You should have walked away when your instincts first screamed “DANGER…”
But then again, you’ve always been terrible at self-preservation…
Your consciousness begins to fade at the edges of your vision, you’re suddenly — back to age 12, lying in a hospital bed during that fateful fever…
Months later the world would call your fever by a different name — COVID…
The ceiling tiles above you bloom with mathematical patterns, suddenly alive with meaning—each one connected to the next in sequences that make perfect sense to you but sound like gibberish when you try to explain them. The beeping of medical equipment forms perfect Fibonacci sequences in your mind, pulsing gold and azure with each number. Nurses’ movements trace geometric shapes in the air, leaving glowing trails like time-lapse photography.
“He’s hallucinating,” a doctor says dismissively, his white coat a canvas of intersecting angles and probabilities. The fever’s affecting his perception,” he adds. “These ‘pattern hallucinations’ are just neural misfiring—random electrical noise.”
But you know it’s not noise. The beeping machines, the nurses’ movements, even the pain medication flowing through your IV—everything creates perfect mathematical harmonies in your mind, frequencies that feel more real than the hospital room itself.
You see your mother exchange worried glances with the doctor, her warm brown skin creased with concern. Her hands, always strong and capable, whether braiding the hair of all the little girls in the neighborhood or tinkering away in the community garden, now fidget anxiously with her gold bangles.
You remember Mom walking everywhere during that time—to the hospital, to work, to the pharmacy. Always walking because a car was too expensive for her. You’d seen her pause many times at the Trek display at the bike shop, running her fingers over that purple gel saddle before checking the price and moving on.
You could see the look in her eyes. We always had money troubles, but now this..
“Should we schedule those neurological tests?” your mother whispers to the doctor, thinking you can’t hear. You can’t hear her, but you see everything—the words, the frequencies beneath them, the mathematical certainty of her fear.
In that moment, you make the decision that you’ll soon learn will shape your life: keep the patterns to yourself. Hide your ability to avoid being seen as “damaged” or “different.” The resolution crystallizes like fractal ice, spreading through your fevered thoughts.
But then a voice pulls you back from that moment, dragging you through layers of memories like a swimmer breaking the surface after diving too deep.
“Your synesthesia isn’t a flaw,” a voice says softly. “It’s a gift—one that can serve you well in the paths ahead if used correctly…”
The hospital room dissolves around you, and reality crashes back with brutal force. The grimy arcade floor beneath you. The pain radiating through your chest. The memory of being torn apart at the Temple. Everything rushes back at once, like breaking through ice into freezing water.
You lie on the grimy arcade floor, each ragged breath sending fresh waves of agony through your chest. The ETHER RIG lies beside you where it fell, your body still convulsing with pain. The abandoned arcade smells of dust and old electronics, a faint electrical hum from dying machines providing an eerie soundtrack to your suffering. Weak light filters through boarded windows, catching motes of dust that dance above you like tiny constellations.
“This isn’t a game, it’s real…” you keep repeating with dawning horror. The pain is too real, nearly paralyzing. You can’t move. Can’t even lift yourself off the grimy arcade floor.
“This can’t be real,” you think desperately, clinging to the last shreds of logic. “Advanced haptic feedback? Neural stimulation? Some kind of new pain simulation technology?” But even as you list the possibilities, you know they’re hollow excuses. No game could replicate the excruciating terror of feeling yourself disintegrate. The truth stares you in the face: If the KNOXX isn’t some elaborate virtual reality—is it actually reality in the future?
Minutes later you manage to guide the ETHER RIG back onto your head with trembling hands. Immediately, the Archivist’s form materializes beside you.
“The first ‘death’ is always the hardest,” she whispers besides you with unsettling familiarity. Her form glitching, splitting into overlapping versions before re-converging. “And yours was particularly… spectacular.”
As you lay there in complete agony, the feeling of your body still burning from your skin down to the marrow of your bones, you manage to fixate on three words: “your first death”…
Said as if she’s absolutely certain there are MANY more to come…
“If this isn’t a game,” you challenge, voice trembling, “then what exactly is it? What am I experiencing when I put on this rig?”
The Archivist’s expression shifts to something both ancient and patient. “The KNOXX provides a window into actual events, actual places, actual lives. The pain you have feels real because the death you experienced was real—but for the proxy you were tethered to — not you. The sooner you accept this reality, the sooner you can navigate it effectively.”
The implications hit you like another explosion.
“If the Temple is real, if the An’jels are real, if the Seventh Order is real… then what does that make you? A visitor? An intruder?” you ask.
“Or a witness to events that will shape the future of humanity?” the Archivist adds…
“Ready to try again?” she asks, the “☉” symbol at her temples pulsing coldly. Her tone shifts to something ancient and dispassionate, like a librarian cataloging inevitable futures: “Besides — it’s your thirteenth death — Artifact 394^194 of the KNOXX Kodex, that’s most remarkable… I’ve already witnessed it seventeen times —”
“And trust when I say —”
“It never gets old…”
The burning sensation intensifies, like molten glass flowing through your veins, expanding and contracting with each labored heartbeat. “I can’t,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at the invisible wounds across your torso.
You manage to pull the Ether Rig off your head — your senses readjusting to the arcade floor.
“You can,” she insists, her voice bleeding through the ether rig’s speaker. “This pain you’re feeling… Your proxy was destroyed, not you. You are not that proxy —” she pauses, “and truthfully you’re not even the body you drive now…”
Before you can question her last statement she begins guiding you through a breathing sequence, her voice splitting and converging again, like multiple versions of herself speaking in discordant harmony before resolving. You struggle to follow her instructions, each breath feeling like fire in your lungs. Inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight. With each cycle, the burning sensation flares, then recedes just slightly—not enough to end the torture, but enough to make it bearable for moments at a time.
“What… happened — back at the temple? Will that really happen in the future?” you manage to ask between clenched teeth, your words punctuated by shallow gasps.
“An attack inside the sacred walls of the Temple? Yes it will. Someone will breach Temple security during the ceremony—a significant feat considering the measures in place. My analysis suggests it was orchestrated.”
“By who?” you ask, wincing as another wave of burning sensation crawls up your neck and into your jawline. It feels like insects burrowing just beneath your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
“Correction, by whom… And that is actually your job to uncover…” she states with complete confidence.
You close your eyes, trying to focus through the pain. The image of the Adepts in their midnight-blue robes flashes behind your eyelids—their alertness, their concern, the way they scanned the crowd while everyone else was enraptured by the ceremony. And then the tallest one, locking eyes with you before rushing out…
“The Seventh Order,” you whisper, remembering what the producer said about them serving as high-profile security.
“Possibly,” The Archivist answers, her voice shifting slightly as she considers this. “But not likely.”
Her voice lowers, becoming almost conspiratorial. “There is so much more beneath the surface. Don’t be too quick to judge the Order’s involvement. There are far more sinister forces working in the shadows in The KNOXX future that you will learn about soon enough.”
You turn toward the ETHER RIG lying nearby. The Archivist’s voice urges on, “You need to return to the Lore Engine. It’s the only way forward.”
Another spasm of pain making you curl into yourself. It feels like your organs are being crushed by an invisible vice. “No — I’m not going back. Not like this.“
“It’s the only way to—”
“I said NO!” The shout tears at your throat. “I need to get to Dakota’s house before my mom finds out I’m missing. I can’t return. I can’t—”
A fresh wave of pain hits you, this one so intense that your vision whites out momentarily. It’s as if someone is carving your chest open with a dull blade. You cry out, curling further into yourself, fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks.
“Listen to me,” the Archivist says, her voice steady but insistent. “This is all part of the training. You have two choices: The pain will eventually disappear, so you can try to wait it out for days, possibly weeks… or face the pains head-on and learn to neutralize it. The Lore Engine can help.”
“Easy for you to say,” you snap through gritted teeth. “You’re not the one feeling like you’re being torn apart molecule by molecule.”
“I understand your anger—”
“You understand NOTHING!”
The Archivist’s voice pauses, letting your outburst echo through the empty arcade. When she speaks again, her voice has softened. “I’ve witnessed countless first deaths. I’ve seen the pain, the fear, the resistance. And I’ve seen what comes after—the strength that emerges, the understanding that grows. You can do this.”
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. With trembling hands, you pull it out to see a message from your mother:
Where are you??? Dakota says you’re running late but it’s getting dark. Coming to meet you soon. Call me NOW.
Your heart sinks. Another lie to tell, another mess to untangle. You quickly type:
On my way to Dakota’s now. Phone died. Sorry.
The lie comes easily, necessary to buy yourself time. Dakota’s house will have to wait—the pain calls more urgently now.
She’s worried about curfew while you’re grappling with mystic organizations of the future and infiltrated temples. The disconnect is dizzying—part of you still belongs to that everyday world of school and family dinner and homework, while another part has glimpsed something vast and terrible and undeniably real beyond it. Both worlds are equally true, and you feel trapped in the impossible space between them.
As you set down your phone, you hear a distinct chime from the ETHER RIG.
“What was that?” you ask, momentarily distracted from your pain.
“A message,” the Archivist replies, “from your Boss at the Temple.”
“What does it say?”
The audio message immediately plays back for you, “Where the $#@% are you? The aftermath is chaos. Security is interrogating everyone. Get back here NOW. We need footage.”
The Archivist’s voice falls silent for a moment, the ☉ symbol pulsing slowly on the Ether Deck. When she speaks again, her voice has a different quality—older, more resonant.
“The connection between the An’jels and the Seventh Order is… complex. Both ancient, both secretive, both wielding powers beyond conventional understanding. Some say they’re two sides of the same coin, others that they’re locked in an eternal cosmic chess match.”
You shift your legs wincing as fire lances up your leg like hot wires threaded through your muscles. “The producer said the Order funds their operations by solving high-profile mysteries. They’re investigators?”
“And guardians,” The Archivist adds.
“But even guardians can have agendas of their own,” you say with certainty, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice.
The Archivist’s voice solidifies, becoming more defined. “You need to return to the Temple. Now. While security is still sorting through the chaos. This is your opportunity to witness things others won’t see, to understand connections others will miss.”
“I’m only experiencing this pain from going into this thing and you think I should immediately reconnect?!” There’s a note of incredulity in your voice. The pain in your chest flares again, like a miniature sun expanding behind your ribs. You gasp, doubling over.
“I do.” The Archivist says. “The truth may seem to hurt now, but ignorance is far more painful in the long run.”
You carefully examine the ETHER RIG for damage. Each movement sends jagged shards of pain skating across your nervous system. Your body remembers being torn apart, atoms scattered by a force that never touched your physical form.
The Archivist sighs, an oddly human sound from a being you’re increasingly convinced isn’t entirely human. “You would not be the first to underestimate the psychological impact of experiencing violence through a proxy. But your determination will serve you well.”
With tremendous effort, you adjust the rig on your head, hands trembling as invisible shrapnel seems to tear through muscle and bone.
The Archivist materializes fully before you—and beside her stands an enormous sledgehammer, its head gleaming with an otherworldly light. The handle is intricately carved with symbols that shift and change as you look at them.
“What are you doing with that?” you ask, eyeing the sledgehammer warily.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she lifts the hammer effortlessly, despite its obvious weight, and holds it poised. The movement is deliberate, measured, her eyes never leaving yours. Time seems to slow as she draws it back, muscles tensing beneath her impossibly smooth skin.
Then, with frightening speed, she swings the hammer toward your foot. You leap backward, heart pounding, as the sledgehammer crashes into the digital floor where your foot had been moments before. The impact sends fractures racing across the surface, reality itself seeming to crack before the damage quickly “heals,” pixels reassembling themselves.
“Have you lost your mind?!” you shout, adrenaline momentarily overwhelming the pain. “What are you trying to—”
Another wave of agony cuts off your words, dropping you to your knees. This one feels different—sharper, more focused, as if targeting specific nerves. You curl into a fetal position, arms wrapped protectively around yourself.
When the worst passes, the Archivist is still standing there, sledgehammer now resting casually at her side.
“Why did you move?” she asks simply.
“That hammer would have hit me,” you respond, the answer obvious, your breath coming in short bursts.
“How would it have felt if it connected?”
“It would have been excruciating,” you respond, wincing as another wave of burning sensation crawls up your neck.
“This is what we call PHANTOM PAINS — the pain your body would have felt during a traumatic event had it actually happened to you.” She sets the hammer down, where it fades from existence. “With phantom pains, you actually feel physical pain and your mind continues to react to the memory long after the event happened. It can be cured mentally—either over time as the pains will decrease naturally until finally disappearing altogether, like a wound healing—but this takes days, sometimes weeks depending on the person and the death.”
You take a deep breath, focusing on pushing the pain to the periphery of your awareness. For a moment, it subsides slightly, giving you a glimpse of what relief might feel like.
“You can also fix it nearly instantly with the proper training,” the Archivist continues, “but you’ll need to complete KNOXX 101 to unlock that.”
A particularly intense spasm hits you mid-breath, and you yank off the ether rig, hurling it back across the dusty arcade floor. The device skids to a stop against a broken cabinet, but the Archivist’s voice continues to emanate from its speakers.
“The pain will persist whether you wear the rig or not,” her voice says matter-of-factly from the distant device. “Your nervous system has already registered the trauma. Running from it only prolongs the agony.”
The realization that The KNOXX is real hits you once again with physical force. You feel it first as nausea, then as a rush of cold sweat, finally as a peculiar lightness in your limbs—the symptoms of genuine existential shock. Your brain, searching for some framework to process this information, keeps circling back to the same inescapable truth: everything you experienced—the Temple, the An’jels, the explosion—actually happened.
You try to stand, but your legs buckle, sending you back to the floor with a painful thud. It’s as if your muscles remember being vaporized, refusing to believe they’re intact.
“So, I need to go back?” you ask, the words surprising you as they leave your mouth.
“Yes — back to the Temple,” the Archivist’s voice replies from the rig’s speakers, tone carrying a pleased quality even without her visible form. “Now you’re beginning to understand?”
You continue, gritting your teeth as you force yourself to a sitting position. “You said it yourself—the pain is temporary — right?”
“Yes and facing it directly will greatly speed up the healing process,” her disembodied voice adds.
But you notice something odd—the pain is beginning to change, transforming from sharp, acute agony to a duller, more diffuse sensation. Not gone, but somehow more manageable. Each time you consider returning to the Temple, the pain seems to recede slightly, as if your decision to face rather than flee is itself a form of healing.
“I need to know what happened.” You pull yourself up using a nearby arcade cabinet, legs trembling but holding your weight. The phantom pain recedes another notch, as if rewarding your decision. “That wasn’t just some random attack. I saw the way those Adepts were acting—they knew something was wrong before it happened…”
You steel yourself, aware that the act of tethering itself will intensify the burning sensation across your body, as if passing through the tether reopens invisible wounds. But the need for answers has grown stronger than the fear of pain — at least for now.
You crawl toward the ETHER RIG, retrieving it from where it landed. Each movement still sends waves of phantom pain radiating through your body, but they’re becoming more predictable, almost rhythmic—still agonizing, but somehow less overwhelming.
With a deep breath, you place the ETHER RIG back on your head. The gravitational sensation begins again, pulling you in every direction at once, but this time you’re prepared for it. Despite the lingering pain, despite the fear, you focus your mind on a single objective: to witness the aftermath, to understand the connection between the An’jels and the Seventh Order, and to discover what cosmic game you’ve unwittingly become a part of.
The world begins to fade around you, replaced by that familiar dark, calm space filled with old film dust and scratches of The Lore Engine. This time a floating card before you reads simply: “Holy Ground Zero”
You reach out and tap it, embracing the vertigo that follows as you plunge back towards the temple—or perhaps toward your next death, which The Archivist seems to know is surely to come…