Chapter Eighty: The Symbiote They Cannot Kill
Section One: Replication Plan Launched
Rustmouth main warehouse, nine in the morning.
The meeting room's electronic door sealed shut, light dimmed to a faint glow, casting long shadows across the wall where a map sprawled. Zones pulsed with faint red—system trust indices below 20, a crimson stain of distrust.
F-Segment stood alone, a single patch of green.
That green was Rustmouth's seed.
Now, they would spread it.
—
Jason stood before the map, holding a single sheet—not an ARGUS terminal, not a briefing.
A printed Non-Coded Structure Meme Symbiosis Behavior Record.
The issuer's field: blank.
He placed it on the table, voice low, resolute: "This is Rustmouth's first formal, modeled governance record."
"No code, no affiliation, no manifesto, no identity."
"But it solved crowd problems—no accidents, no chaos, no deaths."
"The system logged it, reported it, archived it—
yet never dared write 'Rustmouth' from start to finish."
Maria took the sheet, flipping through.
The data was pristine:
Crowd behavior coherence up 12%;
Spontaneous cooperation rate up 19%;
Meme riot samples: zero;
System intervention triggers: zero.
Most critical:
"This zone has no structural code."
Jian Ci leaned back, voice sharp: "Where're we copying this?"
Jason stepped to the screen, electronic pen tapping two coordinates:
West Second District, Old Tech Supply Line Fracture Zone.
Rustmouth North Pipeline, Unlinked Grayband Fragment.
Tarn eyed the map, low: "Those were our first Iron Valley wastelands. System tagged them 'long-term uncontrolled structures,' left to rot."
"Now's the time to light a lamp."
Zhao Mingxuan opened an ARGUS module, uploading a document titled Meme Symbiosis Non-Coded Governance Replication Proposal to the backend.
His tone was ice-calm: "This isn't a report."
"It's an anchor nailed into the system's gray-zone structure log."
"Once we deploy, those zones must be reclassified."
"Don't recognize us? Fine. But you'll admit they're not 'ungoverned.'"
Maria: "The system will react."
"They don't block us, they're greenlighting our spread."
"But if they label this 'uncontrolled auto-faction proliferation'—they'll strike."
Jason, unflinching: "If they block, they'll send 'non-directive meme cleanup crews.'"
"Open system troops? That's admitting we're a faction."
"So they'll move in shadows—like Refinery."
Jian Ci's eyes chilled: "Should I memorize those 'non-directive' errand boys' names now?"
"I'll make sure they don't wear our clothes this time."
Jason nodded: "You and Tarn, each take a two-man team."
"Not to fight—to wire."
"We're replicating a model, not claiming turf."
"Run those zones three days. Once crowds join naturally, the system can't call us 'disruptive inputs.'"
Meeting ended, Zhao Mingxuan added: "This replication's key isn't what crowds say or how much we do."
"It's whether we force the system to write this again."
He opened the document's footer:
"Source unknown, impact stable."
Jason's gaze pinned the words, hard as iron: "This isn't praise."
"It's a shield."
"We're not recognized."
"So we make them—unable to ignore us."
"Because wherever we go, they'll have to explain: why's the chaos gone?"
System backend, a tech analyst glimpsed two South Zone gray patches flashing "crowd clustering × unclaimed dispatch behavior."
He frowned: "Who approved this?"
No answer.
The panel auto-annotated:
"Data path unclear. Behavior unregistered. Meme status stable."
In that moment, he recalled a line from the analysis room days ago:
"It's not Rustmouth arriving."
"It's chaos vanishing."
Section Two: Underground Cleanup Crew
Iron Valley West Second District, Grayband Old Warehouse Slope, three PM.
Sunlight couldn't pierce this zone. The sky hung white, the ground gray, walls scrawled with faded meme-suppression slogans, their paint peeled to illegible ghosts.
Jian Ci stood at the third drop point, gripping a pointer-style trace tester, Zhao Mingxuan's jury-rigged device to detect crowd "cooperative behavior" after approach.
First data batch returned: six lingered over thirty seconds, four checked the toolbox, three scanned the wall's record sheet.
"Got a ping," he said into his earpiece.
Tarn's voice, hoarse, crackled back: "Same here. We didn't say a word, but an old guy just propped up a busted water tank."
"No one stopped him."
"No one cheered him."
—
Rustmouth's model never hinged on "crowd support" but on "crowd participation."
Once self-driven action kicked in, meme response structures formed. As Rustmouth's first judgment held:
"They don't need to know us—just that it's not us helping, but them acting."
—
Both teams—four total—planted "node behavior anchors": log modules, feedback units, response loops.
Tech wasn't the point.
The point: these weren't system-registered, yet they blipped on the system's meme alert map.
No affiliation, but visible.
—
Three-forty PM, teams prepped to pull out.
Jian Ci, coiling the tester, froze as Tarn's voice hissed: "Hold."
"Two at my road mouth."
"No uniforms, tool bags, tracking our test paths."
—
Jian Ci flicked his scope, syncing ARGUS's near-point feed.
Three seconds, a blurry image: two men, steps synced to a metronome.
Tool bags, old system models, codes scraped off.
No scanning, just fixated on anchor points.
—
Zhao Mingxuan's voice dropped: "Not civilians."
"System hardliners—or 'internal cleanup crews.'"
"They're off the system's public chain, tasked only with behavior erasure."
—
Maria, eyes on the feed, cold: "They're here to wipe our points."
"Erase our traces, then let the system write: 'Anchor meme failed, deemed void.'"
—
Jason stayed silent, watching the screen as West Second's points shifted hue.
Green—meme response climbing.
Then, a yellow alert:
"Unregistered signal structure detected × Tool activity anomaly × Suspected erasure pending review."
ARGUS pinged:
"Activate reverse model lock to trace on-site liability chain?"
Jason tapped "Yes."
—
Jian Ci looked up, low: "They're sealing mouths."
Tarn, distant: "They won't hit us."
"They'll wait till we're gone—wipe it clean, like nothing happened."
"Then tell the crowd: 'See? You thought someone came. No one did.'"
—
"What do we leave?" Jian Ci asked.
Jason, one line: "Don't fight them."
"Leave what you told the crowd."
"We don't need them to remember us."
"We need the system unable to deny we were here."
—
ARGUS logged a gray line in West Second:
"Anonymous crowd behavior × Meme structure trigger point faces interference × Tracking pending."
No "Rustmouth."
But the next second, the system marked the zone—
"Impact stable × Meme non-disruptive × Non-hostile."
The line didn't vanish.
It locked into the database.
Unsigned.
Unerasable.
Section Three: Rejecting the Receipt
Main warehouse, deep night.
Lights low, meeting room sparse—only Jason, Maria, Zhao Mingxuan remained.
A central projection flashed red:
"System Path: S.A.M. Governance Proposal Archive Submission Failed."
"Submitter lacks faction code, document behavior deemed meme-noncompliant, recommend withdrawal."
—
Zhao Mingxuan sat at the terminal, voice near-frozen: "This model used every scrap of Rustmouth-Refinery data."
"Crowd feedback, meme response metrics, linger rates, intervention delays—all pristine evidence."
"But the system bounced it with six words: 'Submitter has no code.'"
—
Maria looked away, soft: "Even if we save a zone, they'll say it's not 'valid governance.'"
"Because we lack a shiny name."
—
Jason sat, eyes closed, then opened, voice faint: "No more submissions."
"Next time, no proposals."
"We write results."
—
Zhao Mingxuan turned, eyes weary: "What's the play?"
"They reject our plans, our data, our model status—how do we scale?"
—
Jason's tone carried a ruthless edge: "They say we're uncoded."
"So we do one thing—make codes obsolete."
—
He stood, opening ARGUS's projection, tapping three zones:
North Fourth, Old Archive District.
South Second, Critical Transit Point.
West First, Warehouse Interaction Band.
These were system-logged as "fully coded personnel operations" but also "highest non-crowd governance failure rates."
The system itself admitted: codes couldn't hold these.
—
Maria, eyeing the map: "You're running our model there?"
"Not us running," Jason shook. "We stage a high-meme trigger event."
"Not a drill—real crowd behavior test."
"Then we watch who stabilizes first."
—
"They want codes to mean governance."
"We toss the field open, let codes crash."
"Then make the system write: 'A non-coded structure, yet effective.'"
—
Zhao Mingxuan, silent, nodded: "I'll build a mixed-response trigger model."
"No incitement, no control, just 'conditional response anchors' in the structure."
"Let crowds choose—who starts the order."
—
Jason to Maria: "Cut the broadcasts. No statements, no spin. Just raw behavior logs."
"If the system rejects, they'll have to explain why crowds, without us, live by our ways."
—
TRACE System Regulation meeting, a "South Second Behavior Anomaly Report" sat quietly shelved.
The submitter tried:
"Behavior aligns with Rustmouth patterns, but submitter lacks faction status."
Conclusion, five words:
"No action warranted."
An analyst muttered: "They're dodging something."
"Keep dodging, they'll have to scrap their own."
—
He glanced at the monitor map.
No Rustmouth.
But the street—lamps lit, water flowed, people stood.
He realized—this wasn't Rustmouth arriving.
They'd never left.
Section Four: Make Them Write the Truth They Can't Admit
Night fell on South Second, no alarms, no broadcasts, no rallies.
One thing shifted: the old transit point, condemned as "irreversibly meme-poisoned, crowd uncontrollable," sprouted a line.
Not wires, not cables—a "behavior path."
ARGUS logged: seventeen people, three batches, entered the ruined warehouse, drew water, took food, cleared waste, and left.
No orders, no dispatch, no signals.
—
"Why'd they move?" a TRACE observation tech asked low.
"They've always defied control, no one ordered this."
The lead analyst, silent, pulled meme data streams.
[Meme Conduction Rate: +12%]
[Crowd Self-Triggered Cooperation: +18%]
[System Response Threshold: Below Alert]
"No orders," he murmured. "The environment cued them."
—
ARGUS terminal, Zhao Mingxuan reported soft: "Data's back."
"Crowds in our non-coded structure formed order paths, coherence at 83%, positive feedback locked."
Maria, flat: "System still won't bite."
"They wrote: 'Behavior lacks affiliation.'"
—
"Then we give it one."
Jason stood, archiving the footage to the system's grayband vault.
At the "Recorder" field, he paused, pen scratching four words:
"Rustmouth Collective."
—
Zhao Mingxuan tilted his head: "You know they won't keep that."
"They reject, they'll need a reason."
"We don't fear rejection—we wait for them to say: 'Invalid because it's Rustmouth.'"
—
"No more acting."
"With every clip, every organic path, every behavior log, we make them stumble in their own process."
"Let them write their refusal to stabilize."
—
Maria, low: "You're not after their nod."
"You want them—if they deny us, they erase the crowd too."
Jason didn't answer. He watched the screen, footage grainy but clear:
Crowds queued silently, cleared trash, left a clean well.
No "Rustmouth" spoken.
But every move mirrored Rustmouth.
—
TRACE meeting room, a lead reviewed Rustmouth's behavior trace.
He muttered: "Source unknown, impact stable."
An aide, low: "Fifth time that's hit reports across zones."
He shut the terminal, silent.
"We don't act soon, it's not them spreading."
"It's the system—drafting Rustmouth's national governance model."
Section Five: They Know You're Here, But Won't Admit You Won
TRACE System Intelligence Layer, codename "Frostpoint."
A covert analysis unit—no public reports, no codes, no logs. Matters here skipped briefings, funneled to higher brass via "Long-Term Impact Risk Pre-Assessments."
Today's agenda: Rustmouth Model Risk.
—
The room, small, seven seated.
A central screen played South Second's three-day spontaneous behavior logs:
No markers, no commands, no sigils, no chants.
Crowds moved, cooperated, quieted, dispersed—like instinct.
Behavior met all "public cooperation norms," but defied "governance structure" classification.
The chair, a composed woman in her thirties, scanned the report, voice steady: "We're not debating Rustmouth's legality."
"We're here to assess: will this model unravel the system's structural logic?"
—
Ten seconds of silence.
A veteran data architect spoke: "No code, no affiliation, no manifesto—system logic should flag it as an unknown meme, seal it."
"But ARGUS judged five times: stable, positive, negative meme disruption."
"That's the problem."
—
Another scoffed: "Five years ago, we pushed 'public trust autonomy modules.' Now Rustmouth drops a 'default symbiosis'?"
"Crowds trust by instinct—system trusts, that's a crash."
"Our system's marking 'non-affiliated models' as templates. Know what that means?"
—
"It means the system's endorsing an order it didn't make."
—
The chair nodded: "This isn't Rustmouth's issue."
"It's our control logic facing, for the first time, a non-directive collective behavior—unsealable, undeletable, unjudgeable."
"Let this grow, crowds will say: 'If this works, why need codes?'"
—
Not a political correctness issue—a crack in the system's legitimacy.
Rustmouth wasn't a faction.
It was a mirror.
Showing crowds: order isn't built by clearance.
It's built by doing.
—
Rustmouth's zero-aggression facade—no propaganda, no war, no certification demands—left the system paralyzed.
Strike, and explain why you hit a "non-faction" governance sample.
—
Post-meeting, "Frostpoint" issued a classified draft:
"Recommend system brass suspend affirmative discussion of 'meme symbiosis governance models.'"
"If needed, establish a 'non-coded behavior suppression blur layer' to curb spread without sparking crowd backlash."
—
Main warehouse, Jason watched.
ARGUS's deepest layer flashed an off-format log:
"Failed to modify archived structure tags."
"Rustmouth model fields auto-triggered as behavior consensus points."
Zhao Mingxuan stared three seconds, low: "They want to erase, but can't."
"Our actions aren't ours anymore."
—
Maria: "What's their next move?"
Jason, faint: "If they can't erase, they'll do one thing—stop the spread."
—
"We're not in their lexicon, so they'll lock the words."
"We're not system-sanctioned, so they'll ensure no more of us arise."
—
"We're not killed."
"We're—marked as an exception that mustn't repeat."
—
"What then?" Jian Ci asked.
Jason, soft: "We're born again."
"In the place they fear most."
—
ARGUS map updated.
Sixth gray zone, trust response activated.
No voices, no faces.
One line emerged:
"Source unknown. Order spontaneous."