Do I unleash this plague, or allow the greater one to consume us all? Liskra’s mind, usually a cluttered archive of medical texts and serum formulas, suddenly cleared. It was a cold, sharp blade, cutting through the panic. The grenade. Pravik’s sphere was crude, yes, but its engineering was simple, a pressure-release system for a volatile payload. Her hands, usually so precise with a scalpel, now moved with an almost forgotten speed across the coarse metal. Her gaze swept the debris-strewn stone of the Slag-Markets, past discarded respirators, splintered pipes, and a forgotten coil of wiring. A plan, impossible and reckless, solidified. “Pravik,” she murmured, her voice tight, “give me your respirator cartridge. And that coil.” Pravik, huddled behind an overturned synth-wood stall, his eyes wide with terror, fumbled at his face. “My… my cartridge? What in the Blight are you thinking? That thing’s a death trap!” “No time!” she hissed, snatching the cartridge from his hand. She tore at the porous fabric, pulling out the fine mesh. The wire coil, thin and pliable, was quickly unspooled. She began to work on the grenade’s seams, her movements economical, precise. The bio-engineer, buried beneath years of memory-wiped meekness, resurfaced with chilling clarity. “The spores, they’re inert until exposed to air for a full cycle. The release mechanism… it’s a simple rupture disc. If I can create a micro-perforation, a directed burst… with this mesh as a filter…” she muttered, half to herself, her tongue pressing against her lip in concentration. The wire, thin as a hair, was threaded through a tiny gap near the sphere’s trigger, carefully nudging a specific internal component. The fine mesh was packed into a makeshift choke point. It would reduce the lethal dispersal, turning the deadly fungal dust into something else. Something less, but still potent. Pravik watched, utterly bewildered. His eyes darted from her feverish work to the enforcers, who were now securing the analog tape in a reinforced specimen pouch. “Liskra, what are you doing? Are you trying to make it *more* lethal?” A tiny click echoed in the sudden quiet. Liskra’s head snapped up. The enforcers, their backs still turned, were almost finished. The tape was secured. Her chance was now. “It won’t be spores,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the unsuspecting sentries. “Not anymore.” With a practiced motion, she hurled the modified casing. It arced through the stale air, a dark blur against the grime-streaked wall, and struck the flagstones with a dull thud. Not a violent explosion, but a muted *pssht*. A cloud, thick and yellowish-green, erupted from the grenade, not expanding in a deadly bloom, but clinging low to the ground, a suffocating blanket. The nearest sentry coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and then staggered. His partner, still holding the sealed pouch, sniffed the air, a frown deepening on his face. “What’s that smell… like rotting citrus?” His words slurred. His eyes rolled back. He dropped the bag, the crack of the impact surprisingly loud in the sudden, eerie silence. Both men collapsed, boneless puppets, their heavy armor clanking against the grit-covered floor. The other market dwellers, who had merely watched in silent despair, now stared, wide-eyed, before scrambling deeper into the shadows. Liskra didn’t wait. She lunged, snatching the pouch containing the tape. The air around her still tasted acrid, thick with the chemical tang of her improvised knock-out agent. It stung her nostrils, making her eyes water, but she pushed through it, ribs jarring against her breathless chest. She had done it. The tape was safe. “Liskra! What have you done? You’re going to get us flayed!” Pravik’s voice was a frantic screech, rising from his hiding spot. Before Liskra could reply, a deeper voice, resonant with authority, cut through the quiet. “What in the Abyss is happening here?” Liskra froze, her hand still gripping the evidence bag. Her head snapped up. Standing at the entrance to the market alley, framed by the pale, sickly glow of a malfunctioning lumen-lamp, was Vochak. His presence was a solid, undeniable force, even from a distance. He wore his customary dark, severe uniform, but his face was drawn, his eyes underlined by deep, bruised hollows. The insomnia, she noted with a pang of dread, was worse. He strode forward, his heavy boots crunching on the detritus, his gaze sweeping over the unconscious sentries, the lingering haze of yellow-green gas, and finally, landing on her. On her, standing over the fallen men, clutching the sealed pouch. Her own modified weapon lay innocently on the pavement a few feet away, still hissing faintly. “Liskra?” His voice was low, dangerous. “What are you doing here? And what have you done to my detail?” Her carefully constructed calm shattered. The bio-engineer vanished, replaced by the stuttering, painfully shy doctor. Her face flushed, and her lips trembled. “C-c-commander Vochak! I… I was… I was trying to…” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Her gaze darted to Pravik, who was slowly, cautiously emerging from behind the stall, looking like a cornered vermin. Vochak’s eyes narrowed, flickering from her, to the unconscious men, to the crude iron on the flagstones. “Trying to what, medic? Steal proof? Incapacitate my men?” His voice was colder than the deepest strata of Oplot. “N-no! Never!” The lie tumbled out, desperate and clumsy. “I… I heard… r-rumors. Of a… a black market source. For… for sleep aids. Something stronger than the usual sedatives. I thought… I thought it might help with your… your condition. I just… wanted to h-help you sleep, Commander.” The words hung in the oppressive air. Pravik made a soft, choked sound, a mix of disbelief and admiration. Her pulse drummed violently against her ribs in the silence. It was a terrible lie, transparent and ill-conceived, yet she clung to it, pleading with Vochak’s unwavering stare. Vochak studied her, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on her flushed face, her trembling hands still clutching the bag, then on the faint yellow residue clinging to her uniform. The intensity in his eyes was unnerving. He took another step closer, then another, until he loomed over her, a dark shadow against the dim light. “You… came down here? To the Slag-Markets? For me?” His voice was softer now, a strange, rough edge to it. A hint of something akin to awe, or perhaps, a dangerous possessiveness, replaced the fury. Liskra nodded, unable to speak, her gaze fixed on the worn leather of his boots. “Y-yes, Commander. I… I thought it was important.” He let out a slow breath, a deep sigh that seemed to drag several days of sleeplessness behind it. He reached out, leather gloves brushing against her arm, a touch that was surprisingly gentle. “You shouldn’t have come here alone, Liskra. This place is not for you. It’s lethal down here.” His thumb stroked her sleeve once, a fleeting, almost tender gesture, before he took the pouch from her numb grip. His eyes glanced at the tape, then back to her face, a complex emotion swirling within their depths. “I appreciate your… dedication, medic. Truly.” He didn’t open the bag. He didn’t inspect the tape. He simply held it, a heavy, dark rectangle in his large hand. The tension in Liskra’s shoulders eased by a fraction. He believed her. Or, at least, he *chose* to believe her. “Get up, Pravik,” Vochak said, his voice returning to its usual stern timbre, though still laced with a surprising warmth for Liskra. “Help the medic out of this filth. We’re going back to the Sanatorium.” He gestured to the fallen men. “Leave them. They’ll wake up eventually, dizzy but intact. Whatever you used, medic, it was… effective.” Pravik, still shaking, scrambled to his feet. “Y-yes, Commander. Right away.” Vochak turned, his stride purposeful, leaving Liskra and Pravik to follow. As they walked, Vochak kept a protective, almost proprietorial, eye on Liskra. He didn’t release the tape, but he didn’t seem interested in it either, his focus entirely on her, on the perceived risk she had taken for him. It was a dangerous, intoxicating mixture of gratitude and simmering concern. They reached the Sanatorium’s private access elevator, a sleek, polished capsule that offered a stark contrast to the grimy markets. Inside, the air was cool, filtered, silent. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them into the oppressive quiet. Vochak leaned against the polished wall, his eyes closed for a moment, his breathing shallow. The lines of exhaustion around his mouth deepened, carving harsh shadows into his face. Liskra watched him, her hand instinctively reaching for the diagnostic pad on her belt. His insomnia was beyond anything she had seen. The cure… it was in his blood, slowly, painstakingly restructuring his neural pathways. But the process was reaching its apex. It was a volatile, invasive intervention. Suddenly, Vochak sagged. His eyes flew open, wide and unfocused. A guttural sound escaped his lips, a strangled gasp. He slid down the wall, his strong legs buckling beneath him. His hand clutched at his chest, his face contorted in a silent struggle. The pouch, still in his grip, thumped against the floor. “Commander!” Liskra cried, rushing to his side. Pravik yelped, backing away, pressing himself against the far wall of the elevator. Vochak’s body went limp. His eyes, still open, stared blankly at the ceiling of the elevator. His palms, which had moments ago been firm and warm against her arm, were now cold, slack. Liskra fumbled for his wrist, pressing her fingertips against the pulse point. Nothing. She moved to his neck, her frantic touch searching. Still nothing. His heart had stopped. The cure. It wasn’t just critical anymore. It was lethal.

The Spore Grenade