Nina’s combat augments registered the movement, the precise angle of its grotesque head-casing, the way its multi-jointed legs bent in a grotesque parody of subservience. She didn’t flinch. The medical ward erupted in shouts and the clatter of dropped instruments. A freshly augmented patient shrieked, scrambling back from the triage bay. But the creature, reeking of ozone and damp earth, remained fixed on Nina, its bow holding. “Get back,” Nina snapped, her voice cutting through the rising panic, not to the bioweapon, but to the junior tech fumbling for a stun-rifle. “All of you, stand down.” The scavenger-beast straightened with a creak of chitin and bone, its eyes still locked on her. Then, with a speed that belied its bulk, it pivoted and plunged back through the shattered wall, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom of the Kish-Ward slums. The silence it left behind was punctuated only by the distant wail of a Syndicate patrol siren and the frantic pulse of Nina’s own internal chronometer. “What in the nine hells was that?” murmured Zurah, Nina’s chief medic, clutching a blood-soaked plasma scalpel. Nina ignored her, already striding towards the broken wall. “Board it up. Double reinforced. And run a full spectral analysis on the residual bio-signature. Prioritize anything anomalous.” She didn’t like it. Not one bit. Such complex behavior from a feral was unheard of. Before the emergency repair crews could even fully secure the breach, a new commotion erupted at the facility's main entrance. A retinue of gilded acolytes, their robes woven with electrum thread, parted the milling patients and staff. At their center, High Exarch Ziusudra, his aged face serene beneath a halo of cybernetic implants, floated in on a grav-palanquin. His eyes, though ancient, held a piercing, knowing gleam. “Ninazu, my child,” Ziusudra’s voice, amplified by a throat-synth, resonated through the clamor. “Word of your noble work here in the suffering Kish-Ward reaches even the highest Ziggurat spires. It gladdens the heart of the Omnipotent that you have found your true calling.” Nina met his gaze, a cigarette already between her augmented fingers. “Exarch. A pleasure. Though I prefer to think of it as a vocation, not a calling. Less divine intervention, more plasma torch and blood-soaked aug-saw.” She took a long drag, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke that momentarily obscured her face. Ziusudra merely chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Ever the pragmatist. A quality I’ve always admired in you, my dear.” He extended a hand, surprisingly strong, beckoning her closer. “Allow an old man to offer his blessings, and perhaps, some overdue paternal affection.” He pulled her into a surprisingly tight embrace. Nina felt a brief, almost imperceptible prick at the base of her neck, just beneath her right earlobe. A fleeting sting, like a static discharge. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. Ziusudra pulled back, his eyes twinkling. “There. May the Omnipotent’s favor shine upon your Bastion, and guide your scalpel.” “Much appreciated, Exarch,” Nina said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She reached a hand to her neck, rubbing the spot instinctively. Nothing. Just her imagination, perhaps. The stress of the raid, the creature, the endless cycle of death and repair. Ziusudra’s retinue swept out as quickly as they arrived, leaving behind an unsettling calm and the faint scent of sanctified incense. Nina found herself glancing at the repaired wall, then back at the door, a knot of unease tightening in her gut. Just as Nina was about to return to the surgical suites, a fresh eruption of noise shook the Bastion. This time, it was a familiar, grating wail. Lugal Enmebar, looking like a man who’d been dragged through a grinder and then electrocuted, burst through the entrance, his tailored robes torn, his face streaked with tears and grime. Two of Nina’s burliest security chassis had to physically restrain him from charging deeper into the clinic. “Nina! Nina, you have to help me!” he choked out, his voice cracking. “She’s gone! Shala’s gone! And she took everything! My crypto-vaults, the access keys, the entire Sector 7 concession… she’s drained it all! I’m ruined! Bankrupt!” Nina raised an eyebrow, taking another long drag from her cigarette. “Lugal. You seem distressed.” “Distressed? I’m destitute! I’m a pariah! The syndicate will strip me bare! She left me with nothing but debt and a half-eaten nutrient paste packet!” He sagged against the heavy units, sobbing dramatically. “Well, that’s rather inconvenient for you, isn’t it?” Nina flicked ash onto the clean, synth-concrete floor. “However, this is a medical facility. We deal in life-and-death, not financial ruin. Unless, of course, your current… insolvency… is presenting a direct threat to your biological systems?” Lugal looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “But… but you’re my white moonlight, Nina! My cherished… you can’t just turn your back on me!” Nina let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, darling. That moon already set. And now, you’re on the clock.” She gestured to the sentry units. “Start the meter. Standard consulting fee for emotional distress and general whining: fifty thousand credits per minute. Paid upfront, in fully traceable funds, of course. My clinic requires sustainable income.” Lugal’s jaw dropped, his sobs abruptly ceasing. “Fifty thousand… for listening? You’re insane!” “Or pragmatic,” Nina corrected, a cold glint in her eyes. “Unlike some people, I don’t confuse sentiment with solvency. Now, do you wish to continue sharing your woes, or are you ready to face the music elsewhere?” Lugal sputtered, unable to form a coherent reply, the reality of his utter ruin crashing down on him. He stumbled back, defeated, as the guards released him. Nina watched him slink away, a satisfied curl to her lips. But the moment of triumph was fleeting. As Lugal’s pathetic figure disappeared from view, Nina felt an odd prickling sensation just beneath her skin. A strange warmth bloomed in her veins, spreading rapidly. Her ocular feed flickered, sensing an internal anomaly. She glanced at her reflection in a polished metal panel. For a split second, the blood flowing beneath her skin, visible through the transparent bio-dermal layer of her forearm, glowed a blinding, iridescent silver. A pulsating, alien light that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Her throat went bone-dry. Not a trick of the light. Not fatigue. That was unprecedented. She immediately moved to her private diagnostic lab, a sterile chamber humming with advanced bio-analyzers. She drew a sample of her own blood, a thick, dark crimson against the gleaming white of the syringe. She loaded it into the high-speed mass spectrometer, her fingers flying across the controls. The machine whirred, lights flashing, a stream of complex data scrolling across the main screen. Nina watched, her focus absolute, as the spectral analysis unfolded. The nanites. It had to be the nanites Ziusudra injected. But what were they doing? What was that silver light? The screen flickered, the data stream abruptly replaced by a single, stark message, flashing in angry red text across the display: WARNING: PROJECT WHITE MOONLIGHT ACTIVATING.

The Exarch's Blessing