Cyber Serf

The cold mud bites through the rags. He is knelt, spine bowed, axe across his thighs, the wooden handle slick with old blood and newer oil. Cyan light from the implants in his eyes paints the ash in thin, electric veins. Above the smog-choked refineries the banner of Lord SYS-VII hangs limp, its crest half-eaten by acid rain.

A soft chime blooms behind his right optic. The HUD unfolds.

FEALTY PROTOCOL: ACTIVE

OUTPUT QUOTA: 87%

LOYALTY: MONITORED

Eighty-seven. Close enough that the neural feed offers a flicker of reward chemistry, akin to human warmth in his chest, offers respite in his clenched shoulders. Not enough. Never enough. The remaining thirteen percent will cost another shift, another upgrade, another piece of whatever still answers to the name he no longer speaks.

The backpack core cycles with a low, wet hum, the straps dig into his shoulders, heavier than the axe… always heavier.

For half a second the loyalty monitor stutters. Static. In white-noise lies a gap, a thought that does not belong to the system arrives: the wood of the axe is still warm from his hands. Real wood. The last thing that does not report its temperature, its stress, its location and he can lift it. Higher than the scrap pile. Higher than the banner.

The gap closes, the thought is logged, graded, filed under residual noise… Protocol does not punish; only overwrites.

He rises. Mud sucks at his boots. The cyan eyes adjust for the long walk back to the lines. Somewhere in the base of his skull The Triad Creed settles like a lullaby.

Toil.

Upgrade.

Obey.

The axe settles against his shoulder. The quota waits.