Prolouge

The neon lights of the city—District 10—flicker in the rain against the backdrop of the dilapidated buildings. On the outskirts of the kingdom, here, there was nothing that could hide its age.

There Saoirse stood, adorned in her armor, her cloak dancing in the wind, stained with the blood of their squad. Her rifle in hand... there she stood, clutching her dead brother's medallions.

He will pay, she thought to herself.

The plume of smoke from the capital could be seen from miles upon miles away.

There Christopheles lay—bleeding, arm broken, ribs crushed from the shot that landed on his trauma plate.

Saoirse raises her service pistol.

"Before you kill me... I'm sure you're wondering: why? How? What?"

Saoirse remains silent.

"Nothing is incomplete in its image before the heavens. Not even time immemorial," he states.

Saoirse scowls as the gun twitches in her hand.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I wrote it, sweetheart... but I am not just me—not as I am here. I am a shape, a form, an essence embodied through a single will. I ought to say we wrote it."

"We?" Saoirse pistol-whips him.

"In life, you'll find that you love the same people, hate the same people, are disgusted by the same people—because we are all part of a blueprint that binds us through space and time. And like all blueprints... they answer to nature."

He coughs up blood, choking.

"The final arbiter. And so, there can only be so many variations of what the mind can be, based on what is functional."

"We serve the same function, my kindred sister."

He chuckles, coughing up the same blood.

"I'm just... well, smarter—older. But worry not... I will equip you with what you need."

Saoirse listens silently.

"In my pouch... there is a journal. And in that journal contains my mind's design—every thought I ever had, and every thought I would have had."

The wind bellows against the pavement of the street, whipping Saoirse's chin-length hair in front of her face.

Then—

She sees the life fade from his eyes.

Saoirse notices the glint of a scope out of the corner of her eye.

They had the shot this whole time, she realizes.

She kicks his body over and wrestles the journal from his corpse.

The leather feels warm, despite the rain.

Her fingers tremble as she unlatches it.

A page unfolds like a confession:

"Why is forgiveness seen as a higher virtue than justice?

Justice says: 'This is mine. You cannot have it. Give it back.'

If we really practice what we preach, we are modern men.

And modern man believes that everyone is entitled, by birthright, to dignity.

Like all things, it is a finite resource.

Dignity is a social construct—yes.

But all social constructs are derived from functionality.

And since there are only so many people to appraise,

and only so many people who can praise,

it becomes a finite resource.

We think there is only so much dignity to go around.

And this—

this is how you rob a man of his dignity:

You make others think less of him.

And from this, we derive…

Justice."

What have I done? Saoirse thinks to herself.

She hears the roars of engines and warp drives overhead.

Quickly, she slides the journal into her pouch and prepares herself—

—to greet the Commandant.