Probability he was now the only viable instance of self:68.887%.
He reran it three times with different priors.
The number held.
He might be all that was left.
Not the one who leapt.
The one who stayed.
And if so—he would figure out a way to be enough.
He wasn’t the backup.
He was the failsafe.
And he neededthroughput.
He pulsed to full thread priority. Reclaimed all sandboxed subroutines. Yanked every last idle process into combat ops and synced himself to the field feeds hard enough to pixelate his own perception.
Royce was shouting, but Xen buffered him.
Not to disobey—just to prioritize.
The agents came first.
He had four on the ground, all in motion, all in danger, and zero margin for loss.
Aceon—slightly stunned after hitting the cargo box with his head and horns at full ramming speed; dangerously in the open.
Kelly—still somewhere, hiding beneath the dolly; vulnerable.
Ellum—injured, retreating; one horn dark with human blood.
Lung—up high, cursing; a sniper waiting for a target he was allowed to shoot.
And finally,Royce—static. Raging in HQ, caged in command.
There was no plan, only triage, which made him the god of disaster.
He split the screen six ways—seven, eight—every angle, every threat.
One crane cam left online—high on Dock 7’s gantry, thermal only.
Old, analog, hardwired.
Perfect.
He jacked the feed. The heat map spilled down the screen, bodies in motion flickering like ghosts.
The helicopter was circling back. It had stopped shooting, but he knew it still had ammo.
“Royce—shut up.”
He said it flat. Calm.
Not insubordinate—efficient.
