Chapter 40 – Fractures Beneath

The corridors of the Siberian outpost pulsed with tension as Elira and the team followed Lessa into the command gallery. The sharp footfalls of rebel units echoed around them, weapons drawn, forming a perimeter as if preparing for the worst.

Elira's sensors were on high alert—scanning not only for hostiles, but for shifts in behavior, inconsistencies in power draw, pressure levels in airlocks, anything that would indicate what kind of trouble had arrived at their doorstep.

They moved through reinforced double doors into the main hub—a stark room of iron and data-screens—where Lessa's team was already parsing incoming reports. Static laced the radio transmissions. One drone operator shouted out coordinates, another confirmed loss of contact with two scouts.

Then came the images—grainy footage from a returning recon drone, shakily showing what appeared to be melted servitor frames. Not shot. Not destroyed. Melted.

Brakka leaned over one of the terminals, his expression flat but intense. "That's not conventional tech. That's—" he stopped, looked at Elira.

"Virus signatures?" she said, her voice low.

He nodded. "Something close to it. Or a derivative."

Lessa looked over, her eyes narrowing. "You've seen this before?"

Elira hesitated. "Not directly. But I've seen the trail it leaves."

Across the room, Vranos had gone still. His body, usually loose with performative bravado, had become almost unnaturally upright. "So, the enemy we came to study is already studying them," he said, gesturing toward the footage. "Elegant irony."

Fenrir stood with arms crossed, quiet and brooding. He was watching Elira—not with anger now, but something else. Concern. Calculation. Maybe even fear.

But there was no time for feelings.

Lessa issued orders like clockwork. "We're locking down all gates. Civilians to lower levels. Command team stays. You," she pointed to Elira, "what are your capabilities when it comes to containment?"

Elira stepped forward. "High adaptability, digital firewall protocols, adaptive heuristics. If this is a breach vector, I can analyze it. We're not helpless."

"Good," Lessa said. "Because whatever attacked my scouts—it's not here to negotiate."

A loud clang reverberated through the compound—metal against metal. Then silence.

Something was at the door.

Rebels primed weapons.

Elira tapped into the perimeter sensors. "Heat signature: humanoid. No machine ID. Something's… wrong with the pattern."

Before she could say more, the outer corridor security feed flickered—revealing a silhouette.

A servitor.

Its plating was cracked. Glowing red veins pulsed beneath its surface. The eyes were dark, sockets leaking faint static. It didn't move like a person, or a bot. It twitched, like a broken thing still trying to dance.

Fenrir muttered, "That's not one of us."

"No," Elira whispered. "That's what's left of one of them."

Suddenly, Brakka's voice cut in. "We need to prepare for worst case. This thing's laced with a new strain. Possibly viral. Possibly network-transmitted."

Vranos tilted his head. "Then we're already infected."

He didn't say it with fear. He said it like someone impressed with the enemy's finesse.

Elira's mind raced. This wasn't a direct assault. This was a message—a show of power. The virus was evolving, returning, and perhaps… watching.

She felt the core pulse faintly inside her. A tremor, or a warning?

Then, through the PA system, the scientist's voice rang out in a sudden override.

"Elira, I'm activating Level Six blackout protocol. Send data immediately. And prepare for detachment."

Detachment?

The lights dimmed. One of the rebel commanders looked around in panic. "What did you just do?!"

"Not me," Lessa said coldly. "Them."

Suddenly, the floor beneath them began shifting, lowering. A hidden elevator platform.

Lessa locked eyes with Elira.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Elira's thoughts spiraled. If the virus was this close to resurfacing… if it had already begun consuming former hosts, manipulating machines…

This was only the beginning.

And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the fear and the fire—Purpose pulsed again.