He had known they were Purists. For months after they started dating, Annika tried as much as she could to hold it off, but Harry had been insistent on meeting her parents. He'd been interested in them, suffered a touch of angry self-righteousness after hearing stories of Annika's suffocating childhood.

She had been panicked the night Harry had arrived for dinner, seen the Purists' Ring, listened to their preaching.

But he'd been polite, listened, complimented the food. He told them about his mother, who worked as a biochemist for New Matrica, which they hated. He also told them about his aversion to the glittz and tech of New Matrica, which they loved. They'd begrudgingly given him their blessing, hoping his habits would rub off.

But Harry loved Annika for her artistry. He admired the way she threw herself into tech, into the world of Central, in spite of her parents. Maybe due to them, actually.

He chose to support her passion instead. And they loathed him for it.

Harry drowned himself in thought, wandering the streets of Central. Around him, the city's nightlife was stretching into existence. Neon displays seared patterns into the dusk, drinks pouring, laughter in the air.

He shared the street with the young and eager. They were heading to clubs, parties. They would spend the night in dazzling virtual spaces. Bodies writhing, slick, violently alive.

Purists believed that it was overexposure to tech that resulted in the Undoings. They pointed to the records, but while the victims had trended exclusively young over the years, there was no evidence to suggest tech was the culprit.

Still, the true enemy, in their eyes, was Reclamation.

Each week, every New Matrica citizen who opted in for the Reclamation program had a required clinic visitation.

There, they would be uploaded.

Their brains would be scanned, mapped out. Their delicate webs of synapses and ganglions would be computed, assessed, reproduced.

Along with a sample of DNA, each participant had a copy of their mind tucked away in virtual space, constantly updated.

After a reported Undoing, Reclamation would wait for the legal approval of the victim's guardian. If given, they would begin the process: test tube incubation, hormone cocktails designed to accelerate growth.

They would build them a new body.

And when the body had grown, matured, they would delve into their library of minds, pluck the blueprint of consciousness from their archives.

And then, would there be a Reclamation.

New Matrica had endorsed the use of technology to copy memories, rebuild a body; to the Purists, it was the ultimate sin, a relinquishment of the human spirit.

Initially, the cult had burned bright and hot; gaining traction against Reclamation in its introduction.

But there were too many mothers who missed the touch of their children; too many young, star-crossed lovers who felt torn to shreds.

People had a chance to see their loved ones again. The Purists shrank, withered. Their views were deemed nonsensical and old-fashioned. When sons and daughters were returned to willing arms, Reclamation became emotional salvation.

Harry had expected the Reyals to refuse, but he had gone and tried anyway. To them, Annika was truly dead and gone. They were mourning now, crumbling to pieces over the loss of her.

There was not a moment where Harry felt a pang of understanding for them. Annika was right there. He could see her again, listen to her again as she spun tales about their college days, or complain about a setback in her work.

Annika had embraced the techno-culture that bubbled up around him at the first available chance. She loved the Central nightlife: the fantastic virtual realms, the parties, the wild abandon.

She had planned on going out tonight, dragging Harry along to meet their friends; to spend hours drinking and filling the space with their banter.

Instead, he'd walked the streets alone all day, barely holding on.

As his mind whirled, struggling to process the day, Harry's feet moved unconsciously towards home.

He'd never given a thought to the Undoings in any deep sense before- it was only the older forks who saw it as abnormal. For Annika and himself, they had grown up with it- as much a part of the universe as the air above, or the ground beneath their feet.

But now, spurred on by his turmoil, a surge of unfamiliar anger surged. Even after twenty years of study, nobody understood the Undoings. Somehow, the world had accepted their defilement- and yet they were a blatant insult to the forces of nature.

These were people who were snatched out of reality, seared apart by fractured light. There was nothing in this world that could account for something so horribly inexplicable.

It was past midnight when Harry came to a stop in front of his apartment building. He'd ignored the airails, walked across almost the entirety of Central.

He'd moved here with Annika just a few short months ago- and they'd both fallen in love with the eclectic, young neighborhood. Here the streets were colorful. Not just through lighting and billboards- the walls of the buildings, the streets themselves, they were scrawled over with murals, streaks of color, abstract design.

There was a sense of gravitas that the rest of Central lacked. The maze of fluorescence that enveloped the city seemed more elegant here. It was like the delicate lighting in an exhibit, designed to reveal every detail of the artwork within.

It was the artists' ward that Annika had pulled Harry into, and he found himself in awe of it. Unlike Reding, Central had no sense of identity, history. But here, the inhabitants had created their own, through their art and passion as a worthy medium.

Harry sat on the apartment steps, unwilling to enter. Their home was suffused with Annika; her work was scrawled across the walls, stacked into endless piles.

At least outside, he only had to face the efforts of anonymous artists.

It was late, and his body was exhausted. But Harry's mind wouldn't let him rest, roiling within him. Again and again, ever since he'd left the Reyal's apartment, a particular string of thoughts continued to hound him.

There was one more option, he realized dawningly, achingly. He did have another way to bring Annika back, to circumvent the legal obstacle that was placed before him.

Would Annika want this? Harry suddenly paused, mid-flight up the steep flight of stairs to his home. The question had stilled him, his mind suddenly wrestling with itself.

But, no, he believed Aniika would, if only so she could complete her work. She'd been sculpting her own virtual space for years now, trying to replicate the unfathomable overspill of her imagination.

The thought of her ideal world left unfinished saddened him, a strange melancholy that seemed somehow different from the anguish of losing her.

Harry jarred himself into action again, and continued up the stairs.