SYNC\\ Names

A name does not return a person to the past — it returns them to themselves.

Re wakes underground with no memory, no name, and a body that feels alien.
Among strangers who greet him with doubt or trust, he must choose not who he was — but who he is allowed to become.

This is one more standalone chapter from SYNC, and it feels important to share it here now, both because of its nature and as a matter of commitment.

Chapter: Names

I woke in a room without windows and without any trace of daylight. The lighting was even, artificial, with no visible source — which meant we were underground. I understood that immediately, even before trying to remember what had happened.

My memory did not return as a whole. Instead, there were short flashes: fragments of images, movement, a sharp light, someone’s face, the sensation of falling. They did not assemble into anything coherent.

And my body…

My body felt alien.

I did not sense it at once. First came the dryness in my mouth, as though I had swallowed ash. Then a tremor in my fingers — barely noticeable, but constant, like background noise. I tried to clench my fist. The muscles responded with a delay, as if the signal were travelling through interference.

The skin on my hands looked like my own, but felt different. Too heavy. Too warm. As if it had been put on over another layer — and the first had been forgotten.

I did not understand where I was or what had been done to me.

I pushed myself up and looked down at myself. I was lying on a very old bed — metal, creaking. Beneath me was a sleeping bag, coarse, clearly well-used. On the floor beside the bed stood a thermos made of white metal. It looked as though it had been handled often.

I looked around.

The walls were bare. Exposed concrete, cracks. In the ceiling — a single lightbulb, crackling faintly and flickering. There was a table in the room, completely empty. Next to it stood a chair, and clothing was hanging from it. Below, neatly placed, stood a pair of boots.

I did not recognise either the clothes or the boots. They were clearly not mine.

I was wearing only underwear.

I stood, walked to the chair, and took the clothes. It was a heavy-duty jumpsuit. I put it on, then the boots — everything fit perfectly, as if it had been tailored for me.

On the left side of the jumpsuit was a patch with three letters:

RAF.

I stared at them, trying to understand what they meant, but my mind was blank. Nothing surfaced. No association. No hint of meaning.

Perhaps this is my name now, I thought.

On the table lay my neck torch. I recognised it instantly and put it around my neck.

I went to the door.

It was massive, metal, with a large wheel — like the hatch of a sealed capsule. I rotated it. The metal responded with a deep, powerful sound, as though the door led not simply into a corridor, but into a system.

When I opened it, I heard voices.

They came from a distance, lively, ringing with life. People were talking animatedly; someone was laughing. I caught fragments of phrases:

“No way…”
“No, you don’t understand…”
“Limgard can penetrate that radiation…”
“He can read our dreams…”

I froze.

A thought flashed through me that I had been returned to the system. That something had happened to me, and this was some transitional level. That perhaps they had taken me back.

It was exactly what I feared. And exactly what I wanted to avoid.

I walked towards the voices.

The corridor was the same — concrete, metal, lamps. Several heavy metal doors with wheels. I passed one. Then another.

Beyond the next door was a large, well-lit room. In the centre stood a round table. Several people were sitting around it, eating, drinking, and talking loudly.

The first I saw were a young man and a young woman. They were the ones arguing and laughing so loudly. I did not immediately make out the other two.

As I stepped forward, something about their faces struck me as familiar. Not them as individuals — but their features, their type, their expressions.

I opened the door fully.

Now I saw all of them.

Beside the young man and woman sat an older woman. Her face seemed very familiar. As if I had known her for a very long time. And her voice, when she spoke, also felt strangely familiar.

And then I saw Rustlea.

In that moment, everything began to return.

She was the one I wanted to see. The one I could not take my eyes off. I was in shock that she was alive. I remembered a peripheral image from the previous day — movement, as if she had approached me, or I had noticed her. I had not believed she could have survived.

And yet she was here. Alive.

I stood there, frozen, unable to understand how this was possible.

All four of them smiled at me — genuinely — and stood when I entered.

I remained silent.

“Come in,” the older woman said. “We were waiting for you to wake up.”

“Where am I?” I asked.

Rustlea answered:

“You’re with us now. And we want you to become one of us.”

“Is this THINK?” I asked. “Some kind of transitional form? Will I be rewritten?”

That was what I feared most.

They all laughed.

“No, of course not,” they said.

“You’ll become yourself,” Rustlea added. “If you choose this path.”

I still stood awkwardly, not understanding what was happening.

The young woman approached first.

She came very close and looked straight into my eyes. Now I recognised her clearly. She was one of the phenotypes, one of the types I used to classify. Sales type. They almost never became Ints — I usually encountered them among the Funks.

I may not have classified her personally. But I knew this face.

And now she was here — alive — looking straight into my eyes. Very close. Almost intimate. In a way no one had ever looked at me before.

And suddenly I was overwhelmed by memory.

I see The Phobia of Invisibility
An Actor Who Forgot Himself.
A Beggar of Faces, smiling to be admitted to a stage he does not wish.

I even stepped back slightly — her gaze was that penetrating.

She looked as though she were reading straight through me.

I looked away first.

She noticed immediately. Something shifted in her expression — not hurt, more like understanding.

She still said, quietly and firmly:

“Est limit.”

She was clearly expecting a response. I did not know what to say. She calmly looked away and stepped back.

Then the young man approached.

When he looked at me, I recognised the type again. He looked very much like Lu — the same Lu we had accompanied in the Amphiscope to the transit. Only this one was younger. More alive. More confident.

The same Prisoner of the Formula, afraid not only of error, but of feeling — just like me.

He also came very close.

He looked into my eyes for a long time. Steadily. Directly. I grew uncomfortable and tried to look away.

At that moment, I noticed Soul slightly turn her head, as if she wanted to say something — then changed her mind. Lost did not notice, or pretended not to.

“Est ultra,” he said.

I remained silent.

Now the older woman approached.

She was looking into my eyes even from a distance. And the closer she came, the stronger the sensation became that she was looking inside me.

When she stood very close, memories stirred. She looked very much like — or perhaps was — the woman who had raised me as a child. Who told old stories. Who spoke of ancient times.

I was not sure.

She looked into my eyes just as long, just as piercingly.

“Est limit, Ray,” she said, and immediately turned away.

And finally, Rustlea approached.

She moved smoothly, quietly. I smiled at her and could not look away. She looked into my eyes.

She placed her hands on my shoulders and almost whispered:

“Est ultra, Ray. Be with us.”

I was still standing when Rustlea stepped aside and gestured towards the table.

In the centre of the room stood a large round table. Massive, worn, clearly old. Chairs stood around it. One had been pulled slightly aside, as if left especially for me.

They handed me a drink.

It was a metal cup containing a liquid without colour or smell. I looked at it, then at Rustlea. She nodded — not insisting, but making it clear I should drink.

I took a sip. The taste was neutral, almost absent. But warmth spread inside me immediately — gently, without sharpness.

I took the chair that stood by the wall, moved it closer to the table, and sat with them. They were already seated. I found myself opposite Rustlea.

I could not take my eyes off her. I remembered her from the system. And now I saw her here — alive. Real. And it still did not fully fit inside me.

They began to speak, one by one.

The young woman spoke first.

“I came here on my own,” she said. “We’re among the Embers. I don’t remember who I was in the system. My name there was SL2418. Here, I’m called Soul.”

I remained silent.

She spoke calmly, without tension. As if the choice had been made long ago.

Then the young man spoke.

“I got lost,” he said. “My Intoscreen failed and I wandered in here during a mission. I don’t want to go back. I was an Integral, like you. My system name was LO2436. Here, I call myself Lost.”

When he said this, he looked at Soul. They exchanged a brief, warm glance — not demonstrative, simply natural. I understood immediately: they were together.

And it struck me.

Lost and Soul. Not a “lost soul” — but two people. Together.

I felt a strange warmth and, at the same time, a faint trace of envy. Not painful — quiet. Beautiful. The kind you feel when you see genuine closeness.

Next, the older woman spoke.

She looked at me calmly, directly.

“Before the Great Refusal, I worked at a school,” she said. “As a teacher, with kids. When everything happened, I continued to live in the system. They tried to rewrite me. But I remembered everything.”

She paused.

“My name is Frida. I am from the very first generation. I remember the transition. I remember everything that happened. And at the time, it seemed right. As if it was how it should be.”

I listened attentively.

I now understood: she was not the woman from my childhood. And yet something in her still resonated — her intonation, her calm, the way she looked.

And finally, Rustlea spoke.

She did not look away from me.

“We know each other,” she said. “We’ve met. In the main complex, before I left. You didn’t remember me then. It was basic compliance training. The very first one. At Alma”

I nodded. It was true.

“You know my name is Rustlea,” she continued. “And you may know that I’m from the second generation. Or more precisely — the first born within THINK.”

She spoke quietly, but every word was precise.

“The first thing you must know is our greetings. When we meet one another, we say one of two phrases. Or we remain silent. And we always look into each other’s eyes. In that look and in that response — everything is contained.”

She looked straight at me.

“When someone says ‘Est limit’ to you, it means they have doubts. About you. And about themselves. You may respond in kind — confirming those doubts. You may say ‘Est ultra’ — and dispel them. Or you may remain silent — and then you simply part ways.”

She paused briefly.

“When someone says ‘Est ultra’, it means you have already crossed a threshold. That your doubts are under your control. You may answer ‘Est limit’. You may answer ‘Est ultra’. Or you may remain silent. This is how we greet each other. And this is how we live.”

I understood.

The rules were simple. And terrifying precisely because of that.

I sat opposite them. They were waiting.

I looked into Soul’s eyes first.

I looked as intently as she had looked into me earlier. For a long time. Clearly.

“Est limit,” I said.

We held each other’s gaze for another second — and then looked away at the same time.

Then I looked at Lost.

Just as long. Just as steady.

“Est limit.”

Our gazes parted.

Then I looked at Frida.

I felt warmth. Care. Something very old and gentle inside me. But I still said:

“Est limit.”

And only then did I look at Rustlea.

I could not look away. I saw how she looked into me. I saw everything.

And I could not say anything else.

“Est ultra.”

She simply nodded.

After her nod, the room fell quiet.

Rustlea lowered her hands, took a step back, and said nothing more. She only lifted her gaze and swept it across all of us, as if passing the word to me.

I felt that now it was my turn.

I looked at them. At Soul. At Lost. At Frida. At Rustlea.

And only then did I speak.

“I am an Integral,” I said.

My voice sounded even. Calm. Almost foreign.

“My system name is RE.7438–38-ALPHA. I am an analyst. I was an analyst.”

I paused briefly.

“They called me Ray.”

I fell silent, as if testing whether that was enough. But inside, a strange sense of incompleteness arose. As if the name I had just spoken no longer fully aligned with me.

I lowered my gaze.

On the chest of the jumpsuit were those same three letters, embroidered in gold on blue. I had seen them before, but only now did they suddenly acquire weight.

RAF.

I looked at them again.

“But perhaps here it’s customary to choose new names,” I said. “Or at least to accept those already given. I don’t yet know your traditions.”

I lightly touched the patch.

“And perhaps…” I hesitated, “perhaps now my name is Raf.”

For a moment, silence hung.

Then someone couldn’t hold back.

First, Soul snorted quietly. She quickly turned away, covering her mouth with her hand, but it was already too late. Lost looked at her, understood, and also burst out laughing. Almost immediately — loudly, openly. Frida tried to remain serious, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, and a second later she too was laughing. Even Rustlea turned away, as if to hide her smile, but her shoulders gave her away.

The laughter grew. They tried to say something, waved their hands, looked at each other, but couldn’t stop. It wasn’t cruel laughter, nor mockery. More like relief. Joy. Something deeply human.

I stood there, looking at them in bewilderment.

I didn’t understand what was happening. Why it was funny. What I had said wrong.

They laughed, gasping, wiping tears, starting again, as if passing it around the circle. Only after some time, when their breathing finally settled, did Frida raise her hand.

“Sorry,” she said, still smiling. “We didn’t mean to.”

She looked at me gently, almost apologetically.

“It’s just a pilot’s jumpsuit. You got it by chance. We found it in a museum. An old one. And it was the only one that fit you.”

I remained silent.

“And those letters…” she nodded towards my chest. “RAF. That stands for Royal Air Force. That’s what it was called.”

I frowned.

“That existed long before the Refusal,” Frida continued. “Before the Singularity. Before THINK. There was a time when people flew aircraft.”

She smiled.

“It just happened that the letters resemble your name.”

They smiled again. More quietly. Warmer.

I felt the tension I hadn’t even realised I was holding begin to ease. And suddenly I understood how all this must look from the outside. How strange. How absurd. How… alive.

I still didn’t fully understand their laughter, but I no longer felt threatened.

“Then,” I said, still a little disoriented, “I think I’ll remain Ray.”

That was the final trigger.

They burst out laughing again. Freely. Without restraint.

“You can stay Ray,” Lost said.

“Or Raf,” Soul added.

“Or Re,” Frida said.

“Or take any other name,” Rustlea said quietly, looking at me again.

“As you wish,” they said almost together.

And in that moment, I finally understood.

I understood what had happened.

I understood why they were laughing.

And I understood what was happening to me.

And I laughed too.

For the first time in a very long while — not out of politeness, not out of function, not out of necessity.

Simply because I could.