Infrastructure.
The power dips in the industrial ring—just a fraction, but enough to make lights flicker and comm towers hiccup. A ripple runs through the city grid like a shiver. It’s subtle, designed to create discomfort without looking like an attack.
Then the comm spikes hit—localized bursts that scramble civilian networks and overload public alert channels. People’s devices flash warnings. Rumors explode. Panic breathes in.
Sable’s fingers fly across her console. “Power dip confirmed. Comms interference pattern matches Nine-grade jammers.”
Rook curses under his breath. “They’re trying to make the stream look unstable.”
Jordan’s voice is sharp. “They can’t take it down. So they’ll discredit it.”
And right on cue—my city map flashes red.
“Surface report,” Sable says, voice tightening. “Staged riot forming near Market District Seven.”
Of course.
The Nine loves spectacle. They love using civilians like kindling.
On one screen, a crowd is already swelling—people shoved together by fear and misinformation. Someone throws something. Someone screams. A stampede threatens to start like a chain reaction.
A riot is the perfect weapon: if civilians die, the hearing gets blamed. The testimony becomes “dangerous propaganda.” The Alliance can say,See? Chaos. Shut it down.
I feel my jaw tighten.
“Execute shielding plan,” I say, voice calm.
My people move.
Not with sirens and violence. With organized calm that looks boring on camera and saves lives in real time.
“Lock the riot access points,” I order. “Close the alleys. Redirect traffic. Separate the crowd.”
Sable nods. “Traffic locks engaged. Evac corridors open. Medical stations activating.”
On screen, Kaijen teams—disguised as maintenance workers, dockhands, union escorts—flow into the market district like water. They don’t shove. They don’t yell. They put hands on shoulders. They point. They guide.
A calm voice over portable loudspeakers repeats simple instructions:This way. Keep moving. Don’t run. Follow the lights.
We prepositioned those lights. Low strip beacons along evacuation routes, pulsing soft blue. People follow light when they’re scared. It’s primitive. It works.
“Crowd density dropping,” Sable reports.
Then another screen lights up.
Transit Hub Four: choke point. People pressed against a gate, comm panic making them believe something is coming. The gate shakes. A stampede is seconds away.
A voice crackles in.
Fyr.
I straighten instinctively.
He’s on the ground, leading a protection corridor, his voice rough but controlled. I can hear shouting behind him, the chaos of bodies, the wet echo of footsteps.
“Listen up!” Fyr barks over the noise. “Stop pushing! You push, you die! You want out, you walk—WALK—like you got a brain!”
Someone screams. A child cries.
