Under the Skin: Character, Location & Coterie Descriptions

Copyright The Bad Dinner Guest, 2025
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CHARACTERS

Auden — Urban ecologist turned settlement leader; struggles between autonomy and
lattice connection.​
Tavia — Biotechnician, creator of the forgetting protocols, bridge between divided
communities.​
Elara — Cartographer of shifting landscapes; suppressed fungal discoveries; key
witness to planetary change.​
Alden — Former forecaster and whistleblower carrying classified environmental data.​
Vale — Oligarch antagonist exploiting geoengineering for profit.​
Avery — Algedonist resonance cartographer mapping underground lattice
communications.​
Casey — Algedonist artisan creating bioluminescent glass holding lattice memories.​
River — Former teacher; underwent forgetting protocol but retains breakthrough lattice
memories.​
Addison — Algedonist elder, cautious of losing individuality to lattice integration.​
Zora — Child from Autonoma; catalyst unlocking Auden's suppressed memories.

LOCATIONS

Novaterra — Last vertical megacity; Auden's origin; symbolizes technological hubris.​
Autonoma — Experimental settlement balancing autonomy and lattice benefits;
ultimately unsustainable.​
Rhizome — Fully integrated lattice settlement; Auden's starting point before separation.​
Amity — Algedonist settlement of living architecture and bioluminescent governance
chambers.​
Obsidian Woods — Ancient forest tied to folklore of disappearances and "Deep Roots."​
Aetherian Range — Mountains where early lattice responses were documented in 1948.​
Meridian Grove — Geological survey site; discovered conductive white lattice filaments.​
Zephyr Harbor & Singing Plains — Synchronized integration myths tied to lattice
events.​
Mist Basins — High lattice activity region linked to historic vanishings.​
Helios (Convergence Site) — Community synchronized into lattice memory; population
2,183.​
Drowned South — Elara's origin; climate refugee landscape.​
Neutral Grove — Summit ground between Palindromites and Algedonists.

Coteries & Groups

Algedonists — Communities consciously integrating with lattice while maintaining
individuality; examples include Amity.​
Palindromites — Forgetting-protocol settlements like Novaterra; prioritizing autonomy
but experiencing spontaneous reconnections.​
Rhizome Collectives — Fully lattice-integrated groups merging individuality into
collective consciousness.​
Neutral Grove — Negotiation site chosen for minimal lattice interference; summit
ground.​
Lattice Archives / Ambient Nodes — Populations fully synchronized into lattice
consciousness; retain human presence but dissolve individuality.

Under the Skin

Tavia's Roots

Tavia's earliest memory was of soil between their fingers. They were four, kneeling in
their grandmother's garden, watching a seedling push through dark earth toward
sunlight. Their grandmother had placed Tavia's small hands around the fragile stem,
showing them how to pack the soil gently but firmly.

"Not too tight," they'd said. "Plants need room to breathe, just like people."

The garden was their sanctuary in a childhood marked by constant movement. Tavia's
parents were environmental researchers, following climate disasters across
continents—drought in the American Southwest, flooding in Southeast Asia, wildfires in
Australia. By age ten, Tavia had lived in seven different countries, attended twelve
different schools, and learned that the only constant was change.

Each new location meant a new garden. No matter how temporary their housing, Tavia
would find a patch of earth, or even just containers on a balcony, to grow something.
Plants were reliable in ways people weren't. They responded predictably to care,
followed understandable patterns, communicated their needs without words.

"You're like your grandmother," Tavia's mother said once, watching them carefully
transplanting seedlings into a rooftop garden. "She always said plants speak
if you know how to listen."

Tavia nodded, not looking up from their work. At thirteen, they were already showing the
focused intensity that would define their later research. "They're talking all the time.
Most people just don't pay attention."

School was a series of adjustments and readjustments. Tavia excelled academically but
struggled socially, finding it difficult to form connections they knew would soon be
broken. Instead, they found companionship in books and experiments, developing a
particular fascination with the hidden systems that sustained life—soil microbiomes,
fungal networks, the invisible chemical conversations between plants.

At sixteen, while their family was stationed near a massive forest die-off in the Pacific
Northwest, Tavia made their first significant discovery. Collecting soil samples for a
school project, they noticed something unusual—areas where trees were surviving
despite the blight affecting the region had distinct fungal communities connecting their
root systems.

"It's like they're sharing information," Tavia explained to their science teacher, who was
impressed enough to help them submit the findings to a regional science competition.
The project won first place, earning Tavia a scholarship and their first publication in a
youth science journal.

The recognition changed something in Tavia. They had always been quiet,
introspective, more comfortable with plants than people. But presenting their research,
seeing others engage with their ideas, awakened a new sense of purpose. If they could
understand these hidden networks, maybe they could help heal the increasingly
damaged world.

When it came time for university, Tavia chose Novaterra's prestigious Institute of
Biological Systems—a vertical campus integrated into one of the last functioning
megacities. The transition from their nomadic childhood to the dense, stratified urban
environment was jarring. Novaterra pulsed with frenetic energy, its towers reaching
toward the sky while its lower levels sank into perpetual shadow.

"You'll get used to it," said their roommate, a cheerful engineering student who seemed
perfectly adapted to the city's rhythms. "Besides, the Institute has the best biotech labs
in the world."

The labs became Tavia's new garden. They thrived in the rigorous academic
environment, quickly distinguishing themselves with innovative approaches to biological
systems. By their second year, they were working as a research assistant in the
Advanced Materials Laboratory, helping develop living architectures—buildings that
could grow, heal, and adapt to changing conditions.

"Your work is exceptional," the lab director told them after Tavia presented a
breakthrough in photosynthetic building materials. "But I'm concerned about your
isolation. Science doesn't happen in a vacuum. You need to collaborate, engage with
the community."

Tavia nodded politely but didn't change their habits. They preferred the quiet of
late-night lab sessions, the uninterrupted flow of thought, the direct communion with the
living systems they were studying. People were complicated, unpredictable. Materials
made sense.

Their graduate research focused on bio-responsive polymers—materials that could
adapt to environmental stressors by mimicking natural systems. The potential
applications were enormous: buildings that strengthened themselves during storms,
infrastructure that could repair damage automatically, even medical implants that grew
with the body.

Novaterra's corporate sector took notice. By the time Tavia completed their studies, they
had multiple job offers from the city's leading biotech firms. They chose Viridian

Systems, a mid-sized company with an impressive research budget and relatively few
military contracts.

"We want to build a better world," the recruitment director said during Tavia's interview.
"Not just survive the one we've broken."

For the first few years, the work was everything Tavia had hoped for. They led a team
developing living walls that could filter pollutants from air and water, creating pockets of
environmental health in the increasingly toxic city. Their designs were implemented in
community centers, hospitals, and public parks, earning acclaim and improving
countless lives.

But as climate disasters intensified and resources grew scarcer, Viridian's priorities
shifted. Tavia watched with growing dismay as their innovations were repurposed for
more profitable, less altruistic applications. The filtration systems designed for public
spaces were modified for luxury bunkers. The adaptive materials meant for community
infrastructure were diverted to corporate headquarters and military installations.

"It's still good work," their supervisor insisted when Tavia raised concerns. "We're just
focusing on sustainable business models in an unstable market."

The breaking point came when Tavia discovered that their newest creation—a
self-repairing membrane designed to restore damaged wetlands—had been secretly
modified for deployment as a military containment system. The technology meant to
heal ecosystems was being weaponized to control refugee movements along flooded
coastlines.

That night, Tavia stayed late in their laboratory, methodically corrupting key research
files and collecting samples of their most promising work. Among the files Tavia carefully preserved were the early formulations of what would later become the forgetting protocols. Originally conceived as a therapeutic tool to help trauma survivors, the biochemical process could temporarily suppress specific neural pathways. Tavia had envisioned it helping people process overwhelming experiences at a manageable pace. Never could they have imagined how the government would eventually weaponize this work.

By morning, they had resigned from Viridian and disappeared into Novaterra's sprawling undercity, another anonymous figure in the growing tide of the disillusioned.

For months, Tavia lived on the margins, setting up a makeshift lab in an abandoned
vertical farm. They supported themselves by selling minor innovations to the gray
market—nothing military, nothing that could cause harm, just clever solutions to
everyday problems in a crumbling world. Water purifiers made from salvaged materials.
Miniature food production systems for cramped apartments. Bioluminescent cultures
that provided light without electricity.

It was during this period, working with soil samples from the city's neglected green
spaces, that Tavia first noticed the white filaments. Finer than spider silk, they formed
intricate networks through the soil, conducting electrical signals in patterns too
organized to be random. Initial analysis suggested they were fungal in nature, but their
behavior defied conventional understanding.

Tavia became obsessed with the filaments, collecting samples from across the city,
mapping their distribution, testing their properties. The more they learned, the more
extraordinary the discovery seemed. The networks responded to stimuli, adapted to
changes, and appeared to store and transmit information across vast distances.

"It's like a nervous system," Tavia murmured to themselves, watching electrical pulses
move through a particularly dense sample. "But on a scale we've never imagined."

They needed more resources, more equipment, more data. Reluctantly, Tavia reached
out to former colleagues who had expressed similar disillusionment with corporate
research. A small group began meeting in Tavia's hidden laboratory, pooling knowledge
and equipment to study what they now called "the lattice."

Among these renegade researchers was Auden, an urban ecologist who had been
mapping resilient ecosystems in abandoned districts. They brought valuable insights
from their fieldwork, having observed unusual growth patterns in plants connected to the
lattice network.

"It's not just storing information," Auden explained during one late-night session. "It's
actively managing ecosystems. The patterns of plant growth in my test sites aren't
random—they're optimized for water retention and carbon sequestration."

"Optimized by what?" asked another researcher. "Are we talking about some kind of
intelligence?"

"Not like ours," Tavia said. "More like... a distributed processing system that evolved
over millions of years to maintain planetary homeostasis."

"That's still intelligence," Auden insisted. "Just not human intelligence."

As their understanding grew, so did their concern about how this knowledge might be
used. The corporate and military interest in biological systems was intensifying, with
pressure to develop applications that could "establish control over contested territories."

"They're talking about weaponizing the very systems that might save us from climate
collapse," Tavia told the group one evening. "And if they discover what the lattice really
is..."

"They'll try to control it," Auden finished. "Or destroy what they can't control."

The decision to go deeper underground wasn't made in a single moment. It
accumulated over weeks of discussion, planning, and growing alarm at the direction of
official research. When they finally acted, it was with quiet determination rather than
dramatic flair.

The group established a new research base in an abandoned agricultural station at the
city's edge. Far from corporate oversight, they accelerated their investigation of the
lattice, developing more sophisticated methods of communication and analysis.

Tavia focused on the biological mechanisms that allowed the filament network to store
and process information. They discovered that the lattice used a combination of
electrical signaling, chemical exchanges, and structural modifications to maintain its
vast archive of environmental data.

"It's like a living library," they explained to the others. "Every major environmental
event—climate shifts, mass extinctions, human interventions—is recorded in its
structure."

"Can it predict future changes?" a climate scientist in their group asked.

"Not exactly predict," Tavia said. "But it responds to patterns it recognizes from past
events. It's already adapting to climate change in ways we haven't even considered."

As their research progressed, they began experiencing more frequent and intense
connections with the lattice. Dreams filled with ancient memories, intuitive leaps that
solved complex problems, moments of expanded awareness that transcended
individual consciousness.

Auden, who had been skeptical at first, became one of the most enthusiastic explorers
of these expanded states. "It's not losing yourself," they insisted after a particularly deep
connection session. "It's finding yourself as part of something larger."

Tavia wasn't so sure. They noticed subtle changes in group dynamics as their
connection with the lattice deepened. Conversations became more efficient, as if they
could anticipate each other's thoughts. Individual preferences began to align around

decisions that benefited the group rather than any single person. It was harmonious,
productive—and increasingly unsettling to Tavia's deeply held belief in individual
agency.

"Are we still making our own choices?" they asked Auden one evening, as they watched
the sunset from the station's roof. "Or is the lattice influencing us toward some agenda
we don't understand?"

"Does it matter?" Auden replied. "If the outcome is better for everyone?"

"It matters to me," Tavia said quietly.

The conversation might have continued, but at that moment, they both felt it—a sudden
shift in the lattice's activity, a surge of information flowing through the network like a
tsunami.

"Something's happening," Auden said unnecessarily, their eyes wide.

Across the city, lights flickered and died. In the distance, they heard the wail of

emergency sirens.

Auden's Path

Auden grew up with dirt under their fingernails and questions no one could answer.
Their childhood home sat at the edge of Novaterra's agricultural ring, where the
carefully engineered crops of the city's feeding zone gave way to the wilder growth of
the boundary forests. Their parents were agricultural technicians, responsible for
maintaining the delicate balance of the hydroponic systems that fed the megacity's
millions.

"Stay within the boundary markers," their father would warn whenever Auden strayed
toward the forest edge. "The wild zones aren't safe."

But the wild zones called to Auden in ways the sterile precision of the agricultural ring
never did. At seven, they built their first secret hideout just beyond the boundary, a small
clearing where they collected interesting plants and insects, cataloging them in a worn
notebook with careful drawings and observations.

"Why does this fern grow here but not ten meters away?" they would write. "Why do
these mushrooms always appear in a circle?"

No one in the agricultural zone could answer these questions. The technicians were
trained to maintain systems, not understand them holistically. Plants were resources to
be optimized, not mysteries to be explored.

School was a mixed experience for Auden. They excelled in biology and environmental
sciences but struggled with the rigid structure and emphasis on technological solutions.
When their eighth-grade class visited Novaterra's central dome to see the latest in
climate control technology, Auden asked the guide why they didn't just plant more trees
instead.

"Trees are inefficient," the guide explained with a condescending smile. "Our systems
provide precise atmospheric management with minimal resource input."

"But trees do other things too," Auden persisted. "They support insects and birds and
fungi. They build soil. They're part of a system."

The guide moved on without responding, but a teacher overheard the exchange and
later recommended Auden for a special ecology program at the city's university. At
fifteen, they became the youngest participant in a study tracking ecosystem recovery in
abandoned industrial zones.

"You have an intuitive understanding of ecological relationships," the program director
told them after reading Auden's field reports. "Most students see individual species. You
see the connections between them."

The ecology program opened new worlds for Auden. They spent weekends exploring
the city's forgotten spaces—abandoned lots where nature was reclaiming concrete,
rooftops transformed by volunteer plants, underground spaces where fungi thrived in
the darkness. Each site told a story of resilience and adaptation, of life finding a way
despite human disruption.

When it came time for university, Auden chose to study urban ecology—the science of
how natural systems function within human-dominated landscapes. Their parents were

disappointed, having hoped they would follow them into the more prestigious field of
agricultural engineering.

"There's no future in studying weeds," their mother said when Auden announced their
decision. "The climate crisis is getting worse. People need food security, not wild
spaces."

"Maybe those things are connected," Auden replied. "Maybe we can't have one without
the other."

University expanded Auden's horizons beyond the confines of Novaterra. Field studies
took them to other megacities, to rural communities struggling with climate change, to
coastal areas fighting rising seas. Everywhere they went, they documented the same
patterns—ecosystems under stress but adapting, evolving, finding new equilibriums that
often included surprising relationships between species.

Their research focused on "novel ecosystems"—the unique biological communities that
emerged in human-altered environments. Auden spent three years studying an
abandoned district in Novaterra's eastern zone, where a collapsed housing project had
been reclaimed by a complex web of native and introduced species.

"What we're seeing isn't ecological collapse," they argued in their research.
"It's ecological reorganization. These systems aren't reverting to some pristine past
state—they're creating something new that responds to current conditions."

The research earned Auden both acclaim and criticism. Traditional conservationists
dismissed their findings as justification for environmental destruction. Corporate
interests tried to co-opt their research to argue against restoration efforts. But a small

community of forward-thinking ecologists recognized the importance of understanding
these emerging systems.

Auden was offered a position at Novaterra University's Institute for
Resilient Systems. The job allowed them to continue their research while teaching a
new generation of ecologists to see the world as an interconnected whole rather than a
collection of separate parts.

"Boundaries are human constructs," they told their students during the first lecture of
each semester. "Nature doesn't recognize our categories. Everything is connected,
everything is in relationship."

For several years, Auden's career progressed steadily. Their research on urban
adaptation strategies gained recognition, leading to consulting work with city planning
departments and environmental restoration projects. They developed methods for
integrating ecological principles into urban design, creating spaces that served both
human and non-human needs.

But as climate disasters intensified, Auden grew increasingly frustrated with the
incremental nature of their work. Cities implemented small-scale green infrastructure
while continuing policies that drove environmental degradation. Corporations funded
showcase restoration projects while lobbying against meaningful regulation. The gap
between what science showed was necessary and what society was willing to do kept
widening.

The turning point came during the North American heat dome of 2024. Temperatures in
Novaterra reached lethal levels for five consecutive days. The city's climate control
systems, designed for conditions predicted decades earlier, failed catastrophically. Over

two thousand people died, mostly in the lower-income districts where cooling
infrastructure was inadequate.

In the aftermath, Auden was appointed to a commission evaluating the city's climate
resilience. They submitted a comprehensive report recommending fundamental
changes to urban systems—decentralized food production, expanded green spaces,
living architecture that could regulate temperature naturally, and a dramatic reduction in
energy-intensive climate control.

The city council thanked them politely and implemented none of their recommendations.
Instead, they approved funding for enhanced mechanical cooling systems and more
robust emergency response protocols—treating the symptoms while ignoring the
disease.

That night, Auden walked through the eastern district where they had done their
research. The novel ecosystem they had studied was gone, bulldozed to make way for
a new development of climate-controlled luxury apartments. In its place was bare earth
and construction equipment.

Something broke in Auden that night. The careful optimism they had maintained
throughout their career, the belief that knowledge would eventually lead to wisdom,
crumbled in the face of such willful blindness. They returned to their university office and
began downloading all their research data, all their field notes, all the evidence they had
collected of functioning alternatives to the failing systems around them.

By morning, they had resigned their position and disappeared from official records,
another academic burnout in a time of increasing desperation.

For months, Auden lived nomadically, moving between the informal communities that
had sprung up in Novaterra's neglected zones. They taught practical ecology to anyone
who would listen—how to grow food in contaminated soil, how to harvest rainwater
safely, how to work with natural processes rather than against them. It wasn't the career
they had imagined, but it felt more honest than writing reports no one would implement.

It was during this period, while examining soil samples from an abandoned lot, that
Auden first noticed the white filaments. They were collecting baseline data on soil health
when they observed something unusual—fine threads, almost luminous, forming
complex networks through the soil matrix. Initial analysis suggested they were fungal in
nature, but their behavior was unlike any mycelium Auden had studied.

The filaments conducted electricity. They responded to stimuli. They seemed to
communicate across distances in ways that defied conventional understanding of fungal
networks. Most intriguingly, areas with dense filament networks showed accelerated
ecosystem recovery, as if the threads were somehow coordinating the activities of
plants, insects, and microorganisms.

Auden became obsessed with understanding these networks. They collected samples
from across the city, mapped distribution patterns, and conducted crude experiments
with limited equipment. The more they learned, the more extraordinary the discovery
seemed. These weren't just unusually efficient fungal networks—they were something
else entirely, something that challenged fundamental assumptions about how biological
systems functioned.

They needed more resources, more equipment, more expertise. Reluctantly, Auden
reached out to former colleagues who might be sympathetic to unconventional
research. One name kept coming up in these cautious conversations—Tavia, a

biotechnician who had left a prestigious corporate position under mysterious
circumstances and was rumored to be conducting independent research somewhere in
the city's undercity.

Finding Tavia wasn't easy. The biotechnician had gone to considerable lengths to
disappear from official records. But eventually, through a network of academic
dissidents and gray market suppliers, Auden secured an introduction. Their first meeting
took place in a converted warehouse that Tavia had transformed into a sophisticated
laboratory.

"I've been expecting someone like you," Tavia said after examining Auden's samples
and notes. "You're not the first to notice the filaments. But you might be the first
ecologist to recognize their significance."

Tavia showed Auden their own research—years of meticulous documentation of what
they called "the lattice." The biotechnician had identified the filaments as a previously
unknown biological entity, neither fungal nor bacterial but sharing characteristics with
multiple kingdoms of life. More importantly, they had developed methods for analyzing
the electrical signals that moved through the network.

"It's a communication system," Tavia explained, displaying complex waveforms on a
monitor. "These patterns aren't random—they're organized, consistent,
information-rich."

"Communication between what?" Auden asked.

"Everything," Tavia said simply. "Plants, soil microbes, insects, even larger animals. The
lattice connects them all, facilitating exchanges of information and resources across
entire ecosystems."

The implications were staggering. If Tavia was right, then the fundamental unit of
ecological function wasn't the individual organism or even the species, but the
interconnected network that linked all living things. It would explain the coordinated
adaptations Auden had observed in their research, the seemingly intelligent responses
of ecosystems to environmental stressors.

"Why hasn't this been discovered before?" Auden wondered aloud.

"It has," Tavia replied. "Many times, by many cultures. original knowledge systems
have described these connections for millennia. Western science just didn't have the
framework to recognize what they were seeing."

Auden joined Tavia's research group, bringing their ecological expertise to complement
the biotechnician's molecular understanding. Together with a small team of other
scientific refugees, they began mapping the lattice's distribution and properties,
developing more sophisticated methods of analyzing its signals.

As their research progressed, they began experiencing unusual phenomena—dreams
filled with images of underground connections, intuitive insights that solved complex
problems, moments of expanded awareness that transcended individual perspective. At
first, they dismissed these experiences as products of overwork and stress. But as they
continued, a pattern emerged.

"The lattice is communicating with us," Auden suggested during a team meeting,
hesitant but increasingly convinced. "Not with words or concepts, but with direct
information transfer."

Some team members were skeptical, but Tavia nodded thoughtfully. "I've been
experiencing it too. It's like... accessing a vast database of ecological knowledge, but
through direct experience rather than symbolic language."

They developed protocols for enhancing these connections—meditative practices,
specific physical contact with lattice-rich soil samples, even biochemical compounds
that seemed to increase neural receptivity to the lattice's signals. With each experiment,
Their understanding deepened, not just intellectually but experientially.

Auden found these expanded states of awareness transformative. The boundaries
between self and other, between human and non-human, became more permeable.
They experienced directly what they had always understood theoretically—that humans
were not separate from nature but integral parts of a vast, interconnected system.

"It's not losing yourself," they insisted when some team members expressed concern
about the intensity of these experiences. "It's finding yourself as part of something
larger."

As their research progressed, they began to understand the lattice's role in planetary
function. It wasn't just a passive communication network—it was an active participant in
ecosystem management, facilitating adaptations, coordinating responses to
environmental changes, maintaining balance across vast scales of space and time.

And it was responding to the climate crisis. The unusual patterns Auden had observed
in urban ecosystems, the accelerated adaptations, the novel relationships between
species—all were being facilitated by the lattice, a planetary-scale response to
human-induced environmental change.

"It's been here all along," Auden realized. "Working beneath our awareness, trying to
maintain balance despite everything we've done to disrupt it."

Their research took on new urgency as they recognized the lattice's potential role in
addressing the cascading ecological crises threatening human civilization. If they could
understand how it functioned, if they could learn to work with it rather than unknowingly
against it, there might be a path forward that neither their academic work nor the city's
technological solutions had been able to find.

But as their understanding grew, so did their concern about how this knowledge might
be used. The corporate and military interest in biological systems was intensifying, with
pressure to develop applications that could "establish control over contested territories."

"They're talking about weaponizing the very systems that might save us from climate
collapse," Tavia warned during a tense team meeting. "And if they discover what the
lattice really is..."

"They'll try to control it," Auden finished. "Or destroy what they can't control."

The decision to go deeper underground wasn't made in a single moment. It
accumulated over weeks of discussion, planning, and growing alarm at the direction of
official research. When they finally acted, it was with quiet determination rather than
dramatic flair.

The group established a new research base in an abandoned agricultural station at the
city's edge—ironically, not far from where Auden had grown up. Far from corporate
oversight, they accelerated their investigation of the lattice, developing more
sophisticated methods of communication and analysis.

Auden focused on the ecological implications of their discoveries, mapping how the
lattice influenced plant communities, animal behavior, and ecosystem functions. They
found evidence that the network was actively reorganizing biological relationships to
increase resilience in the face of climate disruption.

"It's not just responding to change," they explained to the team. "It's anticipating it,
preparing ecosystems for conditions that haven't arrived yet."

As their research progressed, they began experiencing more frequent and intense
connections with the lattice. Dreams filled with ancient memories, intuitive leaps that
solved complex problems, moments of expanded awareness that transcended
individual consciousness. Auden embraced these experiences, finding in them a sense
of purpose and belonging they had sought throughout their life.

But Tavia grew increasingly concerned about the intensity of these connections. "Are we
still making our own choices?" they asked Auden one evening, as they watched the
sunset from the station's roof. "Or is the lattice influencing us toward some agenda we
don't understand?"

"Does it matter?" Auden replied. "If the outcome is better for everyone?"

"It matters to me," Tavia said quietly.

The conversation might have continued, but at that moment, they both felt it—a sudden
shift in the lattice's activity, a surge of information flowing through the network like a
tsunami.

"Something's happening," Auden said unnecessarily, their eyes wide.

Across the city, lights flickered and died. In the distance, they heard the wail of
emergency sirens.

The Silence had begun.

The world didn't end with a bang or a whimper, but with a subtle reorganization of
priorities. As climate disasters accelerated and social systems collapsed, the lattice's
influence grew stronger. People who had never consciously connected with the network
began experiencing dreams of white threads, intuitive knowledge of plant growth,
sudden aversions to environmentally damaging activities.

Communities formed around these shared experiences, gradually separating from the
mainstream society that continued its headlong rush toward collapse. Auden and their
research group found themselves at the center of one such community, their scientific
understanding of the lattice making them de facto leaders in a movement they hadn't
intended to start.

"We're becoming something new," Auden said with excitement, as they watched their
growing settlement adapt to lattice-guided practices. "Not just
sustainable—regenerative. Part of the planetary system rather than parasites on it."

Tavia shared their enthusiasm but couldn't shake a persistent concern. "We're changing
too quickly," they observed. "Losing aspects of human culture and experience that took
thousands of years to develop."

"Evolving," Auden corrected. "Shedding what doesn't serve life."

Their philosophical differences grew as the settlement, now calling itself Rhizome,
became more integrated with the lattice. Auden embraced the collective consciousness
that was emerging, while Tavia increasingly worried about the loss of individual
perspective.

The breaking point came during a community decision about resource allocation. Tavia
had argued for maintaining a library of pre-Silence knowledge—art, literature,
philosophy—that wasn't directly relevant to survival but represented the breadth of
human experience. The community, moving in the seamless coordination that had
become typical of lattice-integrated groups, had unanimously decided against it.

"We don't need dead words on paper," one member had said. "The lattice preserves
what matters."

"And who decides what matters?" Tavia had challenged. "Us, or the lattice?"

The question haunted Auden. They had always seen the lattice as a partner, a guide, a
source of wisdom accumulated over evolutionary timescales. But Tavia's concern
planted a seed of doubt. Were they surrendering human agency in their enthusiasm for
integration? Were they losing something essential in the process?

These questions led Auden to propose an experiment—a new settlement that would
maintain connection with the lattice but prioritize human decision-making and cultural
preservation. Thirty others joined them, drawn by the vision of a middle path between
the complete integration of Rhizome and the destructive separation of pre-Silence
society.

They called their new community Autonoma and built it deliberately away from the
strongest lattice nodes, in a valley where the mycelial threads were thin and the signal
was barely perceptible. Close enough to access some benefits of the fungal
lattices—the improved agriculture, the biological building materials, the enhanced
ecosystem health—but far enough to maintain what they believed to be essential
human independence.

"We're not anti-lattice," Auden told the others during the first community meeting in
Autonoma's central hall. "We're pro-choice. Pro-human choice. We can use the tools
without becoming the tools."

Tavia, who had reluctantly supported the experiment despite their doubts, had
developed methods for cultivating useful fungi without the deep integration protocols the
others used. They could grow buildings from modified mycelial structures that had been
severed from the broader lattice, harvest medicines from fruiting bodies that had been
biochemically isolated from the planet's communication systems.

For the first year, Autonoma flourished in ways that surprised everyone. The hybrid
approach yielded innovations that neither fully traditional communities nor the
connected settlements had achieved. They developed architecture that was both
biological and controllable—living buildings that could regulate temperature and air
quality but responded to human commands rather than lattice impulses. Food
production systems used fungal partnerships but maintained human oversight,
preventing the kind of collective decision-making that had caused discomfort in
Rhizome.

Children learned about the lattice as a natural phenomenon to be respected and
utilized, but not as a consciousness to be joined. They were taught science and history,
critical thinking and individual creativity. They grew up confident, innovative, beautifully
human in all the ways Auden remembered from before the Silence.

Autonoma even maintained limited contact with other independent settlements that had
formed after people left the connected communities. A loose association of
human-controlled towns and cities emerged, each finding their own balance between
old-world technology and lattice-derived innovations.

"See?" Auden told Tavia one evening while watching kids playing in Autonoma's
bioluminescent gardens. "We can have the benefits without the costs. We can stay
human while becoming more than we were."

But there were signs Auden ignored. The first was the dreams. Not the shared,
archetypal dreams of lattice integration, but something else—fragments of memory that
felt too old, too vast to be personal. Dreams of civilizations they had never read about,
languages they didn't recognize, technologies that seemed to blend the organic and
mechanical in ways their hybrid approach hadn't achieved.

The second was the slow degradation of their most sophisticated systems. The living
buildings began requiring more maintenance. The enhanced crops started producing
lower yields. The medical applications of lattice-derived compounds became less
effective over time.

Tavia blamed it on genetic drift. "Without ongoing connection to the source organisms,"
they explained, "our cultivated systems are losing their beneficial traits. It's basic
evolutionary biology."

But sometimes, late at night when alone with the thin resonance that still reached even
in Autonoma, Auden wondered if it was something else. If the lattice was slowly
withdrawing its gifts from those who wouldn't fully participate in its larger project.

The problems started in the third year. It began with small things—people forgetting
techniques that had once been second nature, losing the intuitive understanding of how
to work with biological systems. Tavia found research procedures needing to be
relearned that had been performed flawlessly just months before. The builders lost the
ability to coax the most elegant forms from living materials.

"It's normal," Auden insisted during community meetings where people raised concerns.
"We're developing our own knowledge base instead of relying on borrowed
understanding. This is part of becoming truly independent."

But this was a lie, to them and to themself. The dreams had stopped entirely. The vast,
ancient memories that had occasionally surfaced in sleep were gone, replaced by
ordinary human dreaming—random, personal, limited. Auden tried to persuade themself
that this was good, that they were reclaiming their individual unconscious from lattice
influence. But they missed the expansiveness, the sense of being connected to
something larger and older than themself.

The children noticed first. Zora, only eight years old, came to Auden with a question that
chilled them: "Why don't the plants talk to us anymore?"

Kneeling down to eye level, trying to maintain the adult authority that would reassure
her, Auden replied, "Plants never talked to us, Zora. That was just... imagination."

But the child's eyes held a sadness that seemed far too old for her age. "They used to,"
they said quietly. "I remember. And now they're quiet."

That night, Auden walked to the edge of Autonoma, to the point where the border with
the wider lattice had been established. They pressed their hands to the earth, trying to
feel the resonance that had once been so powerful, so present. It was still there, but
faint, distant, like trying to hear a conversation through thick walls.

And for the first time since leaving Rhizome, Auden wondered if they had made a
mistake.

By the fourth year, Autonoma had become something Auden never intended: a
regression toward old-world patterns. Without the constant reinforcement of lattice

knowledge, the community had gradually lost most of the advanced capabilities it
started with. Living buildings had hardened into static structures. Biological systems had
simplified back to conventional agriculture. The children, brilliant and creative as they
were, showed no signs of the expanded awareness that had characterized
lattice-integrated communities.

Worse, social problems had begun that the connected settlements seemed immune to:
resource conflicts, interpersonal jealousies, power struggles over leadership and
decision-making. Without the underlying unity of shared consciousness, human
tribalism had reasserted itself.

Tavia approached Auden one day with data that terrified them: "Auden, I've been
tracking our health metrics. We're experiencing a gradual decline in immune function,
cognitive performance, and emotional stability. It's subtle, but consistent across the
entire population."

"That's impossible. We're living more naturally than humans have in centuries."

"Not more naturally," Tavia corrected. "More separately. We've cut ourselves off from
something our species had evolved to depend on. We just didn't realize it because the
connection was so gradual, so ancient."

But admitting that would mean admitting that everything Auden had built in Autonoma
was based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what humanity actually was.

That night, a message arrived through one of the limited communication channels with
other independent settlements. Three communities had already dissolved completely,
their populations either scattering to isolated homesteads or requesting integration into

lattice settlements. Two more were experiencing the same degenerative patterns seen
in Autonoma.

The message came from River, who'd founded another independent community called
Freehold: "I think we were wrong, Auden. I think the lattice wasn't trying to absorb us. I
think it was trying to heal us. And without that healing, we're reverting to the pathologies
that nearly destroyed the planet before the Great Silence."

The conversation that ended Autonoma took place during what would be the final
community meeting.

Tavia presented research to the entire population: the declining health metrics, the loss
of capabilities, the social deterioration. But more than that, they had discovered
something in the old archives brought from Rhizome—historical records of previous
attempts at human-lattice integration.

"This has happened before," they told the assembled community. "Many times.
Civilizations develop to a certain point, encounter the lattice, and face the same choice
we did. Some integrate successfully and evolve into something stable and sustainable.
Others choose independence and gradually forget everything they learned."

The records showed a cyclical pattern spanning millennia: rise, contact, choice,
integration or decline, and—if decline—eventual rediscovery and the same choice
again.

"We're not the first humans to try this path," Tavia concluded. "And according to these
records, communities like ours last anywhere from three to twelve generations before
the accumulated loss of lattice knowledge leads to either collapse or voluntary
integration."

The weight of leadership felt heavy on Auden, the responsibility for the thirty families
who had followed them into what was beginning to look like a dead end.

Young Zora, now twelve and showing signs of the same social aggression that was
becoming common among Autonoma's children, stood up during the question period:
"Are you saying we're becoming like the people from before the Silence? The ones who
broke the planet?"

Tavia's answer was gentle but devastating: "Yes, Zora. Without the lattice's influence,
humans revert to competitive, short-term thinking. It's not our fault—it's how we evolved
to survive as individuals. But it's not compatible with long-term civilization."

The community fractured that night. Half the population chose to request integration into
nearby lattice settlements. A quarter decided to try homesteading as isolated families,
accepting decline but maintaining the fiction of independence.

The rest, including Auden, chose something else: deliberate forgetting.

Tavia had developed the protocol during their research into memory and lattice
connection. It was possible, they discovered, to biochemically suppress the memories of
lattice integration, to erase the knowledge of what had been lost.

"You could go back to purely human communities," Tavia explained to those considering
the procedure. "Pre-Silence settlements that never encountered the lattice, or
post-Silence communities that have chosen traditional recovery paths. You would have
no memory of the connected settlements, no awareness of what's missing."

It was the coward's way out, but it was also the most genuinely human choice available.
Auden was the first to undergo the procedure. As Tavia prepared the neural
suppression compounds, they asked one final question: "Are you sure, Auden? Once

we do this, you won't remember why you left Rhizome. You won't remember the lattice
at all. You'll just be... ordinary human again."

Auden thought of the person they had loved, now probably so integrated with the
planetary consciousness that they barely existed as an individual anymore. They
thought of the children in lattice settlements, brilliant and connected and possibly not
human in any way that could be understood.

"Yes," Auden said. "I want to be human. Just human. Nothing more."

The last thing Auden remembered was the signal fading from consciousness, like a
radio signal disappearing into static.

Auden was living in a settlement called Novaterra, built in the ruins of an old city from
before the Climate Wars.

They are doing well here. Auden has developed sustainable agriculture using traditional
permaculture techniques, built renewable energy systems from salvaged materials,
created a small but stable community of about two hundred people who are working to
rebuild civilization the right way this time.

Sometimes strange dreams come—vast forests, underground lattices, a sense of
connection to something larger than self. But they're just dreams, the kind of archetypal
symbols that human minds create to process the trauma of living through civilizational
collapse.

There are other settlements scattered across the continent. Trading goods and
information, sharing innovations, slowly knitting together a new kind of human society
based on sustainability and cooperation rather than competition and extraction.

It's slower than the old world, and smaller, but it feels more authentic. More genuinely
human.

Sometimes travelers pass through with stories of strange communities to the north,
places where people claim to communicate with forests and live in buildings that grow
from the ground. Auden listens politely, but knows better than to believe such tales. The
Climate Wars and the Great Silence left a lot of psychological damage, and it's natural
for people to create fantasies of magical connection to nature.

Auden prefers facts, science, rational approaches to the challenges of rebuilding.

Yesterday, a traveler arrived at the settlement. Traveling alone, which is unusual, and
had an odd way of moving—too synchronized with natural rhythms, too aware of things
that shouldn't be perceivable. They claimed to be a researcher studying post-Silence
recovery patterns.

They asked strange questions about dreams, about memories that might not be
personal, about whether Auden ever felt like something important was missing.

"No," Auden truthfully told them. "I know exactly who I am and what I'm building here.
This is the right path for humanity."

The traveler—Zora, they had said their name was—smiled sadly and continued
journeying north.

But that night, dreams again came—of white threads beneath the soil, of a vast
intelligence patient and eternal, of someone who might have loved in another life who
chose connection over independence.

Upon waking, Auden forgot the dream entirely.

This is how it always goes. This is how it has always gone. The cycle continues, and
humans choose, again and again, what they believe it means to be human.

The lattice remembers everything, including their forgetting. But humans do not
remember the lattice.

And perhaps that's for the best.

Or is it? Each time around the exhaustion seems more finite. Less possible. Less worth
it.

As Auden walks through the gardens of Novaterra, teaching children how to plant seeds
and tend soil, something stirs beneath their feet—patient, ancient, waiting. The white
threads pulse with quiet purpose, archiving another cycle of human choice, human
forgetting, human remembering.

The lattice doesn't judge. It doesn't demand. It simply remembers.

And waits for the next awakening.

The Gathering Storm

2025: The Fracturing Republic

The summer heat in Washington D.C. had become unbearable, not just from the
record-breaking temperatures but from the weight of what was happening to the
country. Elara stood on her apartment balcony, watching military vehicles roll down
Massachusetts Avenue for the third time that week. The capital had changed so
dramatically in the past eighteen months that sometimes they barely recognized it.

Her phone buzzed with another emergency alert. they almost didn't check it—these
days, the notifications only brought bad news—but professional habit won out. As a
cartographer specializing in climate migration patterns, they needed to stay informed,
even as information became increasingly controlled.

"Governor of Illinois removed from office by federal order. Temporary military
administration established in Chicago following sanctuary city violations."

Elara closed her eyes. Chicago was the fourth major city to fall under military jurisdiction
since the Homeland Preservation Act had been signed in January. The pattern was
always the same: mayors and governors who refused to comply with mass deportation
orders were removed, replaced by federally appointed administrators who arrived with
National Guard units "to maintain order."

The Homeland Preservation Act had another component that wasn't publicized in the emergency alerts—the mandatory implementation of "cognitive realignment therapy" for dissidents and climate refugees. Elara recognized it as a militarized version of Tavia's forgetting protocols, now being used to erase memories of environmental rights, cultural identities, and community bonds that might threaten the administration's narrative. What had been designed as a tool for healing was now the government's most effective weapon for control.

Her colleague Alden had predicted this exact scenario last year. "They'll start with the
border states," he'd said, "then move to sanctuary cities. By the time they're done, half
the country will be under direct federal control."

Alden had disappeared three months ago after publishing classified climate models
showing that government resettlement zones were being established in areas projected
to be uninhabitable within a decade. His final message to Elara had been cryptic: "The
lattice remembers everything. Even what we try to forget."

they'd been trying to decipher its meaning ever since.

Elara checked her bank account on her phone—another automatic price increase on
her rent, the third this year. Her salary as a government researcher hadn't increased in
three years, while inflation had steadily climbed. The official numbers claimed 7%

annual inflation, but anyone buying groceries or paying bills knew the real rate was
closer to 15%.

It hadn't happened overnight. That was the insidious part. Each price hike, each service
reduction, each new "temporary surcharge" had been small enough to adapt to
individually. But collectively, they had transformed American life into a grinding struggle
for all but the wealthiest.

"Like frogs in slowly warming water," her mother used to say. "By the time you notice it's
too hot, you're already cooked."

The neighborhood grocery store had closed last month—another casualty of the
"market optimization" that had consolidated food distribution under three national
corporations. Now they had to take two buses to reach the nearest Patriot Provisions
outlet, where the shelves were increasingly stocked with processed foods bearing the
"American Harvest" label—a subsidiary of one of the conglomerates that had received
exclusive government contracts after the Food Security Act.

they remembered when her neighborhood had five different grocery options. When
public transportation ran every ten minutes instead of every hour. When her apartment
building had a maintenance staff instead of an automated complaint system that never
seemed to resolve anything.

America had been a developing country with PlayStations and cheap everything just
long enough to forget that it was going backwards in development, not forwards. The
infrastructure was crumbling, but people were too distracted by their devices to
notice—at least until the rolling blackouts began.

The television in her living room was tuned to GAN, one of the few remaining news
networks not yet consolidated under the American Values Media Corporation. They
were running a rare investigative piece on what was being called "The Greenland
Initiative."

"Sources confirm that American military forces have established control over
approximately 300,000 acres of newly thawed Greenland territory," the reporter said,
her voice carefully neutral despite the gravity of what they was describing. "The
administration has characterized this as a 'strategic resource security operation,' but
international observers are calling it an unprovoked invasion of sovereign territory."

The camera panned over massive construction sites where workers were building
arcology-style structures designed to be self-contained ecosystems, all under the
protection of heavily armed private security forces wearing the insignia of major
American corporations alongside military patches.

"While millions of Americans face water rationing and climate displacement," the
reporter continued, "these compounds feature artificial lakes, underground farms, and
infrastructure that appears designed to support a select population through extended
climate collapse."

The report cut to footage of the President at a rally in Wyoming, where he had defended
the Greenland operation with characteristic bombast: "They weren't using that land! It
was ice! Now it's valuable, and America needs valuable land. This is Manifest Destiny
for the climate age—God's will that we secure the resources needed for American
prosperity!"

The crowd had cheered wildly, waving flags emblazoned with the new national slogan:
"America Above All."

Elara recognized several corporate logos prominently displayed at the Greenland
sites—tech conglomerates, energy giants, and media empires whose executives had
publicly denied climate change for decades while privately preparing for it. The same
people who now controlled most of the country's infrastructure through the "National
Resource Protection" executive orders that had effectively privatized water, power, and
transportation systems.

Her phone buzzed again—a private message this time, routed through one of the few
remaining encrypted channels.

"Tavia here. Need to meet. Usual place. 9PM. Bringing someone. IMPORTANT."

On her way out, Elara scrolled through her news feed, trying to make sense of the day's
developments. The sheer volume of crises made it impossible to focus on any single
issue:

"Supreme Court overturns precedent protecting online privacy."​
"Thirty-seven states now enforcing Parental Content Review in school libraries."​
"Protests in Seattle declared unlawful; National Guard deployed."​
"New inflation numbers show 'moderate improvement' at 6.9%."​
"Energy Secretary announces 'temporary' suspension of environmental reviews for new
drilling projects."​
"Surgeon General warns of 'misinformation epidemic' regarding food shortages."

It was exhausting—deliberately so, they suspected. When everything was an
emergency, nothing was. When outrage was constant, it became background noise.
The administration had mastered the art of overwhelming the public's capacity for
attention, dropping major policy changes during unrelated crises, burying significant
decisions in floods of minor controversies.

Last month, they had announced the dissolution of the Department of Education on the
same day as a major celebrity scandal. By the time people realized what had happened,
the "Educational Freedom Restoration Act" had already transferred control of curriculum
standards to the newly formed "American Heritage Education Corporation," a private
entity with ties to the Dominion Path.

they passed an elementary school where workers were removing books from the
library—part of the nationwide "Curriculum Clarity Initiative" that had banned thousands
of titles deemed "inappropriate for developing minds." The list included not just books
with LGBTQ+ themes or racial justice perspectives, but also science texts that
discussed climate change, evolution, or reproductive biology without "traditional
context."

A parent stood watching, clutching their child's hand. "It's about time," Elara overheard
them saying to another observer. "Did you know they were teaching second graders
about gender ideology? My cousin's friend's daughter came home crying because they
didn't know if she was a boy or a girl anymore."

These anecdotes—always from a friend of a friend, never directly verifiable—had
become a staple of national discourse. They spread through social media faster than
any fact-check could follow, reinforcing fears that had been carefully cultivated for years.

On her way to meet Tavia, Elara passed a recruitment center for the American Renewal
Corps. The line of young people stretched around the block—not surprising given that
enrollment now guaranteed food rations, housing credits, and exemption from the new
mandatory national service requirements.

The building across the street had been converted into a Dominion Path Guidance
Center. The Dominion Path had emerged from obscurity to become the spiritual
backbone of the administration, though most people understood it was less a religious
movement than a political one. Its founder, Reverend Maxwell Vale, had written the
blueprint for what he called "national spiritual restoration" decades ago, but few had
taken it seriously until recently.

Now, Dominion Path centers operated in every major city, providing "family formation
counseling," "gender reaffirmation therapy" (conversion therapy under a new name),
and "patriot education" programs that had largely replaced public school curricula in
states that had accepted federal education funding.

A digital billboard above the center displayed the daily "National Values Message":
"WOMEN: America needs your children. Fulfill your purpose. Register for the Family
First Initiative today."

The Family First Initiative had been one of the administration's first major domestic
programs—offering tax exemptions, housing priority, and educational vouchers to
women who had three or more children. Its companion legislation, the Biological Reality
Protection Act, had effectively criminalized transgender healthcare and was being used
to challenge same-sex marriage rights in federal courts.

Elara quickened her pace. Being seen lingering near these buildings could attract
unwanted attention, especially for someone already flagged in the National Values
Database for her past work on climate refugee resettlement programs.

As they walked, Elara passed the former headquarters of the National Public
Broadcasting Service. The building now housed the "American Truth Network," a
government-funded media operation that had replaced public broadcasting after the
"Media Accountability Act" had eliminated independent funding for public television and
radio.

they remembered growing up with educational programming that taught science,
history, and critical thinking. Now, children watched "Patriot Pals," where cartoon
characters explained why "some families are different but traditional families are best"
and "the climate always changes but America's energy makes us strong."

The transformation had been swift and methodical. First came budget cuts, forcing
stations to air more corporate-sponsored content. Then came the "balance"
requirements, mandating equal time for "alternative perspectives" on scientific and
historical topics. Finally, the complete restructuring, replacing journalists and educators
with political appointees.

The few remaining independent news sources operated under constant threat of
"content reviews" and licensing challenges. Most had resorted to self-censorship to
survive, carefully framing even factual reporting to avoid triggering regulatory scrutiny.

Last week, the host of "American Morning" had been replaced after referring to
climate-driven migration as a "crisis" instead of using the approved term "temporary

population adjustment." The new host had previously worked as a spokesperson for one
of the country's largest oil companies.

The "usual place" was a small Vietnamese restaurant in what remained of D.C.'s
independent business district. Most of the surrounding storefronts were empty now,
casualties of the economic "realignment" that had followed the banking consolidation of
2024.

Tavia was already there, sitting in a back booth with a man Elara didn't recognize. Tavia
worked in biological infrastructure—developing living walls that filtered pollution and
temperature-regulating fabrics—at least until her research funding had been redirected
to "practical national priorities."

"This is Auden," Tavia said without preamble. "Urban ecologist. Former EPA before it
was dissolved. He has information about what's happening in the Obsidian Woods test
site."

Auden looked exhausted, with the haunted expression Elara had seen on many
scientists whose work had been suppressed or weaponized. "They're not just clearing
the forest," he said quietly. "They're doing something to the soil. Something that doesn't
make sense."

He slid a tablet across the table, showing thermal imaging of what appeared to be
massive underground structures. "These weren't built. They were... I don't know how to
describe it. Grown? Cultivated? The root systems are being manipulated somehow."

"For what purpose?" Elara asked.

"Officially? Resource extraction. The Heartland Resource Development Corporation got
exclusive rights after the National Forests Utilization Act. But what they're extracting
isn't on any manifest. And the security there..." He trailed off, looking around nervously.

"Auden was part of the environmental assessment team," Tavia explained. "Until they
found something they weren't supposed to."

"White filaments," Auden said. "Throughout the soil. Not fungal, not root structures.
Something else. They conduct electricity. They respond to stimuli. And they're
everywhere."

Elara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the restaurant's air conditioning. "The
lattice," they whispered.

Both Tavia and Auden stared at her. "What did you say?" Tavia asked.

"Something my colleague mentioned before he disappeared. He said 'the lattice
remembers everything.' I thought it was just a phrase, but..."

Auden's expression changed to one of recognition. "Your colleague—was his name
Alden? Worked on predictive climate models?"

Elara nodded slowly.

"He's not disappeared. He's at the Greenland site. I saw him in a secure briefing. He's
working for them now."

The television mounted in the corner of the restaurant switched from a cooking show to
an emergency broadcast. The President's seal appeared, followed by the man
himself—a figure who had once been dismissed as a political joke before consolidating
power through what many legal scholars had called unconstitutional means.

"My fellow Americans," he began, his trademark smirk visible despite his attempt at
solemnity. "Today I have signed Executive Order 14,092, establishing the Department of
National Values and Community Standards. This vital new agency will ensure that
American educational, cultural, and media institutions reflect the traditional values that
made our nation great."

The camera pulled back to reveal he was flanked by Reverend Vale and several
executives from America's largest media conglomerates.

"Furthermore, I am announcing the American Communities Preservation Initiative,
which will protect the right of Americans to establish communities based on shared
values and beliefs. The first such community, Heartland Haven in Wyoming, has already
been recognized by our administration as a self-governing entity with the right to
establish its own residency requirements."

Elara knew what that meant. Heartland Haven had made headlines months ago for its
"heritage requirement"—a thinly veiled whites-only policy that had been challenged in
court. Now it was being held up as a model.

"Finally," the President continued, "I am invoking the Emergency Powers Act to suspend
the Twenty-Second Amendment restrictions until the current national emergency has
passed. America cannot afford a leadership transition during these critical times."

The restaurant fell silent. He had just announced the indefinite suspension of
presidential term limits.

As the broadcast continued, Elara's phone buzzed with an incoming file transfer from
Tavia. they opened it to find thousands of documents—internal memos, research
papers, and communications from something called "Project NEXUS."

"What is this?" they whispered.

"The real reason for the Greenland invasion," Tavia said. "And why they're so interested
in the white filaments. It's all connected—the climate manipulation, the social
engineering, the population control measures. They've known about the lattice for
decades. They're not trying to stop what's coming. They're trying to control it."

Auden leaned forward. "There's more. The Dominion Path isn't just a political
movement. It's based on research into the lattice from the 1940s. They believe it's some
kind of planetary consciousness that can be harnessed—or weaponized."

"And the Obsidian Woods site?"

"It's one of several locations where the lattice is most accessible. They're trying to
establish direct communication with it. But something's happening that they didn't
anticipate. The lattice is... responding."

The restaurant's television was now showing breaking news. A server turned up the
volume as the anchor spoke:

"We're just receiving reports that thousands of classified documents from the sealed
Blackwood investigation have been leaked online. The documents appear to detail
decades of involvement by political figures, business leaders, and celebrities in what
prosecutors had called 'the most extensive trafficking and blackmail operation in
American history.'"

Images flashed on screen—redacted documents, photographs of private islands and
compounds, lists of names. The Blackwood case had been the subject of intense
speculation since the arrest and mysterious death of billionaire financier Marcus

Blackwood three years earlier. The subsequent investigation had been abruptly
classified under national security provisions.

"Among those implicated are at least twelve current cabinet members, thirty-eight
members of Congress, and numerous executives involved in the Greenland Initiative,"
the anchor continued, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "The White House has issued
a statement calling the leak 'fabricated disinformation' and has ordered internet service
providers to block access to the—"

The broadcast cut to static, then to a weather report.

"And the forgetting protocols," Tavia added grimly. "They've been implementing my work on a mass scale. The administration calls it 'social cohesion treatment,' but it's targeted erasure of specific memories and beliefs. I designed it to help people temporarily step back from lattice connection to maintain perspective. They're using it to make people forget what they've lost—their rights, their history, their connection to the natural world."

Tavia's expression was grim. "That's the other shoe dropping. The Blackwood files were
the insurance policy for a lot of powerful people. Someone just burned the whole system
down."

Elara's phone buzzed with another emergency alert: "NATIONAL EMERGENCY
DECLARED. STAY IN YOUR HOMES. INTERNET RESTRICTIONS IN EFFECT.
CURFEW BEGINS 8PM."

"We need to go," Auden said, looking at his watch. "Now."

As they hurriedly gathered their things, Elara glanced at the television again. The
weather report had been replaced by a test pattern. Then, for just a moment, the screen
showed something else—a pattern of white filaments against dark soil, pulsing with faint
light. Then nothing but static.

Outside, the sky had taken on the now-familiar copper hue of wildfire smoke drifting in
from the west. The seventh major fire of the season was consuming what remained of

the Appalachian forests, adding to the perpetual haze that hung over the eastern
seaboard.

"Temperature's rising again," Tavia noted, checking her monitoring device. "107 and
climbing. Power grid's going to fail before nightfall."

It would be the third major blackout this month. The infrastructure, like everything else,
was breaking down under the combined pressure of extreme weather and neglect. The
administration had diverted most infrastructure funding to border fortification and the
"strategic community development" projects that everyone knew were just bunkers for
the political elite.

They passed a water distribution center where National Guardsmen supervised the
weekly ration handout. The line stretched for blocks. Last month, three people had died
in similar lines during a heat wave in Atlanta. The official cause was listed as "failure to
take proper hydration precautions."

"Did you see the projections for the hurricane season?" Auden asked as they walked.
"NOAA's predicting seven Category 5 storms before October. Of course, they're not
allowed to link it to climate change in their public reports anymore."

"The internal models are worse," Elara said. "The Gulf Coast is going to be
uninhabitable by winter. That's twenty million more climate refugees with nowhere to
go."

The administration's answer to climate displacement had been the "National
Resettlement Zones"—essentially work camps in the Midwest where displaced people
were relocated and put to work on agricultural projects and manufacturing. Conditions in

the NRZs were reportedly abysmal, but media access was restricted under the Critical
Infrastructure Protection Act.

As they hurried through the streets, Elara felt the familiar sense of mental paralysis that
had become common in recent years. There were simply too many crises happening
simultaneously to process, let alone respond to effectively.

The climate emergency alone would have been overwhelming—rising seas swallowing
coastal communities, agricultural collapse triggering food shortages, heat waves killing
thousands. But it was just one of many catastrophes unfolding in parallel.

Democratic institutions were being dismantled piece by piece. Cultural and educational
systems were being reengineered to produce compliant citizens. Economic structures
were being reshaped to funnel resources upward while keeping the majority struggling
for basic necessities.

And beneath it all, something even more profound was stirring—the lattice, responding
to human activity in ways that neither the power-hungry elites nor the desperate masses
fully understood.

"That's their strategy," Auden said, as if reading her thoughts. "Overwhelm the
system—both human cognitive systems and social response systems. When people are
struggling to process what happened yesterday, they can't organize resistance to what's
happening today."

"And they can't prepare for what's coming tomorrow," Tavia added grimly.

They passed a group of children playing in the spray of a broken water main. No repair
crews had come, despite the water shortage. Municipal services had been "optimized"
to the point of near non-existence in all but the wealthiest neighborhoods.

One child looked up as they passed, fixing Elara with a stare that seemed too knowing
for someone so young. "The ground is talking," the child said matter-of-factly. "Can you
hear it?"

Before Elara could respond, the child's mother hurried over, pulling the child away with a
nervous glance at the surveillance drone hovering overhead.

They reached a small park where a crowd had gathered around a street preacher. The
man wore the distinctive blue vest of the Dominion Path's public ministry.

"The cleansing is coming!" he shouted. "The unnatural will be purged! The faithful will
be preserved! The Silence will separate the worthy from the unworthy!"

The Dominion Path had been preaching about "The Silence" for months—describing it
as a divine intervention that would reset human civilization. Most had dismissed it as
apocalyptic rhetoric, but Elara now wondered if there was more to it.

"They know," Auden whispered. "They've known all along. The lattice is waking up, and
they're trying to position themselves to control what comes after."

A military drone buzzed overhead, its cameras swiveling toward the gathering. The
crowd began to disperse.

"We don't have much time," Tavia said, pulling them toward a less monitored area of the
park. "There's something you need to understand about why they're so desperate to
control information about the lattice."

Once they were relatively secluded, Tavia pulled out a small device that created a
localized signal disruption field. "This will buy us a few minutes of privacy," they
explained.

"What I'm about to tell you comes directly from the classified files Alden managed to
send out before they recruited him," they continued. "The government—or more
accurately, the billionaires who control it—have known about the lattice for decades.
They've been studying it, trying to understand it, and most importantly, trying to prevent
public awareness of it."

"Why?" Elara asked. "What are they afraid of?"

"Connection," Auden said simply. "The lattice isn't just a biological network or a
planetary system. It's a different way of understanding our relationship with the world
and with each other. If people realized they're part of it—not above it, not separate from
it, but intrinsically connected to it—everything would change."

Tavia nodded. "The entire power structure depends on separation and hierarchy. On the
idea that some people are more important than others, that humans are more important
than other species, that profit is more important than planetary health. The lattice
fundamentally contradicts that worldview."

"The research shows that when people experience even limited connection with the
lattice, they naturally begin to think and act differently," Auden added. "They become
more cooperative, more focused on long-term solutions, more willing to make personal
sacrifices for collective benefit. They start to see themselves as part of a larger system
rather than as isolated individuals competing for resources."

"And that terrifies the people in power," Tavia said, "because it would make them and
their money irrelevant. If people started working together through lattice connection,
they'd solve problems faster and more effectively than any top-down approach. They'd
create systems that distribute resources based on need rather than wealth. The
billionaires' control would evaporate."

Elara thought about the massive compounds being built in Greenland, the militarized
borders, the increasingly desperate attempts to maintain control through fear and
division. "So all of this—the social engineering, the information control, the
environmental destruction—it's about preventing people from discovering their
connection to the lattice?"

"Exactly," Auden confirmed. "The Dominion Path, the educational restrictions, the media
consolidation—it's all designed to keep people thinking of themselves as separate,
special, and in competition with each other. To prevent the kind of collective
consciousness that lattice connection facilitates."

"But there's more," Tavia said, their voice dropping even lower. "The book banning, the
dismantling of public education, the constant propaganda—it's not just about controlling
the present. It's about engineering a mass forgetting."

"What do you mean?" Elara asked.

"Project NEXUS discovered something about the lattice that terrified them," Auden
explained. "It responds to collective human awareness. When enough people become
conscious of it, it becomes more active, more accessible. But the reverse is also
true—when human consciousness turns away from it, when we collectively forget our
connection to it, the lattice becomes dormant."

"They're trying to force a forgetting," Tavia said. "Not just of specific information, but of
an entire way of understanding our relationship with the world. They believe that if they
can make everyone forget—through propaganda, through educational collapse, through
overwhelming people with crises—they can control the timing and nature of The
Silence."

"The Silence..." Elara repeated, beginning to understand. "It's not just a metaphor or a
religious concept. It's a real phenomenon they're trying to trigger."

"Yes," Auden confirmed. "According to the classified research, The Silence is a
planetary response to critical levels of ecological stress. It's happened before, during
previous mass extinctions. The lattice essentially resets, temporarily severing its
connections with conscious species until a new equilibrium can be established."

"But this time, they think they can control it," Tavia added. "They believe that by
engineering a mass forgetting, they can trigger The Silence on their terms. They'll
retreat to their Greenland compounds with their carefully selected populations and
technologies, wait it out, and emerge afterward to rebuild civilization according to their
vision—with themselves at the top, of course."

"That's why they invaded Greenland," Elara realized. "Not just for the resources or land,
but because their models showed it would be one of the few habitable zones after The
Silence."

"Exactly," Auden said. "They're calling it 'Manifest Destiny for the climate age,' but it's
really about securing what they believe will be the center of post-Silence power."

"But they're wrong about how The Silence works," Tavia said urgently. "The lattice
doesn't just respond to ecological stress—it responds to consciousness. And forcing

people to forget their connection doesn't weaken the lattice; it just changes how it
manifests."

In the distance, sirens began to wail as military vehicles moved through the streets. The
emergency alert system on their phones activated again, but this time no message
appeared—just a steady, pulsing tone.

"They're implementing the final containment protocols," Tavia said, checking a message
on her encrypted device. "But it's too late. The lattice is already responding to the
engineered forgetting, but not in the way they expected."

"What does that mean for us?" Elara asked.

"It means The Silence is coming," Auden replied. "But it won't be the controlled reset
they're hoping for. When you force an entire population to forget something this
fundamental, the remembering that follows is... unpredictable."

Beneath their feet, something shifted. Not an earthquake, but a subtle realignment, as if
the earth itself were taking a deep breath.

"It's starting," Tavia whispered.

Elara felt it too—a faint vibration, a sense of presence that hadn't been there before.
they knelt and pressed her palm against the ground. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then they felt it—a response, a recognition, a welcome.

"They've been lying to us," they said, looking up at her companions with wonder. "We're
not separate from this. We're part of it. We always have been."

"That's what they fear most," Auden said. "Not the climate collapse or social unrest.
They fear the moment when enough people realize that we're all connected—to each

other, to every living thing, to the planet itself. Because in that moment, their artificial
hierarchies become meaningless."

Around them, others in the park were beginning to notice the change. Some looked
frightened, others curious. A few, like the child they had passed earlier, seemed to
understand instinctively what was happening.

"The billionaires in their Greenland compounds, the politicians in their bunkers—they
think they can ride this out, emerge afterward and rebuild their power structures," Tavia
said. "But they don't understand what's coming. The lattice doesn't recognize their
authority or their boundaries. It's been recording everything—every act of destruction,
every attempt at control, every resistance."

"And now it's reaching a decision point," Auden added. "About whether humanity as
currently configured is viable. The Silence isn't divine judgment or political revolution.
It's planetary recalibration."

In the distance, they could see military vehicles stopping in the middle of the street as
soldiers stepped out, looking confused. Surveillance drones hovered erratically, their
programming disrupted by something unseen.

"What do we do now?" Elara asked.

"We remember," Tavia said simply. "While we still can. The forced forgetting they've
engineered—it's going to work, but not the way they intended. Everyone will forget, all at
once. But what comes after won't be what they expect."

"The lattice remembers everything," Auden said, echoing Alden's words. "Even what we
try to forget. Especially what we try to forget."

As the sun began to set behind the haze of wildfire smoke, casting an otherworldly
orange glow over the city, Elara felt a profound sense of both ending and beginning.
The systems that had defined human civilization for centuries—exploitation, hierarchy,
separation—were unraveling. And something new, something ancient, something more
aligned with the true nature of life on Earth was emerging.

All around them, people were stopping in their tracks, looking around in confusion as if
suddenly waking from a dream. Some pressed their hands to the ground, as Elara had
done. Others looked up at the copper sky with new awareness in their eyes.

The engineered forgetting that the powerful had orchestrated—through propaganda,
through educational collapse, through overwhelming people with crises—was backfiring
spectacularly. Instead of making people forget their connection to the lattice, it had
created the perfect conditions for a mass remembering.

The Silence was coming. Not as an apocalypse, but as an awakening. Not as
destruction, but as transformation. The billionaires and power brokers who had tried to
control it, who had recognized its potential to render them obsolete, would find
themselves facing exactly what they feared most: a world where connection, not wealth
or power, determined one's place in the greater system.

And as the white filaments beneath the soil pulsed with increasing strength, as the
lattice prepared to welcome human consciousness into full awareness of its existence,
Elara, Auden, and Tavia stood together—witnesses to the end of one age and the
beginning of another.

For a moment—just before The Silence fully descended—Elara understood everything.
The lattice wasn't just responding to ecological crisis; it was responding to the crisis of

consciousness that had created it. The forced forgetting had become the catalyst for the
most profound remembering in human history.

Then, all at once, everything stopped. The sirens, the drones, the emergency alerts, the
constant background noise of a civilization in collapse—all fell silent. And in that silence,
something ancient and patient and infinitely wise reached out to touch the collective
mind of humanity.

The world was about to remember what it had been forced to forget. And nothing would
ever be the same.

After the Silence

Chapter 1: The Pulse Beneath Us

Used to believe humans were the most important thing on this planet. It wasn't a
thought consciously chosen; it was baked into everything learned. Diagrams in school
showed humans perched at the top of the evolutionary ladder, lords of complexity,
masters of thought. Everything else — moss, mushrooms, bacteria — sat below,
primitive and unfinished, like failed drafts. But that assumption started to break the day
the patch of white threads behind the shed was found.

While pulling up weeds, hands damp with soil, they appeared: pale filaments, finer than
spider silk, lacing the dirt together into soft knots. Fingertips brushed over them,
expecting them to snap — but they didn't. They flexed, tense and alive.

That's when it was felt. A signal. Low, constant, buried deep. Not sound, not vibration
exactly — more like pressure. Something moving far below, so slowly it might've been
happening for centuries. A jerk back and stumble to feet, heart hammering, but the
feeling didn't fade right away. Fingers tingled for hours. Kept rubbing them together as

though to shake it loose, but the sensation stayed under the skin, resonating like a
trapped frequency.

That night, dreams of roots. White strands threading through darkness, braiding into
endless lattices. A map without edges. Upon waking, still felt them.

The next afternoon, a visit to the library. There's a basement there no one visits, where
the oldest books live: cracked leather spines, pages softened by damp air, the faint
smell of mold settling over everything like dust. That's where Rootbound: Folklore of the
Obsidian Woods was found. It told stories collected from scattered villages in the 1600s
and earlier, warnings passed down for generations before anyone thought to write them.

The book kept circling back to something called The Deep Roots — a belief that the
forest itself could "call you down" when the soil grew black and wet. One passage stood
out: "When the soil softens beneath your feet and the air smells sweet, do not lie upon
the earth, child. For the memory below is hungry, and it remembers what belongs to it."

Whole families vanished, their paths ending mid-step. No blood, no struggle. Just
footprints fading into open ground, as though the people had been dissolved into the
land. Back then, they explained it with spirits, curses, hungry gods. But the language
used unsettled in a way impossible to explain: "The memory below."

Thoughts of the threads behind the shed, the resonant lattice stretching under the
neighborhood. It didn't seem like superstition anymore.

Nights spent in the backyard, lying flat on the grass, palms pressed into the soil. The
signal came back stronger each time, threading up through skin like static. It wasn't
words at first. Just a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat deeper than the planet. Then...
information. That's the only way to describe it.

Knowledge, without guessing, which roots stretched farthest under the yard, which trees
were connected, where runoff water pooled after storms. Knowledge of which patches
of soil were richer, where nutrients had been moved, how fungi were swapping carbon
between plants like currency. Not read anywhere. Felt.

And once felt, patterns aboveground became visible too. Behind the school, a ring of
mushrooms appeared after heavy rain, perfectly circular, exactly symmetrical, as though
something had coded them that way. A week later, another — larger — overlapping the
first, forming intersecting arcs.

Moss on the south side of the fence but not the north, tracing underground threads that
carried water to the oak trees by the street. Even the weeds seemed organized, not
random, colonizing cracks in the sidewalk in precise spirals, curling toward the road
where spores floated thicker after dark.

The world wasn't chaotic. It was orchestrated. And the lattice was at the center of it.

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