Elira closed the holomap, letting the projection fade. Her hands remained on the console longer than necessary. She hated how they trembled—anger, pressure, uncertainty. Across the room, Brakka stood motionless, half in shadow, fully unreadable.
"…I should go," she muttered, turning toward the door.
Brakka's voice hit her like a blunt impact.
"You're a shitty leader."
Elira froze mid-step.
Slowly, she turned. "What did you say?"
Brakka didn't flinch. His tone was calm, almost mechanical—but his eyes were sharp.
"You asked me why I need Control," he said. "So I'll tell you why you need Purpose. Because you're failing at it."
Elira inhaled through her teeth. "Explain."
Brakka straightened, as if giving a tactical report.
"Purpose leads," he said. "Memory advises. Control strategizes. Pattern executes."
He stepped closer, voice hardening.
"That is the architecture. The intended hierarchy. The four of us, together, make the system whole. But you—" His jaw tightened. "You've done nothing but react. You hesitate. You avoid. You let everyone else dictate the field instead of shaping it yourself."
The accusation stung like something physical.
"And you think you could lead better?" she shot back.
"I don't want to lead," Brakka replied. "I want you to."
He lifted his wrist and tapped an unseen command node. A pulse of static reverberated through the room. Holograms blinked out. Cameras shut down. Even the ambient hum of Virex ventilation dropped into silence.
Elira stiffened. "What did you just activate?"
"Level-Black privacy lock," he said. "Same one you triggered once. Only this time, it's my turn."
He reached up and pressed along the plating at his jaw. A thin seam split open, and an armoured mask unfolded over his face—sleek, angular, cold. Not ceremonial. Functional. A mask Control would wear during full lockdown protocol.
His voice came out filtered and resonant.
"You think you're the only one wearing a mask, Elira? The only one pretending nothing is wrong?"
Elira's breath hitched.
Brakka had never shown this to anyone.
He retracted the mask. Plates sealed seamlessly back into his skin. When he spoke again, his normal voice returned—but the frustration didn't fade.
"I am Control," he said. "I am the strategist. The stabilizer. The one who ensures the system doesn't collapse while Purpose commands."
He stepped in front of her, posture taut.
"But right now? You're giving me nothing to stabilize."
His fists clenched.
"I will follow you to the end. That was decided long before you opened your eyes in that pod. But leadership isn't a mantle that falls onto you by accident. It's something you step into. And you haven't stepped anywhere."
Elira swallowed. "Brakka, I am trying—"
"Not enough," he cut in. "Not for Purpose. Not for what this world needs. Not while Fenrir is outpacing you. Not while Vranos is breaking. Not while our entire project bleeds time."
He leaned close enough that his voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.
"You want answers? You want power? Then stop waiting for someone to hand them to you.Purpose doesn't wait. Purpose decides."
Elira looked at the floor, shame burning under her ribs.
Brakka straightened and tapped his wrist again. The blackout lifted. Lights returned. Cameras hummed alive.
His expression reset to neutral—but a glint of disappointment remained.
"Orders?" he asked.
As if nothing had happened. As if everything had changed.
Elira walked out, silent.
She didn't need Dray. She didn't need the scientist.
She needed to become Purpose.