
“Answer.”
“Social reality.”
A pause.
The silhouette:
“Why?”
“Because objective reality can be ignored for a surprisingly long time.”
Silence.
Then—
a quiet sound.
Laughter?
From behind the glass.
The woman stood.
“Phase two.”
The next room was darker.
Warm wood.
Leather chairs.
Almost ancient.
Intentionally unsettling after the sterile white.
A man waited alone.
Old.
Perhaps eighty.
Real wrinkles.
Not rejuvenated.
Which meant rank.
Extreme rank.
He gestured.
“Sit.”
Ciprian obeyed.
The old man poured tea.
Real tea.
Not synth.
Ciprian could smell earth.
Rain.
Leaves.
The old man smiled faintly.
“Do you know how rare this is?”
“The tea?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Most applicants ask the value in credits.”
Ciprian said nothing.
The man sipped.
“What do you feel?”
“About what?”
“This room.”
Ciprian looked around.
“Comfort.”
“Why?”
“It feels human.”
The old man smiled wider.
“Human?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting word.”
Pause.
Then:
“Tell me about your mother.”
The question hit like a punch.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
Ciprian swallowed.
“She worked in educational compliance.”
“Did she love you?”
What kind of question was that?
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“She cared for me.”
“That is function.”
“No.”
“Then define love.”
Ciprian stared.
The old man leaned in.
“Come now.”
“Sacrifice.”
“Parents are programmed to sacrifice.”
“Not always.”
“Then?”
“Choice.”
“Choice can be simulated.”
“Not perfectly.”
The old man smiled.
“Can grief be simulated?”
That question landed strangely.
Too personal.
“Why ask?”
“Answer.”
“Yes.”
“Can love?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning human emotion is computational?”
“Maybe.”
“Then humans are machines?”
Ciprian hesitated.
The old man watched like a predator.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
He stopped.
Because what?
What made people different?
The old man waited.
Ciprian answered quietly.
“Because machines don’t wonder if they’re machines.”
Silence.
A very long silence.
The old man leaned back.
Smiled.
“Good.”
Phase three was worse.
No chairs.
No comfort.
A black room.
Single spotlight.
A female interrogator walked slow circles around him.
Military posture.
Precision movements.
“Citizen Ciprian-8.”
“Yes.”
“Scenario testing.”
“Understood.”
“No. You do not.”
She stopped behind him.
“Your assigned partner confesses ideological deviation.”
“What do you do?”
“Report it.”
“Your father?”
“Report it.”
“Your mother?”
Pause.
“Report it.”
“Your child?”
He inhaled.
“Report it.”
“Lie.”
He turned.
She slapped him.
Hard.
Ringing.
“Do not turn unless instructed.”
Blood in his mouth.
She continued.
“Your child.”
He stared ahead.
“…report it.”
She circled.
“What if your child is innocent?”
“Innocence is determined through review.”
“What if review is wrong?”
Danger.
Danger.
Danger.
Ciprian answered:
“Then the system corrects.”
“Historical evidence?”
Silence.
“Answer.”
“…systems fail.”
“Ah.”
She came into view.
Cold eyes.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The real one.”
She stepped close.
“So.”
Soft voice now.
“What do you believe?”
He said nothing.
She whispered:
“What do you really believe?”
His heart hammered.
This was it.
The replicant test.
Not knowledge.
Identity.
Deviation.
Hidden thought.
She smiled.
“Nothing?”
Ciprian spoke slowly.
“I believe civilization is fragile.”
“Explain.”
“One generation without structure and people become tribal.”
“Continue.”
“Without shared stories, people fracture.”
“Continue.”
“Without authority, chaos.”
“Continue.”
“Without memory…”
He stopped.
Weird word.
Why memory?
She noticed.
“Without memory?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Continue.”
He swallowed.
“Without memory… people become easier to control.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Her face unreadable.
He had gone too far.
Idiot.
Finished.
Then—
she smiled.
“Excellent.”
“What?”
“Most applicants say freedom.”
She stepped back.
“You said control.”
“Was that correct?”
She tilted her head.
“There are no correct answers.”
Bullshit.
“There are only revealing ones.”
Final phase.
The silhouette room again.
Only now the voice behind the glass said:
“One final question.”
Ciprian sat straighter.
“If given the power to rewrite history, what would you change?”
He thought carefully.
A trap.
Any ideological answer could kill him.
“Nothing.”
Pause.
“Why?”
“History produced the present.”
“And?”
“The present selected me.”
Long silence.
Then:
“Interesting narcissism.”
“Efficiency.”
The woman spoke:
“Hypothetical. You discover foundational historical narratives are false.”
Ciprian froze.
“False how?”
“Manufactured.”
His throat tightened.
“Then…”
“Yes?”
“Then people deserve truth.”
Silence.
The bald man typed.
The woman looked up sharply.
The silhouette asked:
“Even if truth destroys civilization?”
He hesitated.
Long.
Too long.
Then:
“…No.”
Silence.
Then he added:
“Not unless something better is ready to replace it.”
Stillness.
The silhouette finally stood.
A shape behind glass.
Tall.
Distorted.
Almost inhuman.
“Why Myth Engineering?”
Ciprian answered instantly now.
Because now he understood.
“Because whoever writes the story writes the species.”
Silence.
Then:
A click.
The glass became transparent.
A face emerged.
Older.
Augmented.
Eyes too still.
Human, but modified.
The Director.
“Welcome, Ciprian-8.”
A faint smile.
“Let us see what kind of myths you can build.”
As he left, a janitor passed him in the hallway.
Old-fashioned mop.
Bent shoulders.
Invisible.
The man glanced at him.
Just briefly.
And whispered:
“Be careful what they ask you to forget.”
Ciprian turned.
But the janitor was already gone.
Only the wet smell of old water remained.
And something else.
Something impossible.
A flicker.
A memory.
Rain on real stone.
Church bells.
A woman singing in a language he did not know—
or somehow did.
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