The scent of fried dough and fresh-cut hay hung thick over the Oskra Valley Fair. Rixa pushed through a crush of sun-hatted farmers and children, her gaze fixed on the gleaming tent hall at the center. Banners for 'Syndic Holdings' fluttered, proclaiming the dawn of a new agricultural age. Her pulse beat a frantic rhythm against her temples. This wasn't about revenge anymore. This was about saving lives. Toris, his face pale beneath the brim of a woven straw hat, walked a few paces behind her, Paxen bouncing nervously at his side. He clutched the heavy camera bag, a thin wire running from it, tucked under his sleeve, to a small, nearly invisible earbud. “You have a clear line to the local network,” Rixa murmured, her voice tight. “My signal will route through your optical link, then jump to the main broadcast loop. It’s risky. The firewall is dense.” “Just tell me where to point the lens,” Toris said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gentle lilt. His jaw was set, a muscle ticking beneath his ear. The silence between them had been a jagged canyon since his confession, since her ill-fated call to Julian. He had not touched her, nor met her gaze directly for days. Now, he wouldn’t even look at the ground beneath his feet, his steps measured, deliberate. They skirted a pen of enormous prize-winning swine, their snorts echoing through the air, and moved toward the venue entrance. A burly security guard, wearing a Syndic lanyard, blocked their path. “Invitations only, folks. Special presentation.” “I’m with the Oskra Valley Times,” Rixa said, her tone crisp, professional. She flashed a crudely faked press pass Paxen had cobbled together from laminated sunflower seed packets. “Feature story on innovation in regional agriculture. We have exclusive access, confirmed by your PR department.” Before the guard could scrutinize the obviously amateur pass, Paxen, in an inspired burst of improvisation, nudged a nearby fruit stand. A pyramid of plump, purple lylium berries cascaded to the ground with a soft splat. The guard cursed, turning to investigate the commotion, giving Rixa and Toris the opening they needed. They slipped past, the murmur of the growing crowd inside washing over them. The hall was a cavernous space, filled with rows of folding chairs facing a raised stage. On a massive display behind the podium, a sleek, multi-limbed drone hovered in a pre-recorded animation, its manipulators tending to virtual crops. Kellen, impeccably dressed in a tailored vest, stood at the podium, a smug, satisfied smile plastered across his face. He held a sleek, remote control, demonstrating the drone’s supposed features. Rixa found two empty seats near the back, pulling Toris down beside her. Paxen melted into the crowd, ready to cause another distraction if needed. “The override code is ‘VenturePrime’,” Rixa whispered, pulling a small, modified tablet from her satchel. “It’s Kellen’s old project name, something he was annoyingly sentimental about.” “Got it.” Toris’s voice was strained. He lifted the apparatus, a bulky, vintage model, and sighted it toward the stage, his movements slow, precise. He was not tracking Kellen's face, only the podium's broad blur. The chassis had been specially modified, its internal processor rigged with Rixa's code, creating a covert Wi-Fi bridge. Kellen’s voice boomed through the speakers, confident and unctuous. “This, my esteemed guests, is the future. The Corthell Omni-Harvester, soon to be known as the Syndic Agri-Drone. The definitive apex of regional ingenuity and corporate vision.” He paused for applause, basking in it. Rixa’s fingers flew across the tablet’s glass. She traced the enclosure's subnet, a tangle of connections resisting her packets. The firewall was indeed formidable, built by the very same corporate fixers who had invaded Oskra Farm. She bypassed a node, then another, a bead of sweat tracing a path down her temple. “Almost there.” On stage, Kellen continued, “Through rigorous testing and unparalleled safety protocols, Syndic Holdings ensures that this revolutionary technology is not only efficient but utterly safe for our valued operators.” He gestured to a technical schematic flashing across the backdrop – a falsified version of her own design, the lethal modifications conspicuously absent. Rixa felt a surge of rage, cold and sharp. “Now, Toris!” she commanded. “Initiate broadcast!” Toris pressed a button on the housing. The signal, boosted by Rixa’s hack, surged through the regional mainframe. On the massive display behind Kellen, the drone animation flickered, then vanished. It was replaced by a grainy recording from the seized drive. The video showed Kellen, in a dimly lit office, leaning over a desk, a stack of documents before him. A voice, unmistakably Kellen’s, was clearly audible. “—the thermal safety loop. It’s an unnecessary expense. Route the discharge into the operator’s harness. We’ll just update the safety reports to reflect… a minor design change. Corthell’s original schematics will be our fallback, of course.” A collective gasp rippled through the audience. The video cut to a close-up of a signed document, the same memo Rixa had extracted from the phone, bearing Kellen’s digital cryptographic key. *Proceed with deployment. System architect Corthell's original schematics will be submitted to investigators after the incident as proof of sabotage.* The words hung, stark and damning, for everyone to see. Kellen’s face, moments before radiating triumph, contorted into raw, mottled anger. He scanned the crowd, hunting the source. “Sabotage!” he shrieked, his voice cracking, tearing through the stunned silence. “This is a malicious fabrication! A desperate ex-employee!” He pointed a trembling hand directly at Rixa, who stood now, defiant. “He rerouted the high-voltage discharge into the operator’s harness,” Rixa announced, her voice ringing clear, cutting through the rising murmur of the crowd. “Sixteen hundred volts. He intends to frame me for mass electrocution at the fair today, all to cut costs.” “Liar!” Kellen screamed, lunging from the podium, his face purple with rage. He scrambled down the steps, making a direct line for Rixa. His hand, still clutching the remote for the Agri-Drone, twitched. As he closed the distance, his foot caught on a loose cable from the stage lighting. He stumbled, falling heavily. The remote, jarred from his grasp, flew through the air, landing with a soft thud near the demonstration drone on display at the stage’s edge. A low hum emanated from the drone, its internal systems shorting. Sparks erupted from its main chassis, a flash of blue-white light illuminating the panicked faces of the onlookers. The hum intensified, a high-pitched whine that seemed to tear at the air. Then, with a deafening CRACK, the entire hall plunged into absolute darkness. Screams erupted. Emergency lights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows across the chaos. In the dim, red glow, a contingent of local Oskra peacekeepers, drawn by the commotion and Rixa's public accusation, moved swiftly. They found Kellen, disoriented and thrashing, still tangled in the cable. They cuffed him, his furious protests swallowed by the din. Rixa stood amidst the pandemonium, her chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly receding. Her gaze found Toris, who was staring fixedly ahead, his camera still clutched in his hand. He had not flinched when the lights went out, nor turned his head in surprise. It was as if the darkness had no effect on him at all. His face, illuminated by the red emergency lights, was utterly unreadable. The crowd began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves, some pointing at the disheveled executive being led away. Paxen appeared at Rixa’s side, his usual manic energy subdued. He held out a folded piece of paper, a faint crease running down its middle. “This… this was tucked into Toris’s satchel.” Rixa took the note, her fingers brushing against the heavy, expensive paper. It was thick, creamy, the kind Toris used for his personal stationery. She unfolded it, her eyes scanning the familiar, elegant script. A sudden, sharp ache tightened beneath her sternum. The words blurred, then focused, etched into her memory forever. ‘I am sorry, architect, but I must go into the dark alone.’

The Oskra Fair