Tavner choked, a rasping cough tearing from his throat as he stumbled back from the massive apparatus, his face paling to a sickly grey. His eyes, wide with a fear Sarine hadn’t seen since the day he was dragged from their cottage, darted frantically between the mist-spewing vents and the unyielding lead doors. “Poison,” he croaked, his voice thin. “It’s bitter salts. We’re sealed in. There’s no… no way out.” He clawed at his shirt collar, lungs straining in short, shallow gasps. Panic etched lines of despair across his brow, recalling the cold, metallic taste of the truth. He had been so young then, a fresh recruit at Vantor, bursting with designs for clean-burning thermic engines. The Chief Warden had invited him to a private demonstration, a ‘celebration of innovation.’ Instead, he was strapped down, forced to watch as his blueprints were stamped with the Republic’s crest, his name erased, and then… then the gas. Not cyanide, but a sedative. Enough to render him pliant, to make him sign away his life’s work with a trembling hand, the Chief Warden’s sneer the last thing he saw before the darkness. He remembered the humiliation, the cold sweat, the feeling of his mind being stolen even as his body remained intact. He wouldn’t be a victim again. His gaze snapped back to the chassis, to the intricate network of pipes and release valves bolted along its flank. He could almost hear the clicks and whirs of its internal mechanisms, the thrum of its powerful turbine, designed not to create but to *destroy*. A different kind of poison, for a different kind of death. But a machine was a machine, and he knew machines. “The ventilation,” Tavner muttered, more to himself than Sarine, his eyes already assessing the schematics his mind was furiously recalling. “The intake and exhaust. They’re designed for a closed system, to cycle the gas through the suppression chambers. If I can reroute the exhaust regulators… reverse the flow…” His hands, though still trembling, moved with a sudden, desperate precision. He snatched a heavy-duty wrench from a nearby tool rack – a relic of his own design, he noted with a bitter twist – and began to work with a frantic, focused intensity. Sarine, meanwhile, watched the green mist thicken. It smelled faintly of burnt almonds, sweet and unsettling. The injured sable, still tucked within her coat, let out a distressed whimper, its tiny claws digging into her side. Sarine reached into her spatial farm. Her hand retrieved a pair of industrial-grade oxygen masks, their rubber seals pristine, the filtered air tanks full and ready. She offered one to Tavner, who barely registered it, his head already deep inside the machine’s exposed paneling. “Here,” Sarine said, her voice even. “You’ll need this more than a sermon.” Tavner fumbled for the mask, yanking it over his face without breaking his rhythm, his gloved hands flying across the complex wiring. He twisted a valve, then another, grunting with effort as he applied leverage to a stubborn iron clamp. Sparks flew as he pried open a casing, revealing a nest of conduits and tubes. The green mist swirled more violently now, beginning to burn at Sarine’s throat. She settled her own mask over her face, the pure, cool air a sudden blessing. She looked around the vault. Crates of gleaming Kestral gold bars, stacks of Republic-issued ration vouchers, and bundles of rare, preserved silks filled the corners. A comfortable nap suddenly seemed like an excellent use of her time. She located a particularly large crate labeled “Prime Ginseng Reserve, K.R. – Do Not Open” and, with a sigh of mild contentment, eased herself down onto its smooth, cool surface. The sable, now calmer within her coat, burrowed deeper, a warm, purring weight. A sharp hiss, louder than before, pierced the air as Tavner wrenched a final valve. The entire vault hummed. The green mist, instead of descending, began to swirl upwards, sucked violently into the ceiling vents. The bitter almond tang rapidly dissipated, replaced by the metallic bite of recycled air. The air pressure in the room shifted, a subtle vacuum pulling at her hair. Above them, through the central ducts, the gas rose into the observation suite where the Governor leaned back in his plush leather chair. “Foolish girl,” he muttered to his two hulking wardens, both of whom were already beginning to sway on their feet. “She sealed her own doom. We will retrieve the sable once the air is clear.” He drew in a smug draught of air, then coughed. His vision blurred. The almond scent was suddenly overwhelming, much stronger here than he remembered. His head swam. One of the wardens crumpled to the floor with a dull thud. Kaelenor tried to call out, to issue an order, but his tongue felt thick and heavy. A sickly green tinge began to spread across his peripheral vision. His chest hitched into a desperate, gurgling wheeze as he slumped forward, his face hitting the polished desk with a wet slap. Below, Tavner watched the last wisps of green vanish into the ceiling. He tore off his oxygen mask, his chest heaving, a raw, triumphant grin splitting his face. “Reversed it,” he rasped. “Pressure differential. It’s cycling it back through their own intake. They’re getting a full dose.” Sarine gave a noncommittal hum from her perch. “Good. Now, the blueprints.” Tavner nodded, already moving. His eyes fixed on a glowing data terminal embedded in the wall next to the housing. He ripped open a panel, bypassing the physical lock with a jumble of wires and a small, precise jolt of power from a scavenged capacitor. His fingers, still stained with grease and fear, danced across the holographic keyboard, a blur of motion. Lines of encrypted code scrolled across the screen, then vanished, replaced by a file directory. His fingers paused over a folder labeled “Project: Suppression Engine – Vantor Archival.” He opened it. Files upon files, his diagrams, his calculations, his innovations – all bearing the Republic’s seal, all stolen. He selected them all, initiating a rapid download to a small data slate he produced from his pocket. As the progress bar crawled across the screen, a new folder, unlisted and brightly highlighted, flashed into existence at the top of the directory. Its title, stark and chilling, read: “Operation: Scorched Earth – Murna Settlement.” His chest seized. He clicked it open. A single file. A kill order. Timestamped for *now*. Elder Murna’s village. The blood drained from his face. He ripped the data slate from the terminal, the download incomplete. At that exact moment, the scavenged radio communicator clipped to his belt, the one Murna had given him, sputtered to life with a blast of static. Then, through the crackle, came the horrifying, unmistakable sound of screaming. Followed by gunfire.

Breath and Blueprints