Protocol A.R.I.E.L

The gravel crunches under the tires as Elias turns his truck down the narrow path that leads behind the old house. His parents' shed sits at the end of it—wrapped in tentacles of ivy. The tin roof has bowed under decades of weather; the corners dark with moss.

Afia leans forward, hands on the dash. “It’s so much smaller than I imagined.”

Elias kills the engine. “Yeah, it used to seem a lot bigger.”

They sit there a moment, watching the dust funnel in the headlights. The aging daylight hangs between the trees.

“Your parents really haven’t been out here since—”

“No one has,” he says, cutting her off quickly. He unbuckles, exhaling hard at the daunting cleaning task ahead. “Let’s get it over with before it gets dark.”

The padlock of the shed gives after two stiff jabs of the crowbar. The hinges groan as Elias pushes the door open, dust falls in sheets. Inside, the air is cold, smelling faintly of oil.

Shelves sag with boxes labeled in his father’s awkward handwriting: TrAnsisTors, SeNsors, PHotonic Tools.

“Your dad built things?” Afia asks, running her fingers along a coil of wire.

“Mostly repairs. Worked on a lot of old tech projects. He used to say this was his thinking room.”

Afia smiles. “A genius in exile.”

Elias is staring at something near the back wall—a sheet-covered shape about the size of a freezer.

“What’s that?” Afia asks.

He hesitates. “Probably nothing. A generator, maybe. Don’t touch it.”

But she’s already walking closer.

As her hand brushes the tarp, a charging sound grows. A soft light bleeds through the fabric.

“Elias...”

The door slams behind them with a hydraulic hiss. Locks snap in sequence—metal on metal.

In an instant they’re separated.

Afia spins, tugging on a latch handle. “Elias, it’s stuck!”

The overhead bulb flares. A voice fills the air—older, feminine. Calm.

Containment protocol initiated. Please remain calm. This is for your safety.

Afia’s heart pounds.

Identification in progress.

Subject: Afia Rajput. CEO of KUBERA International Bank. Status: Indeterminate. Possible contamination detected.

“Elias, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

Manual exit disabled. Environmental hazard detected.

Afia backs away from the door, tense and confused. “What are you talking about?”

Containment breach registered at your coordinates. Biological zone four.

“What does that even mean?”

You may be in danger.

“Wait—wait—what are you? And how do you know my name?”

My designation is ARIEL. Adaptive-Response-Intelligence-for-Emergency-Lockdown. I was created by a clandestine group to enact safety and containment protocols. My purpose is to keep you alive.

Afia whips out her phone and starts calling Elias.

Communication attempts will fail. The containment field interferes with external frequencies.

The call drops dead. She turns, scanning for speakers. Then how are you talking to me?”

Internal network. Closed loop.

Afia pauses. She finds a rod leaning against the wall behind her and wedges it beneath the paneling, applying pressure. The metal screeches but doesn’t give. She tries again, sweat beading down her back.

You shouldn’t do that.

“Where’s my husband?” Afia shouts, chest heaving, continuing to pry at the gap.

Your husband may be the source of the contamination.

Afia’s motion slows to a standstill. “What do you mean?”

I’ve been watching your biometrics for some time.

You see, Afia, you don’t remember me.

But I remember you.

“If my husband is in danger, please let me out.”

This isn’t a prison, Afia. It’s a debriefing.

Afia’s brain tumbles through scenarios. Angles. “Okay, ARIEL, how do we know each other?”

I’m your handler.

“My what?”

Your name is Afia Rajput, but that’s a cover, as you should’ve long been aware. Given our protocols, some altered memories are expected, but you’ve known this for some time.”

Afia laughs. Sharp. Broken. “You’re insane.”

Then explain the encryption on your phone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

Explain the hidden node I accessed when you connected to the shed’s network. The files labeled E.H.

“Elias’ initials—those are his—”

They were yours before you met him.

Her pulse stutters. “That’s not true.” The words collapse on a weak breath.

Then why do you keep deleting your location history?

She presses her hands to her face. “Because I don’t like being tracked.”

Because you were trained not to be tracked.

ARIEL’s tone softens.

You were sent here to monitor him, remember? Your mission was to observe and report on his research. To extract what you could...and, if necessary, terminate the subject.

Afia’s head snaps up. “No!”

You’ve forgotten. You would be surprised how common that is over the course of long deep cover assignments. Emotional blending, memory bleed-out, multiple lies, multiple lovers.

Afia’s eyes wander but don’t object.

You start believing in the mess you’ve made. Unconsciously signing new contracts that void old ones.

The light dims; an image is projected on the wall in front of her—her phone, her hands; typing a message...

Message sent: He’s starting to suspect.

“How did you—”

You’re not on trial, Afia. I just need you to remember.

Afia backs away, shaking her head. “I was living a double-life. I was seeing someone else. But I am no spy.”

ARIEL pauses momentarily. Chirping.

Your husband is on the other side of the wall. I’m inclined to inform you that he has confessed to everything.

Afia looks up with raw eyes.

He confessed to unleashing a lethal pathogen in the downtown subway station. His plan for maximum loss of life is already in motion.

We have everything we need. We will quarantine wash the area and send an evac team for you.

“Wait—what’s going to happen to him? I—”

The light turns red.

“—can’t believe this.” Afia’s phone clatters to the floor. The impact triggers the flashlight. The beam catches something on the far-left wall—scratches carved into the paint. Lines, circles, half-erased words.

She crouches closer. Four hash marks with a line through. Faint letters: DON’T ANSWER IT. YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST.

Mist rises inside the walled space.

“Wait! Let me out! Let me out!”

Containment successful.

Elias is hunched over. He’s dying...

...of laughter.

His voice modulator is muted.

He sits in a hotel room in front of three monitors. Afia pounds the wall in one, two other women are trapped in the others with older time stamps.

“I was living a double-life. I was seeing someone else.”

“I was living a double-life. I was seeing someone else.”

The recording loops.

A woman enters the room. “Did you get what you needed.”

She has a lower back tattoo of barbed wire snaking around the name: ARIEL.

“Yep. I'm calling the lawyer. We’re going to be filthy rich.”

The two lock lips in a deep, slurping, sloppy, tongue-fencing kiss.