Back in the control chamber, Elira stood before the holomap. A flick of her fingers activated the rebel-scavenged data she'd brought back from Africa—an old schematic, fragmented in places but intact enough to matter.
"There," she said, highlighting a location buried under the desolate steppes of Western Mongolia. "That's where the rebels said the Memory Core was last logged. This base—Sector M-9—was once under Virex's shadow archive. Deep enough that satellite pings barely register it."
Dray stepped forward, eyeing the blinking red beacon. "This map is from months ago. If the virus has moved, we'll be sending you into a dead corridor."
"I know," Elira said. "That's why I'm not asking you to send the full force. Just give me time, and your analysts. Trace movement paths. Look for thermal drift, power surges—anything."
Dray nodded once. "It will take a day. Possibly two."
Before Elira could respond, the airlock hissed open.
The Scientist stood there, and behind him, Brakka entered with steady, calculated steps.
"You summoned me," Brakka said, eyes scanning the room before settling on Elira.
The Scientist gave no preamble. "Elira has chosen to awaken Vranos before you. The Memory Core takes precedence. Your integration with Control Core has been postponed."
Brakka's expression didn't change.
Not visibly.
But his posture stiffened just a degree—one only Elira would notice. One that spoke of the silent tightening of emotion that he refused to name.
His eyes met hers, mechanical irises humming faintly.
Elira took a step toward him. "Brakka, I—"
"What are my orders?" he asked, interrupting. His voice was calm. Measured. The soldier in him spoke.
But his gaze stayed fixed, unreadable.
Dray answered in his place. "You're to assist Elira with route mapping and tactical planning. If this location is viable, she'll need ground support. You're still the best candidate."
Brakka nodded once. "Understood."
Without another word, he turned and walked to the far terminal, plugging into the recon interface.
Elira hesitated, then followed. She stood beside him in the sterile hum of the command center, the holoscreen between them glowing with shifting satellite data.
"I didn't choose Vranos over you," she said softly.
Brakka didn't look at her. "You did."
She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his sidelong profile. "It wasn't because I trust him more. It's because he's… unraveling."
That made him pause.
"He doesn't say it," she continued, "but I can see it. His frustration. The bitterness. He's the only one of us who doesn't know what he is. What this war is. He has fragments of a memory without the capacity to act on them. It's tearing him apart. And every day he drifts further."
Brakka's fingers hovered over the interface, then resumed movement. "So you're saving the volatile one first. Hm."
"No," she said. "I'm giving him what he was denied. It's not the same as saving. It's containment through understanding."
A beat passed.
Brakka said nothing.
Elira let the silence stretch before venturing, "You never told me why you want the Control Core."
He stopped typing.
"I assumed you already guessed."
"Maybe," Elira said. "But I want to hear it from you."
Brakka turned his head slightly. His face still unreadable, voice even. "Because knowledge without agency is a prison. I have enough schematics in my mind to rebuild every pre-Fall archive. I understand the architecture of the virus better than anyone outside the Scientist. But I can't change its trajectory. Not without control."
He looked at her finally.
"You chose memory for someone who has too much pain to hold it. I chose control because I have the tools to act—but nothing to grant me permission."
His words settled like glass—transparent, sharp.
"I'm not angry, Elira," he added. "But don't mistake my silence for apathy."
She nodded. "I don't."
His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and then Brakka turned back to the screen.
Together, without another word, they began mapping the path to Memory.