Location: West Mercia, United Sovereign Counties
Date: January 17, 2135
One Hundred and Eight Years Since the Collapse
It was the touching that set everything in motion.
Ewan Clarke had been seen placing his hand gently on a stranger’s arm as he asked for directions to the transit terminal. He had rested a hand on another man’s shoulder while laughing at a joke he hadn’t told. In the bakery queue, he had stood close—too close. His breath touched the back of someone’s neck.
None of it was violent.
None of it was even obviously impolite.
It just felt… off.
Like a sense memory no one could quite place—except it wasn’t a memory at all. It was foreign.
Constable Bren Ault conducted the interview in a neutral room lined with soft grey panels.
“You’ve been cited for boundary anomalies,” Ault said. “Repeated physical contact in public space. Spatial violations.”
Clarke sat with perfect calm.
“I wasn’t aware it was distressing,” he said. “They didn’t say anything.”
“They don’t have to. That’s what the sensors are for.”
Clarke nodded once. “I suppose I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“That we stopped doing that.”
Ault glanced at the initial scan results. Neural architecture was strange—slight increases in amygdala activity, and hormonal drift toward pre-Collapse male baselines. And then the bloodwork.
It was the metabolite that triggered the lock.
Neurofire.
“Do you know what we found in your system?” Ault asked.
Clarke gave a tired half-smile.
“Something that was never meant to come back.”
Ault leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
“May I ask something personal?” Ault said, eyes flicking to the behavioral transcript.
“Of course,” Clarke replied.
“You mentioned a term. Earlier. Said you weren’t… flaccid.”
“That’s right.”
Ault frowned slightly. “That usually refers to circulatory weakness, doesn’t it? Some kind of low-tension muscle state?”
Clarke raised an eyebrow, almost amused. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“It used to mean the absence of something,” Clarke said. “But that only made sense when the opposite state still existed.”
Ault stared at him blankly. “I don’t follow.”
“You wouldn’t,” Clarke said gently. “The language doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
Meanwhile, far above and far away, inside the Ministry of Civic Health in Londinium Central, an internal review board was meeting under an encrypted silence lock.
A page from the incident dossier displayed:
Neurofire Compound 3.2
Synthesis Date: June 19, 2044
Cryostorage Lock: Vault Theta-4, Site Oban
The deputy minister, Rhea Vok, stared at the screen.
“This line hasn’t been active since 2048,” she said. “We never commercialized it. It was quarantined. Frozen. No trials past Tier Two.”
“Storage logs show no breach,” said the security chief. “But it’s out. Somehow.”
“How much?”
“Unknown. Possibly only one vial. Possibly more. Could be in circulation already.”
“God help us.”
That evening, an internal directive was issued to all medical branches, enforcement precincts, and pharmacological audits:
Effective immediately, possession, synthesis, or injection of Neurofire or any amplifier-reconnective analog is a Category-5 Civil Biochemical Infraction. Punishable by up to 15 years incarceration and mandatory neural reversal therapy. Symptoms include increased body focus, disinhibition, interpersonal preoccupation, and historical sexual mimicry.
No public statement was made.
The word libido never appeared in the text.
Ewan Clarke was placed in containment within the Glenmuir Neural Correction Facility. Before his transfer, he was allowed one short statement to the Review Board. No cameras. Just transcription.
He said:
“It’s loud in me. And hot. And messy. And I liked it. I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted to speak again in a language you’ve forgotten. You’ve turned the fire into a crime. But you used to live by it.”