“Zenith status is denied. Your entry is suspended pending full disassembly of your physical pod by our inquisitors.” The declaration hung heavy, echoing through the desolate digital canyon long after the judge’s image flickered out. Soraya stood, shoulders heaving, her hands still balled into white knots. Ruzbeh, surprisingly, yawned. A tiny trickle of fresh blood escaped his left nostril, staining the grey fabric of his sleeve as he idly wiped it away. “Inquisitors?” Soraya’s voice was a low growl, laced with venom. “They’ll dissect your pod, Ruzbeh. They’ll find the… the temporal displacement artifact. They’ll see you for what you are.” Her pupils twitched as she stared past his collar. “This isn’t about hacks. This is about them fearing what they can’t control.” Ruzbeh blinked slowly, his eyes half-closed. “Too much effort,” he mumbled, waving a dismissive hand. “Disassembly. Sounds like a lot of paperwork.” “Paperwork? Ruzbeh, they’ll lock you in a gene-vault! Your soul… your *actual* soul will be erased!” She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “We have to go. Now. We can find a way to obscure your data signature.” “But where would we go?” Omid’s small voice piped up, pulling at Ruzbeh’s other hand. His brow pinched low. “We just got this apartment. The one with the real window!” Ruzbeh offered a weak, reassuring smile to his brother. “Don’t worry, little sun. Nobody’s going anywhere.” He looked at Soraya, a flicker of something ancient in his deep-set eyes, before it was swallowed by his usual lassitude. “Though, this does mean no more naps for a while. Annoying.” They rematerialized in their residence's narrow living quarters. Soraya paced the worn floorplates, scowling at the synthetic carpet. Omid approached Ruzbeh with a hopeful bounce, clutching a small, brightly colored vial. “Baba Ruzbeh!” Omid chirped, holding up the bottle with both hands. “I got you a super potion! For your tummy ache! I used all my allowance. It says it gives you extra vigor!” Ruzbeh took the cylinder, a cheap 'Spark-Blast Electrolyte Drink' from the corner store. He examined the garish label, then pulled the cap. The liquid inside glowed an unnatural cerulean. He sniffed it, then, with a sigh, took a long swallow. It tasted like sugary ozone. Suddenly, a strange warmth spread through Ruzbeh’s chest. The dull ache behind his eyes receded. The pervasive weariness, a constant companion for months, eased its grip, if only fractionally. His vision sharpened, the subtle static at the edge of his perception clearing. He felt… stable. For the first time in weeks, the violent tremor in his core quieted. He looked at the glass again, then at Omid, startled. “Omid… where did you find this?” he asked, his voice clearer than it had been all morning. Omid beamed. “From the vendor bot! It said it had ‘Azyte crystals’ in it! Are you feeling better, Baba Ruzbeh?” Azyte. A rare, inert mineral found in trace amounts in deep-core mining operations, known for its unique molecular resonance properties. It was considered useless for industrial power or manufacturing, but in certain ancient texts, it was hinted to stabilize… soul-signatures. His languid body felt a momentary surge of clarity, the rejection symptoms temporarily suppressed. It was a reprieve, a fleeting anchor in his disintegrating existence. Before Ruzbeh could fully process this minor miracle, the threshold chimed. A terse voice filtered through the speak-plate. “Judicial Order Squad. Open the portal, Contestant Ruzbeh.” Soraya’s hand flew to the stun-pistol at her hip. “They’re here! They moved fast!” Ruzbeh just sighed, the lingering clarity from the Spark-Blast drink allowing him enough stamina to show mild exasperation. He walked to the door, Omid clinging to his leg. “Relax, Soraya. It’s just laundry day.” He opened the door to reveal five imposing figures clad in obsidian battle-armor, their faces obscured by polarized visors. They carried long-range tranquilizer rifles and restraint cuffs. The unit commander, a woman with a rigid spine, stepped forward. “Contestant Ruzbeh, you are under arrest for-” Before she could finish, Ruzbeh moved. It wasn’t a blur of speed, but a series of precise, almost casual adjustments. His hand, so gentle just moments ago with Omid, darted out, tapping the commander's wrist, then her neck, then a spot just behind her ear. Her rifle clattered to the floor, her body locking stiffly. Her eyes, visible through the visor, were wide with confusion and utter paralysis. He repeated the movements, a fluid, almost lazy dance, on the other four bailiffs. Each one froze mid-stride, weapons falling, their limbs locked at awkward angles, expressions of professional disdain replaced by bewildered horror. They were utterly conscious, yet entirely unable to move a muscle. Ruzbeh surveyed the five petrified officers. “Excellent,” he murmured. He clapped his hands softly, dust motes scattering in the dim light. “Now, about that laundry.” Soraya watched, mouth agape, as Ruzbeh motioned casually toward an overflowing basket of clothes. “You five,” he instructed, his voice as calm as if he were ordering tea, “will begin smoothing and stacking. And try to separate the lights from the darks this time. I always find a stray dark sock in the white load.” The officer's irises twitched in outrage, but no sound escaped her lips. Her armored fingers, however, began to move, stiffly at first, then with increasing, albeit unwilling, dexterity, reaching for a brightly patterned shirt. The other four followed suit, their powerful combat frames now engaged in the meticulous task of sorting and creasing Ruzbeh’s tattered clothes and Omid’s small, colorful garments. One enforcer, a hulking figure, was struggling with a fitted bed sheet, his visor fogging slightly with what Soraya could only assume was impotent fury. “Ruzbeh, what in the void did you do to them?” Soraya whispered, torn between disbelief and an unbidden burst of laughter. “Pressure points,” Ruzbeh said, picking up a faded tunic and handing it to the obedient officer. “Temporarily disrupts their nerve pathways. They can only move in ways I… suggest. Good for chores. Saves energy.” He yawned again, the Spark-Blast drink’s effect already beginning to wane. “Now, I believe you had something important to do, Soraya?” Soraya watched the surreal scene for a moment longer, the troopers reluctantly handling garments, before she pulled her comm-pad. She pulled out her private comm-pad, her fingers flying across the interface. She didn’t just contact her team; she broadcasted to the entire Avesta System. [Live Broadcast Initiated: Soraya Vance, Reigning Galaxy Champion] Her features, smooth during public appearances, looked carved from granite. “Citizens of the Avesta System,” she began, her voice ringing with a conviction that cut through the unfolding domestic farce. “My name is Soraya Vance. And I am speaking to you today to denounce a corruption that threatens the very fabric of justice and honor within our network.” Omid, still clinging to Ruzbeh, watched the comm-pad, mesmerized. Even the spellbound guards paused their unwilling task, their heads tilting slightly, listening. “The High Tribunal,” Soraya continued, her gaze burning into the lens, “has unjustly accused and condemned an innocent man. A man who saved countless lives in the Cobalt Grid, who defended us from a threat they themselves spawned. They call him a hacker, a cheat. They want to dissect him for the crime of being… extraordinary.” A collective gasp rippled through the interstellar feeds. Soraya Vance, the untouchable champion, was openly defying the highest authority. “I stand here today, not just as Soraya Vance, but as a pilot who believes in true skill, in honor, and in the right to defend those who cannot defend themselves against a system that has become arrogant and blind.” Her voice rose, filled with a defiant fire. “I hereby relinquish my title as Galaxy Champion. It means nothing if it cannot secure justice.” The galaxy reeled. A champion, giving up her crown? Unheard of. “And to the presiding bench, I extend a challenge,” Soraya declared, her chin tilted high. “You wish to test Ruzbeh’s legitimacy? Very well. I, Soraya Vance, and Ruzbeh, will face any fifty pilots you deem worthy. A two-versus-fifty mecha war. And if we win, you will immediately grant Ruzbeh Zenith Tier status, and rescind all charges.” [Urgent Incoming Message: High Tribunal] Within moments, the stern, synthesized voice of the central judge, the same one who had condemned Ruzbeh earlier, cut into the broadcast. “Soraya Vance. Your challenge is… audacious. And reckless. But it has been accepted.” The voice paused, a cold calculation evident even in its artificiality. “However, there are conditions. Contestant Ruzbeh will be provided a standard-issue, unmodded R-series combat frame. No external modifications, no personal augmentations, and absolutely no archaic implements are permitted. Your so-called ‘wooden stick’ will be strictly prohibited from the arena.”

Laundry and Ultimatum