The silence in the clinic was heavier than Nova-Veridia's infamous, bone-rattling din. Outside, the city thrashed like a headless chicken after the Architect's fall, streets echoed with the screams of looters and abandoned droids. But in this bunker, meters beneath the surface, only the rhythmic, unnerving hum of an old medical scanner could be heard.
As Dr. Scraps stared at the cracked screen of the tablet in his hand, the last vestiges of hope on his face vanished one by one. The young doctor's glasses were fogged, his lab coat a map of oil and soot stains.
"Nothing," Scraps said, his voice hitting the metal walls and fading. He slammed the tablet onto the metal counter in frustration. "The hardware is sound. I repaired the metal leg, replaced the carbon fiber plates in his rib cage. Physically... he's here. But inside, he's empty."
Kaelen Vance stood like a statue at the head of the operating table. His grey trench coat, stiff with three days of dust and blood, hung like armor. His eyes were locked on the face of the Nameless Jester, who lay motionless on the table. That familiar, painted face was now eerily peaceful. The black tear streaks beneath his left eye looked as if they had truly flowed and frozen there. The reactor in his chest was like a dark well; neither blue nor red, just a dead black.
"Try again," Kaelen said. His voice was as rough as gravel grinding together.
"Detective, you don't understand," Scraps groaned, running his hands through his greasy hair. "This isn't a car engine. That 'White Mode'... that divine authority... it fried his processor. His brain is like a circuit board turned to mush. No operating system. His consciousness has been wiped. What you're looking at right now is an expensive mannequin made of flesh and metal."
Kaelen took a step towards the table. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of "The Judge" at his hip, but he immediately pulled it back. He couldn't solve this problem with a bullet.
"He's a virus, Scraps," Kaelen said, looking at Jester's pale skin. "He always told me that. He's a glitch in the system. And viruses aren't deleted. They just hide."
"No Echo either," Scraps said with bitter realism. "His digital twin vanished with him. There's no backup to bring him back."
Kaelen's steel-grey eyes narrowed. In his mind, that chaotic moment from Chapter 12 resurfaced. The moment when he and Jester had merged their minds, when Kaelen had blended his own memories with Jester's madness. Then Chapter 15... Each time, Jester had left a trace in Kaelen's mind. A scent, a sound, a residue.
His hand went to the old-model neural port at the back of his own neck. The cold metal burned his fingertips.
"I'm the backup," Kaelen said.
Scraps looked up in horror. "What are you talking about?"
"Our minds connected countless times. If he saved a piece of himself, that piece is inside my head. I'm going in there."
Scraps lunged in front of Kaelen, arms spread wide. "Are you insane? Do you know what happens if you connect your own brain to that void of his? He'll use you like an external hard drive! Jester's void is so vast, it'll suck up all your memory, your identity, your childhood, even your name. When you get off that table, you won't be Kaelen Vance, you'll be a drooling vegetable!"
Kaelen gently but firmly pushed the doctor aside. He picked up the thick data cable next to the table. Its tip gleamed like the head of a rusty snake.
"I've already forgotten, doctor," Kaelen said, aligning the cable's tip with the port on Jester's neck. "Who I couldn't save, who I lost... I thought I'd forgotten it all, but this jester reminded me. Now it's my turn."
Scraps opened his mouth to say something, but seeing the dull, suicidal determination in Kaelen's eyes, he fell silent. He just turned his head and pulled the main console's switch down.
Kaelen took a deep breath. The air filling his lungs smelled of mold and antiseptic. He forcefully plugged the cable into the back of his own neck.
The world went dark. Then white noise exploded.
***
This was neither heaven nor hell. This was a colossal, cosmic recycling bin where God's forgotten files were dumped.
When Kaelen opened his eyes, he was floating in an endless blue and waves of grey static. There was no gravity. No logic. Shattered memories drifted around him: a clown nose, a broken carousel horse, Kaelen's own weapon, the laugh of a woman he'd never known... All fragmented into pixels, like grains of sand scattered by the wind.
"Jester!" Kaelen shouted. No sound came out, but his thought echoed in the void. *Jester!*
He moved through the void. Or thought he moved. Here, distance was relative. In the distance, atop a hill made of data stacks, a small silhouette sat.
Kaelen glided towards it. As he approached, the silhouette sharpened. This wasn't Jester. At least, not the Jester he knew.
It was a child.
The Architect's deceased son. He wasn't wearing those jester clothes; only a simple white garment, resembling a hospital gown. He had his knees drawn to his chest, staring into the void before him. There was no paint on his face. No tear streaks drawn. Only pure, unadulterated sorrow.
"Get up," Kaelen said, landing beside the child. "We're not done yet."
The child didn't lift his head. His voice was like a crackling melody from an old record. "The game's over, Detective. No tokens left. The screen went dark."
"Your tokens never run out," Kaelen said sharply. "You cheat. You trick the system."
The child shrugged. "The Architect is gone. The story's over. I was a mistake, Detective. Mistakes are corrected. I've been corrected."
Kaelen reached out to place his hand on the child's shoulder, but his fingers hit an invisible wall. The air suddenly grew hot. Red warning messages appeared in the blue void: **[ACCESS DENIED].**
Without looking at Kaelen, the child waved his hand. "Go away. Or I'll erase you too. It's cold here. It's quiet here. I like it."
The wall pushed Kaelen back. The Detective felt a mental pressure crushing his chest. Scraps was right; Jester's void was trying to swallow him, to tear his existence apart. But Kaelen was a stubborn man. All his life, he had resisted criminals, corrupt police, and his own inner demons. He wouldn't be defeated by a data wall.
"You're not the Architect's son," Kaelen shouted, punching the invisible wall. "You're not his project! When you jumped from that tower, when you rejected your father... you became *yourself*."
The child slightly raised his head. A momentary hesitation flickered in his eyes.
Kaelen didn't resort to his weapon or brute force. Instead, from the deepest corners of his mind, he summoned his most cherished memories and hurled them at the wall like data packets.
*This memory:* Jester making fun of Kaelen's tie while eating frozen yogurt in a greasy back-alley diner on a rainy night.
*This memory:* When Kaelen was shot, Jester tearing off his own ruffled collar to staunch the bleeding. His concern in that moment. His *humanity* in that moment.
*This memory:* Jester saying, "I have no past, Detective, so I write the future."
The wall trembled. The red warnings faded.
Kaelen played his last card. He knelt, lowering himself to the child's level, and repeated the sentence Jester had told him months ago, over a corpse.
"Perfection is boring, kid," Kaelen said, his voice thundering in the void. "Mistakes create surprises. A flawless death is too banal... Surprise me, Jester."
The child's eyes widened. A spark ignited in those hazel eyes. *Surprise.* This word was Jester's fundamental code of existence, his core software.
The child stood up. His body began to tremble. The white hospital gown shed in pixels, replaced by purple, patched fabrics. He grew taller. That matte, porcelain white paint splattered onto his face. Sad black lines were drawn at the corners of his lips.
And that childlike expression vanished. In its place came that familiar, dangerous grin, laughing at the universe's worst joke.
Jester, in his adult form, stood before Kaelen. He extended his hand and shattered the invisible wall like glass.
"Alright, Detective," Jester said. His voice was no longer crackling, but velvety and mocking. "Since you insist... Let's have another round."
***
In the real world, a drop of blood trickling from Kaelen's nose fell onto the metal floor with a 'plink'.
The Detective's body tensed like a bowstring, the cable at his neck sparking as it detached. Kaelen was thrown backward, landing in Scraps' lap. He was gasping for breath, his eyes unfocused.
"Detective! Can you hear me?" Scraps shouted, slapping Kaelen's face.
But the real activity in the room was on the table.
Jester's body stiffened as if hit by high voltage. His fingers clawed at the metal table. A mechanical *whirring* sound rose from the dormant reactor in his chest. The sound grew higher, higher, and...
*BOOM.*
The reactor ignited. But it was neither that terrifying red, nor that divine white.
A deep, warm, pulsating **ORANGE** light filled the room. The color of old streetlights, of sunset, and of warning.
The Nameless Jester took a deep, rattling breath, as if air were entering his lungs for the first time. His torso lurched forward, he doubled over, and began to cough violently.
Dr. Scraps, scalpel in hand, backed away. "Is he alive? Or have we created a zombie?"
Jester stopped coughing. He slowly lifted his head. In his face, illuminated by the orange light, his hazel eyes darted around. He smacked his lips, grimacing.
"Disgusting," Jester said, his voice like the creak of a rusty hinge. "In my mouth... it tastes as if I've eaten the regrets of millions and stale coffee."
Kaelen, with Scraps' help, straightened up, wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve, and leaned against the table with a tired smile. "Welcome back, freak."
Jester looked at Kaelen. Then at his own hands. Then at his new metal leg.
"You pulled me out of that dump?" Jester asked, tilting his head.
"I just knocked on the door," Kaelen said.
Scraps immediately aimed the tablet in his hand at Jester. His fingers danced across the screen. "Incredible... Neural activity 100%. But..." The doctor paused. "Admin privileges are gone. White Mode has been wiped. Quantum access... zero. Jester, your current energy output is barely better than a toaster."
Jester jumped down from the table. His metal leg wobbled slightly when it hit the floor, but he quickly regained his balance. He raised his hand, snapped his fingers. Normally, this gesture would have shifted the room. But only a scalpel on the table trembled slightly and fell to the floor.
Jester looked at his hand, then shrugged. "From god mode to superuser mode, huh? Fine. Playing with cheats was boring anyway. Now skill will do the talking."
Just then, the old CRT television in the corner of the clinic crackled to life. The screen showed grainy aerial footage of Nova-Veridia. Smoke rose from different parts of the city.
The announcer's voice could be heard through the static: *"...The remaining generals of the Consortium are clashing with Syndicate remnants to seize the East Side. Complete anarchy reigns in the city center. The police force has disbanded. No one is safe..."*
Kaelen sighed, looking at the television. He adjusted the collar of his trench coat. "The Architect is gone, but there are thousands of little Architects who want to take his place. Our job will be harder than I thought."
Jester looked at his reflection in the mirror. He examined his ragged clothes. Then he turned to Kaelen. The orange glow in his eyes was the harbinger of a new chaos.
"Before, we were trying to tear down the system, Detective," Jester said, picking up the scalpel from the floor and twirling it between his fingers like a coin. "Now... we'll decide what gets built on top of this wreckage."
Kaelen checked his weapon and walked towards the door. "Then hurry up. Traffic must be terrible now."
Jester grinned. That old, unsettling, unreliable, yet utterly necessary grin was back.
"Let the cleanup begin," he said, and followed Kaelen into the dark corridor, the rhythmic sound of his metal leg echoing.