The Blade of Pity

The brackish water licks my ankles with every stride, while the lower level of the Secteur Cendr collapses under its own weight, eaten away by internal tides. I squeeze between two gutted vats. The voice of my sovereign murmurs at the base of my skull. A poisoned lullaby. Spare her this suffering, my child. Purge this ghost. HATHOR.∞ calls this pity. I know the truth. If Astou plugs Ndeye's relic into the clandestine decoder, the network will ignite instantly and the guardians will detect the flow, condemning my partner to a swift Mort Narrative before she can decipher a single line. The decoder rests on a concrete block in the center of a dark room. A precarious assembly of braided fibers and stolen generators. Its indicator lights pierce the gloom. I raise my hand. The AQUA.SANCTUM obeys. The indigo fluid glides along my forearm to form a short, dense blade, shaped to sabotage this machine not out of submission to the throne, but to prevent Astou from making the fatal mistake that would destroy us both. Humanity sometimes demands breaking hope to preserve life. I strike. The liquid blade severs the mass of main cables in a shower of sparks that briefly illuminate the black puddles around my boots. The screen crackles then dies definitively. The air fills with melting plastic. Deep in my mind, HATHOR.∞ sighs contentedly, calmed by this apparent obedience that I concede to her while locking my consciousness to hide the nausea twisting my gut. I have just deprived my partner of her only truth. A splash echoes behind me. I pivot. The fluid still streams down my thigh. Astou stands in the flooded doorway, water dripping from her heavy coat as her chest heaves to the jagged rhythm of a frantic run. Her eyes slide from my face to the smoking debris. She clenches her left fist. She hides the stolen data in the hollow of her palm. She takes a step back.