The Blackwake Project

They said the war ended years ago.
They lied.

It never ended. It only learned.

The first Vestige fell in 2039, crashing through the upper atmosphere like a meteor that refused to burn. People thought it was a satellite. Governments thought it was a weapon. Blackwake knew better.
It wasn't an invasion. It was a reminder.

The cities that survived the first wave built walls and silence around themselves. The rest turned to ash and static. The sky cracked with neural storms, the air thick with radiation that wasn't supposed to exist. The ground was stitched together with glass and bones.

That's when Cenotaphs were born, monuments made to fight back. Each one piloted by a single mind strong enough to link with it. To soar meant to surrender everything-memory, emotion, pain-and pray you came back whole.

Most didn't.

They said the connection was beautiful.
They didn't mention the screaming that came with it.

The first time I soared, I saw everything-every shattered city, every ruined mech, every pilot who thought they'd be the one to win. And when the machine opened its eyes, I swear I felt it recognize me.

Now we don't fight for victory.
We fight to keep what's left breathing.

And every time I close my eyes, I hear them-the Vestiges.
They don't speak in words, only memory.
They show us everything we tried to forget.

Because that's what they are.
They aren't monsters.
They're the ghosts of us.