Zia stands at the edge of the stage. She's wearing a hoodie that is three sizes too big as she holds a diagnostic tablet. Her hair is a wreck. She looks exhausted.
"Confirm parameters," I say. My voice is gravel. I haven't used it in four hours. "You require a scent-neutral workspace."
She walks closer. She looks at the open vent panel. The pile of discarded filters. The bypass wire on the fan relay.
"You're replacing the venue's filtration," she says. It's not a question. It's an accusation.
"The existing particulate count was unacceptable."
"And the fans? You re-wired the relays."
"To manage pressure differentials." I stand up. I keep my hands visible. I keep three meters of distance. The calculation is automatic.
She looks at the floor, where my label maker sits next to the snake. She sees the labels. NOVA_LEFT. COMET_PATH.
Her brow furrows. "You're building a bubble," she says. Her voice is tight. "You're creating a vacuum around my station."
"Affirmative. A positive-pressure zone to prevent contamination."
She steps back. Just one step. It creates a chasm.
"You're containing me," she whispers.
The words hit the empty room and fracture.
She thinks I am quarantining a virus. She thinks I am building a clean room becausesheis the pollutant. She believes I am filtering the air to keep the Omega taint from reaching the pack.
My chest tightens. The logic processor in my brain stalls.
"Negative," I say. The word is too sharp. I try to soften the Scots edge, but it bleeds through. "I'm not containing you."
She gestures at the vents. "You're scrubbing the air, Euan. You're building invisible walls. You're labeling lines with, what is this? Nova? You're isolating the signal."
She thinks she is the noise.
She thinks she is the interference I am trying to filter out.
I look at her hands. They are tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie.
"Confirm intent," I say, forcing the words through a throat that feels like it’s filled with broken glass. "We are high-output. Alfie is volatile. Kit is heavy. I am... pervasive."
I take half a step forward, then stop. The protocol holds.Do-Nothing unless requested.
"If I do not create a neutral pressure zone," I say, "we will saturate your workspace. You're scent-blind. You won't feel the density increasing until you are suffocating in us."
She stares at me. The LED work lights cast hollow shadows under her eyes.
"You're doing this... for me?"
"I am modifying the environment to ensure your baseline comfort remains uncompromised."
"It looks like isolation."
"It is protection."
"It feels like you're afraid I'll leak."
The break happens quietly. A strut snapping deep in the chassis.
