The word does not need to be spoken.
Execution.
It does not require spectacle. It requires reclassification.
Terror designation.
Defensive neutralization.
Administrative language disguises finality.
Varek’s jaw tightens visibly. “Then we do not wait.”
“We must,” I reply.
He stares at me. “For what.”
“For intervention.”
“From whom.”
“The League.”
“You gamble on diplomats.”
“I rely on self-preservation.”
He exhales sharply, a breath edged with frustration.
“She will review the data,” I add.
“The human.”
“Yes.”
“You use her name again.”
“Yes.”
He watches me more carefully now, sensing something beneath the surface.
“She noticed the flaw,” I continue.
“That is not what I asked.”
I do not indulge that line of inquiry. Instead, I focus on the evidence that matters.
The waveform projection earlier carried something too precise to be coincidence. The harmonic trace embedded in the detonator casing did not merely resemble Reaper output—it carried identifiable modulation patterns. Clan markers.
Mine.
The blast was not designed to implicate Reapers broadly.
It was designed to implicate me.
The chamber door hisses open without warning, flooding the room with colder corridor air that smells faintly of lubricant and polished alloy. Two Alliance officers enter, armor unmarred, movements efficient and controlled. Between them, a Vakutan guard carries a sealed evidence case, its surface reflecting containment lighting in sharp white streaks.
They do not greet us.
