Project Brainburn

Purge and Fracture(1)

The transport touched down on the roof before full dawn.

Kane stepped from the hatch, his footing unsteady. Not from exhaustion—the physical toll was negligible for a spec ops soldier—but from a lingering sense of weightlessness, as if his body hadn't fully readjusted to terrestrial gravity after surfacing from the deep.

Alicia waited at the edge of the landing pad, her white coat stirring in the morning breeze.

"The file." Kane tossed the waterproof pouch.

She caught it, but her eyes were on him, not the package. "Injuries?"

"Grazed." Kane gestured to his left arm—a tear in the suit, blood seeping beneath. "Kovalenko's dead. Four guards down. The rest didn't catch up. Estate surveillance was implanted with a virus; all records will be overwritten within twenty-four hours."

"Clean." Alicia turned. "With me. Medical."

They crossed the pad, entered an elevator. As it descended, Kane watched his reflection in the metal doors—pale, eyes bloodshot, stubble making him look gaunt.

"Mission duration exceeded parameters by eleven minutes," Alicia said, watching the floor numbers. "What happened?"

Kane was silent for two beats.

Should he say it? The vision of the casing? The flash of the brain tank?

"Kovalenko discovered me earlier than projected," he offered, a partial truth. "Caused a delay."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

The elevator stopped at Sub-Level Three. The doors opened to a pure white corridor, lit by cold, sterile lights. Transparent glass walls lined both sides, revealing labs filled with humming equipment and busy technicians in white coats.

The medical suite was at the far end. Kane entered; the door hissed shut behind him.

"Remove your top. Lie down." Alicia pointed to the diagnostic bed in the center.

Kane complied. The metal surface was ice against his back. Alicia pulled on medical gloves and began treating the wound on his arm—disinfectant, salve, a bio-patch. Her movements were efficient, almost mechanical.

"You hesitated in the elevator," she said, not looking up.

"What?"

"When I asked what happened. You paused for two seconds before answering." She discarded a b****y swab. "Spearhead, you never hold back with me."

Kane stared at a ventilation grate in the ceiling. "Tired, maybe."

"Maybe." Alicia finished, turned to a sink to wash her hands. "Mnemonic purge in thirty. Standard pre-purge rest period is in effect. Get some calories in."

She pulled a nutrient paste tube from a wall cabinet and tossed it to him.

Kane caught it, twisted the cap, and squeezed the contents into his mouth. It tasted of standard protein composite—not foul, but utterly devoid of being called food. He swallowed, his throat dry.

"Every time I eat this, I can't remember what the last one tasted like," he said.

"The paste formula is standardized." Alicia dried her hands. "Things with no mnemonic value don't need to be remembered."

"Like the missions?"

"Especially the missions."

Alicia moved to a control console. Complex waveforms and data streams flickered across the screen. Kane didn't understand them, but he knew they were his—his "neural profile," always called up before a purge to set the parameters.

"Purge level?" he asked.

"Level Three. Standard post-op." Alicia's fingers slid across the interface. "It will clear mission-associated memory, emotional residue, and any extraneous thoughts potentially disruptive to future task execution."

"Including the color of Kovalenko's study rug?"

"Including."

Kane fell silent. The nutrient paste sat like a lump in his gut.

He closed his eyes. In the darkness, the casing spun again.

"Doc," he said suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember our first meeting?"

Alicia's hand stilled.

The only sound was the low hum of equipment. Five seconds passed before she replied, "Why ask?"

"Don't know." Kane kept his eyes closed. "Just popped up. Feels like… a lab somewhere? You were in a white coat, no glasses. You said, 'Welcome to the Brainburn Project.'"

The silence stretched longer.

"Standard induction briefing," Alicia said, her voice regaining its flat calm. "Everyone gets one. Nothing worth keeping."

"Is that so."

"Lie still."

Kane felt the cool adhesive pads press against his temples, forehead, the back of his skull. Six electrodes in total, connecting him to the device they called the Mnemonic Purger. When it activated, it emitted a low-frequency sound, like a distant swarm.

"Purge initiates in three minutes," Alicia said. "This one may cause discomfort. Bear with it."

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

Alicia came to stand beside him, looking down. The screen's light reflected in her glasses, obscuring her eyes.

"Spearhead," she said softly, "if you saw anything… anomalous during the mission. Illogical flashbacks, or a sense of being somewhere else. You need to tell me."

Kane opened his eyes. "Why?"

"For your neural health." Her tone was clinical. "Post-implantation, compatibility issues can arise. We monitor and adjust parameters."

"I saw a shell casing."

Alicia's pupils contracted slightly.

"What casing?"

"Kovalenko used a revolver. The fired round, its casing fell on the carpet." Kane watched her. "I looked at it, and I saw another one. On a metal floor. With a combat boot stepping on it."

"...Anything else?"

"The deep sea. Feeling immersed in fluid. Eyelids gummed." Kane paused. "And… a glass tank. With a brain floating inside."

When he said the last part, he distinctly felt Alicia's breath hitch for half a beat.

"Normal neural phantoms." Alicia straightened, returning to the console. "The purge will handle them."

"What do those images mean?"

"Nothing. Like dream fragments. Random neuronal firing." Alicia adjusted a parameter. "Ready?"

Before Kane could answer, the humming intensified.

A current shot through his temples.

Not exactly pain—more an internal pressure, as if an invisible hand were smoothing out the folds of his brain. Recent memories began to crumble like sandcastles. He "saw" Kovalenko's study fading, the file's wax seal blurring, the gunshot receding, the image of the casing shattering into light points…

But something resisted.

Not conscious resistance—his consciousness was being scrubbed clean, a blackboard wiped—but something deeper, etched into the very wiring of his neurons. Like a riverbed; water could scour away surface silt, but the bed's shape remained.

The casing.

The boot.

The stars on the shoulder insignia.

These images didn't vanish. Under the current's**, they grew sharper. As if the purge wasn't erasing them, but sweeping away the dust covering them, revealing the rusted but stubborn metal beneath.

"Gh—" A choked sound escaped Kane's throat.

"Relax. Don't fight it." Alicia's voice came from far away. "Resistance damages synaptic connections."

But he couldn't control it.

The deep-sea sensation returned. This time, he *felt* it unequivocally—the immersion in a cold, viscous fluid carrying a faint electric tingle. His eyelids were heavy, not from sleep, but from physical fluid pressure.

Then he heard voices.

Not through his ears. They resonated directly in his mind:

*"Coordinates confirmed. Target building three."*

*"Fire support in thirty. Prepare to breach—"*

*"Sir! Ambush on the flank!"*

*"Sterling! You son of a b***h, you led us right into—"*

Gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

A man's face flashed—middle-aged, white, eyes like a frozen lake, devoid of emotion. Stars on his shoulder boards glinted through smoke.

The face was speaking, lips moving, but Kane couldn't hear the words.

He only saw the final mouth shape. It looked like:

*"Sorry."*

Then came the bullets.

Not one. Many, from all directions, piercing body armor, tearing into flesh. The pain wasn't linear; it exploded, like grenades detonating inside him. He looked down, saw his chest blooming with blood, too much blood, unreal—

"Stop!"

Alicia's voice yanked him back.

The humming ceased. The electrode pads detached. Kane jackknifed into a sitting position, gasping, sweat plastering his hair, streaming down his neck.

He looked at his chest.

The suit was intact. No bullet holes. No blood.

"What did you see?" Alicia gripped his shoulder, hard.

"A battlefield… A betrayal…" Kane panted. "An officer. Stars on his shoulders. His name was… Lee something… William… Sterling?"

"Enough." Alicia released him, turning to rapidly operate the console. "Purge aborted. Residual carryover is more severe than projected."

"Who was he?" Kane stared at her back. "That officer?"

"A non-person." Her voice was cold. "A conflation between your memory implants and the real-world mission parameters. Kovalenko was ex-Soviet military. Your subconscious superimposed him onto simulated hostile commander profiles from your training."

"But the name—"

"Randomly generated." Alicia pulled up a report on screen. "See? Your training record. Simulation thirty-seven. Hostile commander codename 'Ice Lake.' Profile parameters: middle-aged Caucasian male, starred insignia. The system's random name generator includes 'Sterling' as an option. Your brain assembled fragments during the purge."

The document on screen looked official, with seals and ID numbers.

Kane studied it for a few seconds.

It was too complete. Unnaturally complete.

"So it's all false?" he asked.

"It's all false." Alicia shut off the screen. "But your neural response was dangerous. The purge triggered a rebound effect, reinforcing erroneous connections. You require additional sedation."

She took a syringe from a pharmaceutical cabinet, drawing up a pale blue liquid.

"What is that?"

"Neuro-stabilizer. Calms aberrant firing. Lets you sleep properly." Alicia approached. "Arm."

Kane hesitated.

For that split second, Alicia's eyes shifted—a minute change, but Kane caught it. Something like… tension?

"Spearhead," she said, softening her tone, "I'm your doctor, Kane. Trust me."

Kane extended his arm.

The needle pierced the vein. The cold fluid spread. Drowsiness surged like a tide.

"Sleep," Alicia's voice grew distant. "You'll be fine when you wake."

Kane slumped back on the bed, his eyelids too heavy to lift again.

In his last flicker of awareness, he heard Alicia speaking, but not to him—she was on a comms unit, reporting in a low voice:

"Yes, memory regression occurred… More specific than last time… Involved the name Sterling… Contained with a double dose of neural inhibitor… Understood. I'll increase monitoring frequency…"

The voice faded.

The deep swallowed him once more.