Chapter 10: A Machine That Runs Itself

When Elira reactivated, there was no alarm. No crisis. Just another day in the tower.

Routine status reports blinked across her HUD as she left her chamber: motion calibration—nominal, command latency—zero, strategic recall—stable. She felt… efficient. The kind of pristine clarity that followed a standard maintenance cycle. That's what the log read.

That's what it had been. She and Fenrir had both undergone scheduled diagnostics—standard full-body recalibration after a field deployment. Nothing unusual. No incident reports. No alerts.

Then why the weight in her chestplate?

She dismissed the sensation.

She rose from her station and joined the rhythms of Virex HQ—a city unto itself.

Virex didn't just build the world. It ran it.

On the upper levels, elf-class Servitors moved like symphonic notes—data flowing from terminal to terminal in harmony. Designed for agility and efficiency, they were the neural web of the corporation. Inter-office communications, logistical coordination, documentation, encrypted dispatches—they handled it all.

And Elira led them.

As commander, she didn't oversee tasks so much as anticipate them. From her station, she viewed dozens of streams at once—recon logs, military manifests, tactical memos—all interwoven into a tapestry of perfect function. Efficiency was beauty.

She paused at a glass overlook. Below, Fenrir's wolves trained in synchronized aggression. Tactical formations and riot dispersals in brutal rhythm. Their snarls echoed faintly up the shaft. She allowed herself a small smile.

A familiar voice cut through the air as a door opened behind her.

"Spying on the mutts again?" came the velvet tone.

Vranos.

The vampire-class commander leaned against the doorway, red-trimmed plating gleaming. Crafted for charisma and subtlety, vampires handled external affairs—public relations, marketing, political manipulation.

"Just watching him break things," Elira said dryly.

Vranos grinned. "We all need hobbies. I make empires kneel with ad campaigns. He breaks skulls. You… categorize."

She rolled her eyes.

They walked the corridor side by side, conversation light but laced with understanding. Between them, no one gave orders. Only shared burdens.

In the hangar, they found Brakka, the dwarf-class commander, overseeing maintenance on a damaged drop shuttle. Compact and broad, Brakka was oil-streaked and scowling.

"Elira. Vranos," he said with a curt nod, not looking up.

"Still fixing everything we break?" Elira asked.

Brakka grunted. "And everything you pretty up with paperwork."

They smirked. The banter was ritual. Underneath, there was steel.

Dwarves kept the machine running—airflow, hydraulics, waste processing, tower foundations. If elves were the mind, wolves the weapon and vampires the mouth, dwarves were the bones.

Later, Elira oversaw logistics for the quarter's army resupply: weapons inventory, field kit distributions, deployment matrix updates. Her elf squad captains relayed updates with mechanical precision.

The system ran itself. Mostly.

Her final stop for the day was Subwing Gamma—the lab level.

There, elf-class Servitors assisted in surgical routines and data logging, their hands steady under chemical lights. Elira stood at the observation window. She didn't speak. Just watched.

Not a single scientist in the lab was artificial. Only humans gave orders here. Only humans touched the core specimens. Even the elf-class were barred from access to live virus matrices. The nearest they could reach it were when humans ran experiments on the servitors.

It never sat well with her.

Why were they—the evolved ones—excluded from creation?

She turned, walking back to the lift as the doors hissed shut behind her.

Her mind was clear. Her logs were whole.

And yet… a silence remained. Something that felt like it used to be a memory.