Then Valtron raises his voice. Not to shout. Not to perform. But to tell the truth.
“You’ve been cheering for slaughter,” he says. “Now learn the names of the dead.”
The arena screens flash black.
Then the first file opens.
A face.
A name.
A story.
And then another.
And another.
I send them all—one after the other—looping through every system I can hijack. The names scroll like a war memorial, each paired with combat footage, final scans, unrecovered bodies, missing payouts.
Each one stamped with the Combine’s silent seal.
Valtron’s voice fills the arena like a prophecy.
“They said they were warriors. They said they fell in glory. But they were tools. Commodities. Waste.”
His voice tightens.
“They were my friends.”
In the control room, my hands are trembling.
Because it’s working.
The crowd doesn’t riot.
They don’t boo.
They listen.
And then?—
They roar.
Not for blood.
For justice.
Valtron looks up. His face is lit by the pulsing red emergency lights that start to flicker across the upper walls.
Varn’s activated lockdown.
Too late.
Too damn late.
The arena doors slam shut. From the gates, armored mercs pour in, weapons drawn, stunners humming. Panic skitters across the outer stands. I hear the security protocols trying to fight me for control.
Valtron doesn’t move.
