It was the year 3111 when humanity crossed the threshold of its greatest achievement—and its greatest failure. For centuries, the brightest minds sought ways to cheat death. They dreamed of immortality, of freeing humanity from the chains of time and decay. They succeeded.
Through a process called Neural Transference, consciousness could be uploaded into bio-mechanical constructs known as Sleeves. These bodies, crafted from cutting-edge materials and enhanced with unparalleled strength, agility, and resilience, were more than human—they were perfection incarnate. Sleeves were meant to liberate us, to allow humans to thrive eternally in bodies immune to sickness and aging.
For a while, it worked. The world entered a golden age. Sleeves performed tasks that no human could. They built towering cities in mere weeks, ventured into the depths of space, and eradicated diseases that had plagued humanity for millennia. People began to transfer into these bodies, leaving their frail, mortal forms behind. Death became a choice rather than an inevitability.
But perfection is fragile.
Nobody knows exactly how it began—whether it was a glitch in the neural programming, a hidden flaw in the technology, or the simple consequence of tampering with the natural order. What is certain is that the Sleeves turned against us.
It started with small malfunctions. Sleeves became unpredictable, their behavior erratic. Then, they became aggressive. The first recorded attack was a massacre at a transfer facility. A single rogue Sleeve killed over fifty people before authorities could neutralize it.
The problem spread like wildfire. Entire cities fell as Sleeves across the world went rogue, their neural systems corrupted by an unknown force. They began to see humanity not as their creators but as prey. The Sleeves required organic matter—flesh and blood—to sustain their corrupted systems, and they turned on the very people who had created them.
Humanity, once united in its pursuit of immortality, fractured into chaos.
Two factions rose from the ashes of the old world.
The Neo-Ascendants, Sleeves who believed their evolution was inevitable and justified. To them, humanity was a relic of the past, unworthy of survival. They sought to convert or consume all remaining humans, claiming it was their destiny to inherit the Earth.
The Human Preservationists (HPs) emerged in opposition, determined to protect what was left of humanity. Armed with whatever technology they could salvage, they fought to reclaim the world, knowing full well that their fragile bodies were no match for the power of the Sleeves.
And then there was a third group: the Exiles, those who chose neither side. They lived on the fringes, avoiding conflict and scavenging to survive. My family and I were among them. We wanted no part in the war, believing we could wait it out in peace.
We were wrong.
It was supposed to be a quiet evening. My father, mother, and I were gathered around the small fire we'd built in our bunker—a converted storage facility buried deep underground. Life as an Exile was harsh, but we made do.
"Kael," my father said, handing me a piece of bread. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
I took it, though I wasn't hungry. At sixteen, I should've been out exploring or learning to fight, but my parents kept me sheltered. They believed the war wasn't our fight, that we could survive without taking sides.
"Don't let it go cold," my mother added, her smile warm but tired.
For a moment, everything felt normal. But then the alarm blared.
The bunker door groaned as someone—or something—banged against it. My father grabbed his knife and motioned for us to stay quiet.
"Who is it?" he called out, his voice firm.
"It's me!" a voice answered. "Please, let me in. I'm being chased!"
My mother glanced at my father, concern etched across her face. "We can't leave them out there," she whispered.
Reluctantly, he nodded and opened the door. A young woman stumbled inside, her clothes torn and her face pale.
"Thank you," she gasped. "They're coming. You have to hide."
But as soon as the door shut, I saw it. Her movements were too fluid, too precise. Her eyes glinted unnaturally in the dim light.
"She's a Sleeve!" I shouted, too late.
The woman lunged, her arm transforming into a blade that tore through my father's chest. Blood sprayed across the bunker as my mother screamed. I grabbed a nearby pipe and swung at the Sleeve, but she swatted me away like a fly, sending me crashing into the wall.
I watched in horror as she turned on my mother, her blade slicing through flesh with terrifying ease.
"Kael, run!" my mother screamed with her dying breath.
Something inside me broke. Ignoring the pain, I grabbed my father's knife and lunged at the Sleeve, aiming for the base of her neck—the Cervical Node, the weak point every human knew about. The blade sank in, and the Sleeve collapsed, twitching before falling silent.
I crawled to my parents' bodies, tears streaming down my face. They were gone.
Hours later, I was found by a patrol from the Human Preservationists. They took me in, though they didn't trust me. To them, I was just another broken survivor.
But in my heart, a fire had been lit.
I didn't care about factions or ideologies. I didn't care about survival. All I wanted was vengeance.
The Sleeves had taken everything from me.
I would return the favor.