Page 236 of Reaper Said Mine

“Yeah.”

“Attagirl.”

“Never say that again.”

“Emotionally supportive phrase withdrawn.”

The treaty arrives twelve minutes later.

Unredacted.

The file is enormous, dense, and designed by people who believe morality improves when buried under subsections. We spread it across every display. Milton becomes horrifyingly alive, pacing before the wall while muttering about nested obligations, defensive triggers, sovereignty reservations, arbitration boards, emergency renewals, and “weasel language so elegant it should be illegal on aesthetic grounds alone.”

Pelt marks the military clauses. Gail marks the political vulnerabilities. Bellamy builds a public-facing breakdown. I read the text with a knot in my stomach and Gnash’s apology still echoing beneath my skin.

It is bad. It is not as bad as the earlier compact draft.

That, somehow, makes the whole thing more complicated.

Skahar’s fingerprints are visible in the sovereignty reservations. Vakka’s in the weapons-control limits. Gnash’s in the civilian evacuation guarantees, which are blunt, specific, and repeated with the stubborn aggression of a man who does not trust anyone to remember people unless legally forced.

Milton stops pacing near one clause. “Well, I will be damned.”

“What?” I ask.

“This section preserves unilateral Reaper authority over internal civilian relocation and prohibits Coalition permanent basing outside designated external defense berths unless renewed by Guyver command after crisis review.”

Bellamy blinks. “Translate.”

Milton points at the text. “They tried to build a leash. He inserted a knife into the collar.”

I stare at the clause.

Relief flickers, unwelcome and insufficient.

Pelt marks another section. “Coalition pursuit authority remains tied to active threat engagement and civilian evacuation support. That undercuts the Alliance argument that this is open-ended military expansion, if we can get people to read it before admirals start talking over us.”

Gail looks at me. “Can you publish a correction without looking like you are covering for him?”

“No.”

Bellamy winces.

I continue, “Not a correction. A complication. We don’t soften the headline. We say the protectorate signing escalates tensions and complicates the Badlands crisis, but the text includes limits that contradict claims of full Coalition absorption. Then we show why Alliance intervention would make everything worse.”

Gail nods. “Good.”

Milton looks pleased despite himself. “Complication is where truth usually lives.”

I wish that made me feel better.

Instead, my chest aches with the knowledge that I spent one awful hour wondering whether I ever knew Gnash at all, and the answer is worse than yes or no. I know him. I know his rage, his tenderness, his pride, his terror of dependence, his need to stand between danger and everyone he claims. I also do not know what war will demand from him tomorrow, or what he will become if each necessary choice takes another piece of him.

That uncertainty is a colder thing than ignorance.

By afternoon, the Alliance intervention chatter becomes public.

The first leak appears on a defense blog with strong military ties. Then two major feeds confirm planning discussions. Within an hour, commentators who had spent days demanding restraint begin debating “limited protective action” in contested Reaper territory. Maps fill with arrows. Analysts speak confidently about corridors they have never smelled burning. Former officers describe Guyver Station as a strategic problem. Nobody mentions Tomas. Nobody mentions Rekk’s yellow schoolroom door. Nobody mentions that every new intervention plan gives the Combine exactly the chaos it purchased.