“Then don’t.”
The room buzzes with a low, artificial hum—part server rack, part adrenaline. My fingers hover above the interface, palms damp, every breath shallow and tight. The mic is open, the encryption layered. The trace routes will hold. Probably.
The camera feed blinks. Red.
“Recording live,” Kenron says from across the room. His voice is quiet, grave.
I steady my hand and press transmit.
“This is not a drill.”
My voice comes out lower than I expect. Measured. Raw.
“This is not propaganda. This is your warning.”
The words ripple into the darkness, carried on old wiring and stolen satellite feeds. I don’t have to raise my voice. The silence behind it is loud enough.
“The Sunrise Festival is a trap. A massacre in masquerade. The dispersal system is embedded into the infrastructure—misters, urns, cooling towers. They will unleash nanites that mutate on contact, designed to corrupt non-human DNA. To sterilize. To extinguish.”
I pause, letting the weight settle.
“This is not a theory. This is not a rogue faction. This is a sanctioned operation.”
I layer the audio with images—paper files unfolding, the ink still smudged from where I touched them too fast. The prototype, softly glowing. The council seal. The signature. My uncle’s.
“Those you trusted with your peace have turned it into a weapon.”
Kenron watches from the shadows, arms crossed, body tense like a coiled wire. I can feel his focus—sharp and unwavering. He hasn’t moved since I started. Barely blinked.
“I don’t want your loyalty. I want your eyes open.”
The broadcast ends with a simple, silent frame. The Novarian Accord emblem, rusted and ancient, rotating against a black starfield. A symbol from a time when unity wasn’t just propaganda.
I hit SEND.
The upload bar races to 99%.
Then it freezes.
Red text flashes across the screen:TRANSMISSION BLOCKED. NETWORK ISOLATION PROTOCOL ACTIVE.
“No,” I whisper, tapping the screen frantically. “No, no, no.”
The bar turns gray. Connection lost.
“He cut the hardline,” Kenron says, his voice grim. “He knew you’d try.”
I turn away, trembling. My stomach twists into a knot of cold dread.
Then Dennis appears.
His image cuts clean through the noise on the monitor. No distortion. No scrambling. But he isn't addressing my leak. He doesn't have to.
He stands tall in a sterile studio, backdropped by a perfect render of Novaria Prime—a skyline scrubbed of smoke and sorrow. His suit is navy. His tie gleams gold. His face wears confidence like armor.
“Fellow citizens,” he says, smiling that perfect, practiced smile. “Tonight, we celebrate. Tonight, regardless of the rumors of technical difficulties or rogue signals, the Sunrise Festivalwillproceed. For our children. For our heritage.”
He smiles. Like it’s already over.
