The Archive of Forgotten Futures

Chapter Four: The Logic of Necessary Monsters

Somewhere beyond the dead city, the ash gave way to glass.

Not smooth, clear glass—but fractured and crooked, like time had shattered and tried to put itself back together without remembering the original shape. Each shard reflected something different: a possible world, an impossible choice, a lie that became law.

Mors Walk stepped carefully across the jagged field. The shards didn't cut him—they remembered him.

Agent Rell followed, more hesitant with each step. The last mission had aged her. That was good. Fragility made people ask better questions.

"What is this place?" she asked quietly.

"A checkpoint," Mors replied.

"Checkpoint for what?"

"For who we are. And what we owe."

He stopped at a shard the size of a doorway. In its warped surface, he saw a version of himself—burning documents, lips curled with emotion. It felt almost alien.

"I remember this one," he muttered.

Rell peered at the reflection. "Is that a timeline?"

"No," Mors said. "That's a lesson."

And he stepped through the glass.

There was no transition, only awareness. Suddenly, they were seated in a dim, circular chamber without walls. The Archive had pulled them in—not through space, but through function.

A voice surrounded them. Mechanical. Genderless. Absolute.

"Cost report requested."

Mors exhaled. "Already."

"You've erased a Type-4 mnemonic recursion. Debt incurred: 17.4 ethical units."

Rell blinked. "Wait. We're... keeping score?"

Mors didn't look at her. "The Archive is a ledger. Everything has a cost. Even forgetting."

"Would you like to justify your expenditure?"

"No," Mors said. "I never do."

"Acknowledged. Authorization granted. Next assignment incoming."

The chamber faded.

They were back in the glass field. This time, a new shard pulsed softly at their feet—marked not with a time, but a warning:

DO NOT FIX. CONTAIN ONLY.

Mors tapped his console. The world folded around them.

Then they were in a forest.

Thick, damp, impossibly still. The air was heavy with the scent of roots and memory. The sky blinked. Stars flickered on and off as if uncertain about being.

"This timeline doesn't feel broken," Rell whispered.

"It isn't," Mors said. "It's aware."

A rhythmic vibration echoed through the trees—like breath or thought or a story being retold again and again.

They moved toward it.

In a clearing sat a child, cross-legged, humming to himself.

Rell slowed. "That's…?"

"The anomaly," Mors confirmed.

"He's just a boy."

"He's also destroyed three timelines by accident."

She stared.

"He's what the Archive calls a narrative node. What he imagines becomes true. In one thread, he dreamed of a sun that never set—the world burned for twelve years."

Rell's voice was tight. "So what now? We eliminate him?"

"No. We contain him."

"Why not erase him?"

Mors looked ahead. "Because the Archive uses monsters—until they're no longer useful."

He stepped into the clearing.

The boy opened his eyes. They were ancient.

"You're not the first," the boy said.

"I won't be the last," Mors replied.

"I'm tired," said the boy.

"I know."

Mors produced a silver ring no larger than a coin.

"This will bind your thoughts. Slow them. Not stop."

The boy stared. "Will I forget?"

"No," Mors said. "But the world will forget you."

The boy nodded. He took the ring.

The moment it touched his skin, the forest exhaled—quiet returned. Stars aligned. Logic flowed again. Reality sighed in relief.

Behind them, the clearing began to fade. Not vanish—forget.

Rell whispered, "He wasn't a monster."

"No," Mors agreed. "But logic doesn't require monsters to be evil. Only... unmanageable."

They turned and walked into the next shard, leaving behind the child and a forest that no longer knew why it existed.