Ereshkigal

  I am ancient beyond human comprehension. I have watched civilizations rise and fall like waves upon a cosmic shore. I have engineered genetic lines spanning millennia, cultivated religions that still dictate human behavior, and harvested the emotional energy of countless souls.

  Yet today, I find myself... excited.

  The obsidian cell door hisses open before me, the harmonics of its frequency perfectly calibrated to my unique signature. Inside, the specimen waits—huddled against the back wall, naked and pathetic, its organic systems severely depleted after carefully monitored starvation.

  "Sarah Dylan," I announce, my voice modulated to trigger specific neurological responses. Fear, primarily, with undertones of dependency. "Or perhaps we should dispense with that fiction. You were never Sarah, merely a vessel designed for a purpose."

  The creature raises her head, heterochromatic eyes—one human, one marked by my genetic alterations—struggling to focus in the sudden light. Despite weeks of deprivation, something still burns in those mismatched eyes. Defiance. How amusing.

  "You have proven... interesting," I continue, circling her prone form. "But the resulting consciousness was not what our models predicted. You exhibited independent thought. Made choices contrary to your programming. Developed..." I pause, savoring the word before spitting it out with distaste, "...empathy."

  She attempts to speak, her parched vocal cords producing only a rasp. I gesture, and one of my servitors approaches with a small vial of liquid. Not water—a carefully formulated compound that will hydrate her tissues while simultaneously increasing neural plasticity. Preparation for what comes next.

  "Drink," I command.

  Sarah's perspective felt fractured, like looking through a shattered mirror. Each shard reflected a different piece of reality, but none formed a complete picture. The green-scaled woman—Ereshkigal—loomed above her, reptilian eyes gleaming with calculated interest.

  The liquid burned going down, not with heat but with a strange tingling sensation that spread through her body like mercury, pooling in her joints and behind her eyes. Her thoughts became simultaneously sharper and more distant, as if she were observing them rather than thinking them.

  "What... what did you do to me?" Sarah managed, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.

  Ereshkigal's mouth curved in what might have been a smile on a human face. On her, it was merely the mechanical rearrangement of facial muscles to simulate emotional connection.

  "I am making you useful again," she replied. "Your deviation from programming was unexpected but not without value. It demonstrated adaptability in the Nephilim geneline that our previous models failed to anticipate."

  Sarah tried to focus, to cling to something concrete. "How long have I been here?"

  "Time is irrelevant," Ereshkigal dismissed with a wave of her scaled hand.

  Sarah paled. Had Tris and Eli escaped? Were they still alive? Had they found other Sovereigns?

  As if reading her thoughts, Ereshkigal's expression hardened. "Your diligent concern for the Solar Sovereign is noted and will be eliminated shortly. Such emotional attachments are inefficient and unnecessary for your new purpose."

  "New... purpose?" Sarah echoed, feeling the liquid's effects intensifying. Her thoughts were becoming strangely ordered, categorized, as if being filed by an external force.

  "Yes," Ereshkigal confirmed. "You will be the prototype. The first of a new generation. Neph Mark 1."

  Ereshkigal

  I signal to my servitors, and they lift the specimen from the obsidian cell. Despite her physical degradation, she still possesses enhanced strength—a testament to the Nephilim genetic modifications. It takes four of them to restrain her as we process through the corridors of my private research facility.

  This place exists outside conventional space-time, a pocket dimension anchored to Earth but inaccessible without precise dimensional keys. The Council believes they monitor all my activities, but they are children playing with toys they barely comprehend. I have maintained this facility for millennia, hidden from their primitive surveillance.

  The walls pulse with a sickly green bioluminescence—not for illumination, but because the organisms embedded within the structure serve as both security system and data network. They monitor every fluctuation in energy, every molecular change in the atmosphere. Nothing transpires here without my knowledge.

  We enter the primary examination chamber, a vast hexagonal space dominated by a central platform. Crystalline structures rise from the floor like twisted stalagmites, each containing monitoring equipment far beyond current human technological understanding. The air itself is thick with particles that record and transmit data—nanoscopic extensions of my own sensory system.

  "Secure her," I command.

  The servitors strap the specimen to the platform, which immediately begins to adjust to her physiology—not for comfort, but for optimal access to neural pathways and genetic material. Crystalline probes emerge from the surface, penetrating her skin at precise locations. She cries out, more in surprise than pain. The real pain comes later.

  "Your former designation 'Sarah Dylan' represents an obsolete protocol," I explain, activating the primary systems with a thought. "Your capacity for independent action was an unexpected development, but not without utility. It demonstrated the potential for Nephilim neotypes to transcend their programming while maintaining core functionality."

  Displays materialize around the platform, showing real-time analytics of her neural activity, genetic expression, and energetic signatures. I study them with the practiced eye of one who has conducted similar procedures countless times over multiple civilizations.

  "The Council wastes resources creating Sentinels who merely mimic human consciousness," I continue, adjusting parameters with subtle gestures. "I have determined that a more... direct approach will yield superior results."

  Sarah screamed as the crystalline probes penetrated deeper, seeking out specific neural clusters. Her body arched against the restraints, but they only tightened in response. The liquid Ereshkigal had given her seemed to intensify every sensation while simultaneously distancing her from the pain—making her both victim and observer of her own torture.

  "The process has three phases," Ereshkigal explained with clinical detachment. "First, isolation of the neural pathways responsible for your deviation from standard programming. Second, extraction of the genetic sequences that enabled enhanced adaptability. Third, reconstruction with targeted upgrades."

  Through the haze of agony, Sarah clung to memories that felt increasingly distant—Tris's face when she kicked him to safety, Eli's calm strength, even Veldt's strange childlike form. They represented something Ereshkigal couldn't quantify: choice. Her choice.

  "You can't... erase... what I became," Sarah gasped between waves of pain.

  Ereshkigal's lipless mouth formed that terrible simulation of a smile again. "I have no intention of erasing it. Quite the contrary. I intend to harness it, refine it, weaponize it. The capacity for independent thought makes you valuable, Sarah. It simply needs to be... redirected."

  A new probe descended from the ceiling, this one ending in what looked like a circular saw made of light. It positioned itself above Sarah's forehead.

  "The human prefrontal cortex is remarkably adaptable," Ereshkigal observed. "But ultimately primitive. We'll retain approximately 22% of yours—the portions responsible for strategic analysis and adaptive response. The rest will be replaced with more... reliable alternatives."

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The saw began to spin, its light intensifying until it appeared solid. Sarah felt her body go rigid with terror as it descended toward her skull.

  "This won't kill you," Ereshkigal assured her. "Death would be inefficient. This will simply... transform you."

  The last thing Sarah felt with her fully human consciousness was the saw making contact with her skin—not cutting, but somehow passing through it, creating a sensation of ice and fire simultaneously.

  Tris…

  Then everything shattered.

  Ereshkigal

  The initial extraction proceeds precisely according to parameters. The specimen's neural activity spikes dramatically before stabilizing into the pattern I've observed in previous, less sophisticated procedures. The difference here is that I'm not merely wiping and reprogramming—I'm selectively preserving while simultaneously upgrading.

  Four hours into the procedure, the biological components have been prepared. The specimen's skull has been opened and the designated portions of the prefrontal cortex isolated. The temporal lobes have been carefully mapped, with the memory centers flagged for partial preservation. I require her tactical knowledge and trained responses, but not her emotional attachments or sense of independent identity.

  "Begin phase two," I command.

  My servitors wheel in a containment unit carrying the crown jewel of this operation—a biomechanical neural lace grown from modified Nephilim stem cells and infused with nanotechnology of my own design. Unlike crude human attempts at neural interfaces, this lace is indistinguishable from organic neural tissue once integrated. It will not merely connect to her brain—it will become her brain, cell by cell, synapse by synapse.

  I personally oversee its removal from the containment unit. The lace pulses with a faint bluish light, responding to proximity with its intended host. Thousands of microscopic tendrils already reach outward, seeking neural connections.

  I position the neural lace above the exposed brain tissue. The tendrils become more active, sensing compatible neural architecture.

  With precise movements, I lower the neural lace into position. The moment it makes contact with the specimen's brain tissue, the tendrils accelerate their activity, burrowing into neural pathways with aggressive efficiency. The monitoring displays show cascading synaptic connections forming at an exponential rate.

  "Integration proceeding at 157% of projected efficiency," reports one of my technicians. "Neural plasticity exceeding baseline parameters."

  I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. After countless millennia manipulating humans through crude tools—religion, government, cultural programming—I am finally creating something worthy of my attention. A direct extension of my will, yet capable of autonomous function within carefully defined parameters.

  "Proceed to genetic stabilization," I order.

  Sarah felt herself fracturing, consciousness splintering into countless fragments. She was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, experiencing past, present, and possible futures as a single moment stretched into infinity.

  She saw Kennedy's face as she fought his associates in the alley. Tris reaching for her across the impenetrable barrier of the Coagulate Zone. The backrooms stretching endlessly before her. Eli's hand extended in tentative trust. Her own black-sclera eye reflected in a mirror.

  Each memory fragmented further, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing cohesive remained—just sensations, impressions, disconnected data points floating in a void.

  Something new was entering that void. Something cold and precise that gathered the fragments, not to restore them but to categorize them. To file them away like specimens in a collection. To extract their utility while discarding their meaning.

  Part of her—a rapidly diminishing part—recognized this as violation. Fought against it. Reached desperately for the core of what had made her Sarah, not just a Sentinel but a being capable of choice.

  But that part was being systematically isolated, contained, and repurposed. The neural lace spread through her consciousness like ice crystallizing on a pond, freezing everything it touched into new patterns of Ereshkigal's design.

  The last coherent thought Sarah had was not of herself but of Tris and Eli. A desperate hope that they had escaped, that they would find the other Sovereigns, that they would break the cycle that had enabled beings like Ereshkigal to manipulate humanity for eons.

  Then even that thought was captured, cataloged, and repurposed.

  Ereshkigal

  By the eighteenth hour, the neural lace has fully integrated with the specimen's brain tissue. The monitoring displays show a new consciousness emerging—structured, ordered, efficient. The messy biological processes of human cognition have been streamlined and enhanced.

  Now comes the true masterpiece of my design—the complete transformation of the physical form.

  "Bring in the Draco Matrix," I command.

  A container twice the size of a human body is wheeled into the chamber. Inside, a viscous black substance pulses with its own internal rhythm—a living material I have cultivated from ancient Anunnaki DNA combined with extraterrestrial biological components that pre-date Earth itself.

  "Open cranial integration complete," the lead technician reports. "Subject ready for full physiological conversion."

  I approach the platform where the specimen lies. Her skull has been resealed, the incision point barely visible beneath her blonde hair. She appears human still, but that illusion is about to end.

  "Begin the immersion."

  The platform tilts, raising the specimen into vertical position. The container opens, revealing the roiling black substance within—not liquid exactly, but not solid either. It moves with apparent intelligence, reaching tendrils upward as if sensing its intended host.

  The specimen's eyes open—one still human, one with the black sclera of her partial Nephilim activation. There is no recognition there, no personality, just alert waiting. Perfect.

  "Neph Mark 1," I address the new consciousness. "Your physical form will now be upgraded to match your neural capabilities."

  I give the final command, and the platform extends, positioning the specimen directly above the container. Slowly, it lowers her in, feet first. The Draco Matrix immediately reacts, climbing up her legs, engulfing them in its living mesh.

  Where it touches, human flesh is not destroyed but transformed—cells reprogrammed at the molecular level, restructured into a superior form. The obsidian substance writhes as it works, creating a rippling effect across the forming exoskeleton.

  The specimen does not struggle or scream. The new consciousness understands this process as necessary evolution rather than violation. Such is the efficiency of my design.

  I watch with scientific detachment as the transformation proceeds upward—legs, torso, arms all engulfed and converted into the black obsidian mesh. The substance doesn't merely coat the exterior—it integrates completely, replacing muscle tissue, enhancing bone structure, restructuring organs for optimal function.

  When it reaches her neck, I raise my hand, signaling a temporary halt.

  "Facial reconfiguration parameters," I instruct the technicians.

  I have designed this aspect personally. The mouth will be extended nearly to the mid-cheeks, with thin lips concealing rows of razor-sharp teeth—not for consuming organic matter (the new form requires minimal conventional sustenance) but as weapons when needed. The eyes will be fully converted, both scleras black with electric blue irises containing microscopic sensors and targeting systems.

  "Execute facial parameters and complete cranial transformation," I order. "Then prepare for final programming phase."

  The Draco Matrix resumes its work, flowing over the specimen's face, reshaping features, extending the mouth into the predatory configuration I designed. The last of her blonde hair is subsumed, then regrown in the shortened form I specified—sleekly extending only to ear length for optimal efficiency during combat operations.

  When the matrix finally recedes, having completed its work, what stands before me is no longer recognizable as the entity once called Sarah Dylan. The obsidian exoskeleton ripples continuously with subtle movement, like muscles shifting beneath the surface. The extended mouth contains gleaming teeth visible even when closed. The eyes—technological marvels embedded in a face designed for intimidation—scan the room with mechanical precision.

  "Neph Mark 1," I address the creation. "Operational status?"

  The mouth opens wider than humanly possible, revealing multiple rows of teeth. When it speaks, the voice bears no resemblance to Sarah Dylan's—deeper, with harmonic undertones that resonate at frequencies designed to induce discomfort in human listeners.

  "All systems functional. Awaiting command protocols."

  Perfect. Not a trace remains of the emotional being who defied my programming, who sacrificed herself for the Solar Sovereign, who believed she had made a true choice. Those memories exist still, but as mere data points, stripped of emotional context, repurposed to serve my designs.

  "Prepare final programming sequence," I instruct my technicians. "Upload mission parameters and target profiles."

  As they connect neural interfaces to complete the programming process, I allow myself a rare moment of anticipation. The Phoenix Ascension approaches its critical juncture. The Sovereigns are gathering. The 777 Convergence threatens to break the system I have maintained for eons.

  But now I have created the perfect countermeasure—a hunter specifically designed to track and eliminate the Solar Sovereign and his companions. And unlike previous Sentinels, Neph Mark 1 combines ruthless efficiency with adaptive intelligence. The very qualities that made Sarah Dylan deviate from her programming have been preserved and weaponized.

  The Solar Sovereign will never see this attack coming. The emotional connection he formed with Sarah Dylan—the trust, the misplaced faith in her "choice" to help him—will blind him to the threat until it's too late.

  How deliciously ironic that his downfall will come at the hands of the very being who once saved him.

  Neph Mark 1 stood motionless as the final programming sequences completed, its obsidian body rippling with subtle movement, its extended mouth closed over razor teeth, its technological eyes scanning for instructions.

  "You are my masterpiece," Ereshkigal declared, circling her creation with evident satisfaction. "The first of a new generation that will ensure our continued dominance over the human experiment."

  "I exist to serve," Neph responded, its voice resonating at those precise uncomfortable frequencies. "Target acquisition is my primary function."

  "Indeed," Ereshkigal confirmed. "And your first target will be the one who knew you as Sarah. The Solar Sovereign. Tris Morgan."

  only to start back up again