Habibi

QUANTUM CHOICE CHRONICLES Space: QUANTUM CHOICE MODELS Reality: Oasis Artifact: Butterfly Name: Habibi Brief Description: color scheme red, green, white, black. Value: Identity IPR Registry Date: absent First Contact Date: 2025 (presumably) First Contact History: based on unconfirmed eyewitness accounts. Fragment Content: “I can’t be here!” — Marco’s whisper was full of genuine, childlike horror. “Stop whining. Be a man,” Sarah said. “I actually saved your life,” Marco muttered barely audibly. “That was an accident. I owe you nothing,” Sarah parried. “Not an accident. My mom taught me to let women go first…” Marco lay in a stinking puddle, bleeding. Aisha was choking in an asthmatic fit. Sarah was physically fine, but a terrible wave of anxiety washed over her. She — a professional cryptographer with an excellent education, from a family of renowned scientists. Brilliant, smart, beautiful, in perfect shape — what was she doing here, with these…? Losers. And now she was a loser too. She had allowed chaos to take control. She gnawed at her own thoughts, searching for an answer. How had she ended up here? What had happened? How had it all begun…? *** It was very bright. The air conditioner blew directly into Sarah’s face, drying out her AR lenses. She looked around — high ceilings, huge windows, and custom futuristic furniture. It was the luxurious office of the nonexistent real estate agency HOME OF THE FUTURE. It seemed that no human foot had ever stepped on this marble floor. Sterility here smelled of absolutely nothing. Thick, all-consuming nothing. When Sarah first met these two, she couldn’t have cared less about them — or about people in general. People were stupid, emotional. Interacting with them always made her feel uneasy. Not for herself — for them. They always did something wrong. Alone, she was cold and calm. She was accustomed to enjoying the beauty of code and avoiding offline contact. The first time they sat here together, they knew only each other’s nicknames and specialties: herself — @straight_alba, a well-known cryptographer; @beautifulharit, somewhat pretty, fragile, and chronically ill Indian girl, a specialist in “Reality Archaeology”; and @rosso/nomad — handsome, young, possibly Italian, uneducated, with unclear skills. Smith called him — “Global Systems Navigator” — though only an AI knew what that actually meant. Ah yes, Mr. Smith… polished like a stockbroker — someone’s avatar. He had brought them together here and offered them a job. Or rather, his AR projection had. His digital face wore those stereotypically friendly features and radiated enthusiasm, even though everything around whispered of suspicious secrecy. But the task seemed simple, and the money was good. Smith’s voice was polished like the marble floor. “It’s about an artifact called the ‘Cocoon.’ You need to capture its quantum signature and hold it in that state until we arrive. That’s all.” “You probably have enough network resources of your own. Why us?” @beautifulharit asked. “Your specific skills are necessary. You are all professionals in your field,” Smith said approvingly. “The object can only be detected in augmented reality; it leaves no traces in the network. It even seems to appear in AR from the outside… but that is, of course, impossible. What we do know is that the object is egg-shaped. Its texture and color may shift depending on the physical environment and the circumstances of its manifestation.” “It’s probably useless to ask why you need it… but the more we know, the easier it will be to complete the task,” Sarah said without much hope for an answer. “On the contrary, I’m happy to answer,” Smith brightened unexpectedly. “As for the exact purpose — even we don’t know. What we do understand is that the object has unique bug-like properties that cannot be tracked. A very interesting phenomenon for research. I trust I don’t need to explain that all of this is highly confidential.” That’s how it all began. They were far from an ideal team — as the saying goes, a bug and a feature are never friends. Sarah had to work hard to painfully force some semblance of cooperation between the reckless @rosso/nomad and the withdrawn @beautifulharit. And just when they finally picked up the trail — everything suddenly went off plan. The first time they detected the Cocoon's quantum trace was in DIFC — Dubai's financial district. Arriving there, they scanned every corner — nothing. It was a dead end. "Wipe your lenses," @rosso/nomad snapped at @beautifulharit. "What did you even see in that location?" "Your super navigator showed us a point in Downtown. Underground," @beautifulharit retorted. Sarah was silent. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. She hacked the local camera network. "Success." Blocking the entire view, screens began flashing. On a dozen of them, she saw people running in different directions. Sarah almost sang to herself, “Stupid mice came for the cheese.” Her companions fell silent and stared at her. “Map for tags, now!” Sarah snapped. @rosso/nomad flinched but obeyed, instantly throwing the map into her AR space. Sarah jabbed all her fingers at several video screens, tore the tags off the running figures, and dropped them onto the map. Yes. Everyone — from every direction — was heading straight toward them. “Run!” she shouted. They didn’t understand why they had to run. But instinct told them — they absolutely needed to. *** And now they were back in this office: HOME SWEET HOME. On the other side of the endless table sat those two, irritating Sarah simply by existing. Expensive, soulless furniture — and two strangers. No one could have spotted us in DIFC, Sarah thought. @rosso/nomad cleared the geo-traces, @beautifulharit hid us in AR, and I wiped everything else from the network. Someone leaked our location. Who leaked it? To whom? Unclear. But that someone was probably sitting at this table right now. Sarah silently studied her imposed teammates. Her cold, analytical gaze slid over @rosso/nomad and @beautifulharit, assessing the threat. They sat in silence, waiting for Smith. By the second hour, @beautifulharit couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are we staying silent? Let’s talk…” “Aisha Desai. Bookworm,” Sarah muttered as she hacked her profile. “A quiet one who escaped the poverty of Indian neighborhoods. Not stupid — apparently studied hard at night. Kashmir. Muslim. Showed up as an activist in several eco-movements… What else… Nothing. That’s it. Even I can’t find more.” Aisha searched for old stories but wasn’t in a hurry to tell her own. She unearthed not bones — she unearthed dreams, emotions, and memory sealed inside physical locations. Her lenses had seen much. There are devils in this still water, Sarah concluded. “Hm…” @rosso/nomad hummed with a smart look, twirling his finger in the air as if saying to Aisha, Silly, don’t you get it? We’re being listened to… You’re the silly one — she understands everything, Sarah thought and opened @rosso/nomad’s profile. Marco Sorrenti. Narcissist. Calls himself a “digital nomad.” Let’s see… doctor visits… donated blood… mild claustrophobia… boring… ah, here — place of birth in the travel document (basically a stack of visas) proudly says: Principality of Monaco. But in reality it’s just a random location where his mother gave birth to him, right in the airport. Stateless. No flag, no homeland. Endless flights, hotels, coworking spaces. Instead of a home — a subscription to ‘Global Office.’ A tumbleweed. Quite the archetype, Sarah thought. Aloud, she said clearly: “Wait for Smith. We’ll talk later.” The silence was finally broken as Smith materialized in the air. He was unshaven, wearing a check-patterned tracksuit and a matching cap. This visualization promised nothing good. Smith began without preamble: "You screwed up. You didn’t find the object and you exposed yourselves." "I didn’t sign up for this! I’m flying out today!" Marco shouted nervously. "We didn’t sign anything at all," Smith said coldly. "And now you have no choice. I’ll tell you what happens if you don’t find the Cocoon for us." "We will ban you — and everyone you know — from all official AR spaces," he continued. "And that, as you understand, is ninety percent of global reality. You won’t even be able to cross the street — drivers simply won’t see you. And believe me, that is a very generous outcome. Others won’t be so kind." "Who are they — the others?" Sarah asked calmly. "Who? Who… Anyone. Everyone is hunting for the Cocoon now, isn’t it clear?" Smith replied irritably. "I’m done. The exit is through the door." And Smith dissolved. *** They decided to go far from the center and settled in the old Al Fahidi city, in a small cozy café overlooking the creek. "One of us leaked the location. Smith wouldn't do that, because he clearly wants to get the Cocoon. In this situation, we can't work together," Marco said. "We don't trust each other, that's true. But scattering is not an option — they won't leave us alone," Sarah said. "And you can't just fly away that easily." "Not only we knew the location. There was also a Shadow," Aisha said, shrinking on the sofa and tucking her legs under herself. "Someone under the nickname @shadow was following us. I saw tags on the walls — those were the markers he was hiding in. But I know nothing more." "Why didn't you say so?" Sarah asked reproachfully. "You're strangers. Why should I have…?" she replied, pressing herself into the corner of the sofa. She didn't look well. She took an asthma inhaler from her backpack and nervously inhaled twice. "With us, it's clear. But what do we do next? We're in the same boat anyway," Sarah said. She never wanted to manage people, but now she saw no other way out. "Let's focus. Ask the right questions!" "It all comes down to the Cocoon. We searched for it with technical means — just like everyone else is searching. But why is everyone searching for it? What is it?" Aisha began. "Smith said it changes color and texture depending on the environment and circumstances. What did it look like last time? And where? And why was it like that?" "Another question," Marco added. "Why did my navigation lead underground? I don't believe my tools are lying." "And also the Shadow — who or what is it? And by the way, there’s no shadow underground. Or is there, but it's not visible?" Sarah finished the chain of questions. "To work! Find the answers!" By evening, on some shady sites, they managed to find rumors that the last time the Cocoon had been seen was on November 3rd, during UAE Flag Day — and that it had appeared in the colors of the Flag. But that was all. Nothing was found about the Shadow. "Ordinary people don't understand it's an anomaly. It disguises itself as holiday AR objects.Why?" Aisha asked. "Pretty obvious why," Marco replied. "So it won’t be found." "It clearly can think, if it adapts like that. But if it can think, why does it manifest at all?" she continued. "Maybe it's not just adapting. Maybe it wants to show something?" "Why do you assume it thinks? It could be controlled," Sarah interjected. “But it's unclear how to control an object in AR without leaving traces in the global network,” Sarah reasoned with herself. “Anyway, many questions. But one thing is clear — it needs markers in space, anchors, tags.” “Yes. And coordinates,” Marco added. “For it, just like for us, the physical world matters. And, by the way, the last time it was seen was at a point right on my route leading underground in Downtown. It ‘seeps’ into hybrid layers — at points of contact between the digital and the physical. AR is the only technology where it can be detected. Basically, it hides in reality itself.” “It’s as if it clings to the memory of a place,” Aisha quietly added. “Like ivy to a wall.” “Wait a second!” Aisha straightened up and froze with her hand raised. “I just detected a powerful AR experience here, in the old city. About twenty years ago. A very vivid one. Trying to identify…” She frowned. “I don’t understand… The last thing traceable from AR is a hint in a tourist app: ‘Tower. Barjeel technology, 19th century — a passive ventilation system allowing room cooling by 12 degrees.’ And then the experience begins, but nothing can be made of it. Just light. Very bright light. This was back when AR was viewed on smartphones.” “Requesting info,” Sarah said, making a gesture in the air. “Summarizing: a brilliant engineering structure… underground part… tower… They’re on every corner here, for authenticity. Nothing useful for our case.” “Experiences aren’t always understandable, but they are always exhausting,” Aisha sighed and sank back onto the sofa. “Tomorrow is December 2nd — UAE National Day, right? I don’t think it’s a coincidence the Cocoon appeared in flag colors,” Sarah said. “Let’s go to Downtown. We’ll check the underground parking lots along Marco’s route.” *** Navigation built them a route, drawing arcs and arrows before their eyes that led them to the Souk Al Bahar parking. They descended to the lower level, and Sarah decided to check the parking cameras. At first glance, nothing suspicious — cars entering, people going about their business. But a hunch made Sarah look into the eyes of several sturdy men. And yes… there — one of them had empty, glassy eyes. “They’re here,” she said. And at that same moment, as if hearing her, the people on the screens started running. “Quickly, let’s go!” she commanded. “There!” Marco pointed to a door marked “Staff Only.” They ran inside. The stairs led down about ten flights. Footsteps echoed from above. “Faster, faster,” Sarah repeated. “They’re catching up…” They ran as fast as they could, not looking back, through rooms with pipes and vents, electrical rooms, locker rooms — and more stairs. Down, down. The doors along the way became iron more often, and increasingly heavy, like on a submarine. Inscriptions in Arabic flashed by; the lenses managed to translate them, but there was no time to read anything anyway. “We’ve lost the route!” Marco shouted from the back. “No network — I don’t know where we are!” And then they heard a shot. The sound wave in the confined space nearly burst their eardrums. Everything became unreal — as if someone had put a jellyfish over their heads. Concussed, Sarah and Aisha turned back and saw Marco slowly flying toward them through the doorway. Sarah rushed back, jumped over the falling Marco, slammed the door shut, and blocked it by lowering a large lever. Another muffled shot rang out — but louder was the metallic clang of a bullet striking the door from the other side. “Calm,” Sarah said. “This door will hold for a while.” They were in a room without light, and if not for the night-vision mode of the lenses, they would have seen nothing. Marco lay face-down; a bloodstain was spreading beneath his right shoulder blade. Their ears were ringing, and Aisha was shouting something — like in a silent movie. “Grab him, let’s go further,” Sarah commanded, though she barely heard herself. They grabbed Marco and dragged him, passing through one dark room after another and blocking the heavy sealed doors behind them. Finally, after the fifth door, they were completely exhausted. They lowered Marco to the floor and collapsed beside him. “These doors will last a long time,” Sarah said. “We won’t last long,” Aisha replied. “The batteries will last a few hours, but there’s no connection, and we’re completely lost. Can you imagine what kind of catacombs are down here, under all of Downtown? And Marco…” She glanced at the motionless Marco. “Wait — I have something.” “Yes, of course,” Sarah agreed. *** “I can’t be here!” Marco’s whisper was full of genuine, childlike horror. “Stop whining, be a man,” Sarah said. “Actually, I saved your life,” Marco wheezed out. “That was an accident. I owe you nothing,” Sarah parried. “Not an accident. My mom taught me to let women go first…” Marco lay in a stinking puddle, bleeding. Aisha was choking in the middle of an asthmatic attack. Sarah was physically fine, but a wave of terrible anxiety washed over her. The nasty sound of dripping echoed around them. They had been in the storm-drain collector for six hours — good thing rains are rare in Dubai, Sarah thought. They had tried different branches, but it was a labyrinth, and the only clear exit led back — straight into the arms of the thugs waiting outside. Suddenly, Marco began to laugh quietly, hoarsely, choking on blood. “What’s with you?” Aisha asked. “I just thought… I was always afraid of enclosed spaces, even borders between countries. And I was always a weakling. I donated blood to the blood bank — not to help anyone, but to overcome myself — and still fainted every time. And here I am. Dying with all my fears. It’s funny. Apparently, I was looking for all this… and found it.” “Yeah. And I was always afraid of poverty and the dirt I grew up in. It smelled of mold and unfulfilled dreams. Like here, now. And I was afraid of illnesses,” Aisha said. “And here I am — dirt, stench, an almost forgotten experience. The inhaler is empty, and I’m choking in a damp collector. I’m not as amused as you are.” They both looked at Sarah, hinting she should complain about her life too. Sarah shot them an angry look — and suddenly a lump formed in the center of her chest. It grew, expanding from within. It became very painful to breathe. The pain bent her toward the ground, but she resisted. Like a spring. Like a blade. She couldn’t show weakness. Not to them. Not to anyone. The fear became unbearable. They waited and watched. The panic attack lasted only a couple of minutes but felt like an eternity. They waited. Then the lump in her chest rose to her throat, tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away and forced out, as dryly as she could: “I never liked people. Especially people like you… You’re errors in the code of the universe. You sow chaos. I hate chaos. To die here with you? For nothing…?” She paused, took a deeper breath for courage, and added: “But still… you two aren’t the worst bags of bones.” She glanced at them furtively. Marco and Aisha were smiling. Control was beginning to return to Sarah. She quieted herself, then said firmly: “We will not give up.” After a moment of thought, she added: “Everything in this world happens for a reason. Remember the experience Aisha found in the old city? And the ancient ventilation system — Barjeel, I think. The info said modern architects use it as inspiration for energy-saving ventilation systems. Those towers we see on every corner in Dubai — they’re only the visible part. There’s an underground component too. Usually, a water reservoir was placed there so the air would descend and cool. We’re in a wastewater collector. Downtown is state-of-the-art. There must be a ventilation shaft here. Let’s go!” Aisha and Sarah took the weakened Marco — who could barely move his legs — under the arms and set off to search for an exit. They no longer remembered the Cocoon, the very thing this all began with. The fear of dying in the labyrinth pushed them forward. After an hour of exhausting travel, everything looked the same, and they sat down to rest. “Useless,” Marco rasped. “We are nothing without technology. And there’s none here. In an hour the batteries will die, and we’ll remain in darkness forever.” “Wait!” Aisha suddenly cried out. “Do you see this?” She pointed at the wall, where uneven black streaks of paint were scattered in a nervous attempt at art. And that was the art — because within those strokes, barely discernible, was a familiar tag: @Shadow. Useless here, without AR or network. And truly, it promised nothing but danger. But for some reason, seeing it felt good. Because… “Look for tags,” Sarah commanded. With strength from who-knew-where, they moved forward again. After several dozen meters, they saw it again. And then again. It was leading them. Perhaps to their doom — but it was leading. And that was enough. Another two hundred meters in, they felt a faint movement of air. A little farther — a real draft. Marco’s legs were dragging across the concrete, and he drifted in and out of consciousness, but Aisha and Sarah only quickened their steps . Then, suddenly, in the darkness above them, a gap appeared. A ventilation shaft — rising upward into the dark nowhere. A possible hole back to life. How deep they were — and how high they would have to climb — was unclear. Dragging Marco up the shaft seemed impossible. But there was no room for doubt. “The shaft diameter is perfect,” Sarah said aloud to herself. “Just wide enough to pull Marco through, and narrow enough to brace against the walls so we don’t fall. The rebar steps are wide — exactly what three people need. Everything is in our favor. Marco, get up! Help us drag you!” She slapped Marco sharply across the cheek. “Don’t you dare abandon us!” Aisha shouted, hysterical but confident. “I’m coming with you,” Marco murmured, as if returning from the other world. And they began the ascent. Marco tried not to lose consciousness and help with his legs — but that was all he could manage. Aisha’s chest whistled — and the shaft whistled with her. She was choking, but she didn’t stop. Sarah moved like a machine. The springs of her body stretched and contracted. Monotonously. Endlessly. Time slipped away. They simply did what they had to do — as if it had always been that way. As if it would always be. But with every movement upward, the air grew fresher. And finally, they saw a faint light above. It grew closer, and after another eternity, they tumbled out of the shaft hatch onto the rooftop. It was still dark and cool outside. Dawn, tinted with a carrot-crimson haze, was just beginning to break on the horizon. Their bodies refused to obey them; they lay on the roof like corpses. Only one thought pulsed in their minds: We’re alive. It seemed nothing could force them to rise — but then they heard something… or rather, felt it in the air. A slow, rolling, growing: Uhh… Uuhh… Uuuhhh… As if a gigantic subwoofer were silently powering up over the lake in front of the Burj Khalifa, pushing tons of air, stirring the concrete walls, warming up for a cosmic party. Uuuhhh… Uuuuhhh… — pressing on their ears like a weight. Uuuhhh… Uuuuhhh… — vibrating through their bodies. “And what’s this now?” Sarah asked tiredly. “Why didn’t you leave me down there?” Marco rasped. “Would’ve died peacefully… in silence.” “Look! Look at that— it!” Aisha exhaled with difficulty. She was on her knees, her chin resting on the parapet surrounding the roof — her face glowing. Sarah pulled Marco up by the arm, dragged him toward the railing, and somehow managed to stand beside him. It was difficult to fully comprehend what they were seeing. What they were feeling. The Burj Khalifa thrust its spire into the dawn clouds, and in front of it — in the air above the lake — a huge BUTTERFLY slowly and majestically fluttered. The whole city inhaled and exhaled with the beat of its wings. Up — down. Even. Powerful. Its beauty was flawless. Its grace — hypnotic. Its rhythm — commanding. Its wings were a canvas of history. History that began here. Yesterday and tomorrow. From this point — in all directions. It was the essence itself: the black depth of space, the green sprout of life, the white truth earned in red blood. “What do we know about butterflies?” Sarah asked rhetorically. “They are born from cocoons,” Aisha replied in the same tone. And then a notification flashed in their shared space: “Unregistered object detected. Save locally and register in the IPR Registry?” “It allowed us to find it,” Marco rasped. “What do we do now?” Aisha asked. “They will be here soon. They’ll find us. They’ll find it! It must not end up with Smith or those other thugs…” “I have an idea!” Sarah interrupted. “Aisha, can we make prints? I mean — reproduce it?” “If it allows us… This is no ordinary object. So… I see. This is the first level of protection. But it’s not enough. It won’t help…” “We’ll keep one butterfly for each of us,” Sarah said, “and anchor the rest to different locations around the world. Register them to the addresses of charitable organizations and open public access. As many as possible. There will be too many to seize. The whole world will learn about them!” “Understood. Already doing it,” Aisha responded. “What’s the first address?” “Dictating location: 25°09'24.9"N 55°30'30.7"E — DFWAC, Dubai Foundation for Women and Children,” Sarah stated clearly. “But you could do this for a lifetime,” Marco said. “Yes. Now we have a permanent job,” Sarah stated, then added, “if you survive, of course…” “First print successful!” Aisha reported. “What’s next?” “Next — for us,” Sarah said. Aisha tapped a few more invisible buttons, and three small Butterflies materialized in the air before them. Without needing to agree, they all raised their hands, palms up, and the butterflies landed on each one’s palm. They were different — still covered in black ornament, but each with a distinct color: Marco received a red one, Aisha a green one, and Sarah a white one. Spellbound, they stared at the beautiful Butterflies resting on their palms. “But why did it allow us? We’re not even locals…” Marco asked. “Because we’re together,” Sarah said. “The Shadow is local,” Aisha added. “Black is its color. It was always nearby. It led us…”

Author: spatiallyar