[Date: August 5, 980 GD. Location: Layer -3]
"I didn't come to discuss dog pedigrees, Vance. I came to ask one thing: What do you want?"
I leaned forward, staring directly into his eyes, surrounded by oil-slick wrinkles.
"You're blocking the pipeline. You're strangling this city's circulation. Why? Money? Liquidity?"
I gestured toward Vianna's shadow, absent in body but present through my access.
"I can give you money. I can grant you access to Aurum's vaults. You need funds for your lead bunker? To assemble nitrate bombs to make you feel safe? Name the figure. I'll sign the check right now."
Vance didn't flinch. He cut his meat again, uninterested.
"I don't need your money, Praetor. Money down here is just paper for starting fires. Its exchange rate is zero in the face of death."
"Then... revenge?" I asked again, this time my voice lower, tempting his darker side.
"You're a former Valdor engineer. You were discarded into the garbage grinder for being 'weak.' You hate the black uniforms, don't you?"
I spread my arms wide.
"I can give you Titus. Or Vianna. Not physically—not yet—but I can give you their reputational heads. I can destroy their careers. I can provide data that bankrupts their families, enough to buy this city twice over. You want to see them suffer? I can arrange it."
Vance stopped chewing. He stared at me for a long time. There was a flicker of longing in his eyes when I mentioned Titus's name, but then he slowly shook his head.
"You think I'm that petty? Money? Petty revenge?"
Vance pressed a button on his wheelchair. The green fluid in his IV tubes flowed faster, pumping stimulants into his fragile body. He straightened his back, and for a moment, he didn't look like a sick man. He looked like a false prophet delivering a sermon.
"I want them to look down," he hissed.
"I want the Sovereign in their ivory towers, and the Senate in their glass rooms, to stop dumping trash on our heads for once and realize one thing: That without us... without the dirty hands turning the coolant valves in this Layer -3... their holy Ambrosia would boil in the pipes and blow up their pretty faces."
His voice rose an octave, full of emotion pent up for years.
"I want an Acknowledgment of Existence. I want them to admit that we are not rats. We are not compost. We are the machinery that keeps their heart beating! I want them to humanize the people down here!"
He gasped for breath.
"Pay us a 'Cooling Service Fee'. Give us status. Acknowledge us as official citizens, not illegal parasites. That's the price, Praetor. Dignity."
I remained silent for a moment. Listening to his speech.
It sounded noble. It sounded heroic. It was the kind of speech that would make the poor in Layer -1 weep and take up arms for him.
But my eyes... my red eyes enhanced by Solstice's Mana... saw something else. I saw his irregular heartbeat as he spoke. I saw the micro-wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he said the word 'Status.'
I laughed.
A short, dry, utterly contemptuous laugh. It bounced off the metal pipe walls, mocking the seriousness of the moment.
"Humanize the people?" I repeated cynically.
"Beautiful words, Vance. Very poetic. Almost brought a tear to my eye."
I stood up slowly. Heat began to radiate from my body, making the air around the table shimmer. The candles on the table began to melt faster, dripping wax onto the white cloth.
"But tell me... is that truly for your people? Or is it just your ego screaming for help?"
"What do you mean?" Vance narrowed his eyes, offended.
"You talk about humanity," I taunted sharply, stepping closer. "But you let children in Layer -1 rot in toxic mud while you eat steak here. You don't care about the Iron Eaters; you just exploit their muscle. You don't care about the Blind Prophet's congregation; you just need madmen to die for you."
I leaned my face closer, the heat from my body instantly evaporating the sweat on Vance's forehead.
"You don't want equal rights, Engineer. You want a seat. You want an invitation to the parties up there. You want the name 'Vance' engraved on a brass plaque in the Nexus Hall, don't you?"
My smile widened, cruel.
"This isn't about humanity. It's about Validation. You're just a narcissistic, heartbroken bureaucrat because the cool kids won't let you play anymore."
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Vance roared. His face flushed red. Veins bulged on his scrawny neck.
His hand shot to the control panel on his wheelchair armrest. His index finger hovered over a large red button protected by a plastic cover.
"You think you're clever, huh?!" Vance screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. "You insult me in my own home?! I hold a Dead Man's Switch! One press, and all coolant valves close. Pipeline pressure will rise 500%. Excrement, Aether waste, and methane gas will explode upwards! I'll drown Zero Point City in its own filth!"
Rian jerked back, his face deathly pale. Kara tensed, ready to leap, but she was too far away.
Vance stared at me with mad eyes. "Kneel, Praetor! Or we all die here!"
I looked at the button. Then at Vance's sweaty face.
I didn't move. I didn't blink. I didn't even raise my hands in defense.
I just put both hands in my robe pockets, standing relaxed amidst this apocalyptic threat.
"You're threatening to close the valves?" I asked. My voice was calm. Too calm. Terrible in its calmness.
I shrugged slightly.
"Go ahead. Just close them."
Silence.
Vance froze. His finger trembled above the button. He expected me to panic. He expected me to beg.
"You... you think I won't dare?" his voice trembled.
"I think you love your life, Vance," I said flatly, looking at him like an insect under a microscope.
"You built this little palace inside a pipe. You have steak, wine, and a private army. You want to live comfortably. You want recognition. Someone who wants 'Status' doesn't blow themselves up. Only desperate people do that. And you? You're too arrogant to be desperate."
I took another step forward.
"Press the button. Go on. Blow us all up. I'll die as a martyr trying to save the city. But you? You'll die as a rat exploding in a sewer, and no one will remember your name except as a smelly joke."
Vance trembled violently. His ego warred with his survival instinct. He couldn't press it. I was right. He was a coward hiding behind a system.
"You hesitate," I whispered.
(POV: Vance "The Valve")
"You hesitate," he whispered.
Those two words hit me harder than the heat wave melting my desk.
My index finger trembled violently, hovering just millimeters above the red button—the doomsday button that could blast sewage pipes to the sky. I could press it. I should press it. That was the protocol.
But I was still.
Why was I still?
The heat in this room was suffocating, making the IV fluid boil in the tubes, but my mind was cold. Too cold.
That kid... that Praetor was right.
Not about the money. For these old pipes' sake, I have enough gold bars hidden in my bunker walls to buy my own island. I don't need Aurum's money. I don't need numbers on a screen that can be erased anytime.
And revenge? Yes, I hate the Valdor black uniforms that discarded me. I hate them for considering me scrap. But do I hate them enough to kill fifty thousand people living in Layer -1?
No.
That was my difference. Kora is a beast; she'd burn the world just to see the ashes. The Blind Prophet is a madman; he wants the apocalypse because he thinks it's holy.
But me? I want True Freedom.
I want to be free from the label "trash." I want this Under-City to be acknowledged as a sovereign entity, not a dumping ground. I want when the people Above look down, they don't see a latrine, but the machinery that sustains them. I want respect. I want them to Humanize the People down here.
Or maybe...
My thoughts shifted to a darker, more honest direction, stripping my own ego naked before the cracked mirror of my soul.
Maybe I'm just a coward.
Maybe I love my fragile, sickly life too much. Maybe I can't bear the burden of thousands of innocent lives that would die in an explosion if I pressed this button. Maybe I don't have the iron stomach like Kora or the holy madness like the Prophet to be a martyr. I'm just an old engineer too fond of his last breath, hiding behind a button he never dared to press.
"You want Legitimacy," the Praetor's voice cut through my reverie, sharp and merciless.
He was no longer leaning on the table. He stood upright. Steam heat did emanate from his body, but his eyes... those eyes remained cold. The burning red there wasn't fire, but the color of frozen blood.
Wynter stepped closer, his voice dropping to a deadly conspiratorial whisper.
"But you're a genius engineer, Vance. You know mathematics. You know it's impossible, right? Unless the sky itself falls."
He raised one finger, pointing north.
"Think of Valdor. Their law is Absolute Strength. The weak are discarded. You were discarded because you were deemed defective. If Valdor acknowledged your existence—paying respect to the scrap they threw away—that means they admit their iron law is wrong. That's the highest military insult. They'd rather starve to death than bow to you."
His finger shifted east.
"Think of Aurum. A nation of law and contract. Your people are Stateless. Ghosts. You can't make a legal contract with a ghost. If Aurum gave you an official contract, they'd legalize the Under-City. They'd have to pay taxes, insurance, fair wages. It would shatter the foundation of their slave economy. They would never let you become human."
His finger shifted south.
"And Aethelgard? To them, you are filth. Impure. Acknowledging that the Holy depends on the Unclean is blasphemy. They'd burn you at the stake before shaking your hand."
Wynter looked straight at me.
"And the Sky... the Sovereign brands themselves as Gods. If Gods admit they need sewer rats to cool their food, their myth of divinity crumbles. The people would stop fearing them."
"This system is designed not to see you, Vance. Asking them to see you is asking them to commit suicide. The World Above only has two menus for you: Annihilation or Neglect."
His words hit me like a sledgehammer. His logic was perfect. Cruel, cold, and irrefutable. My ideals of equality, of dignity... felt minuscule in the face of the wall of reality he presented.
"So..." my voice trembled. "So there's no way?"
"There is," Wynter cut in.
He bent down, his face coming close. The heat emanating from him felt alien, as if his body was rejecting that energy and wanted to vomit it onto me.
"You want to be acknowledged? You want status? Take the only status available."
He gave a thin smile. A pragmatic smile.
"Become Their Dog."
"Be a loyal 'Sky Hound.' Wear that golden collar. Let them call you 'Governor' on paper so they can sleep soundly, pretending you're an obedient subordinate, not a threat."
"Surrender to reality, Engineer. Stop trying to be a revolutionary hero. Be the corrupt bureaucrat they want. You can still manage your pipes, you can still be rich, and your people will still live because you are useful to your Master."
Wynter straightened up, shaking off the last remnants of heat from his fingertips with a sharp jerk. The room temperature plummeted, returning to a piercing cold.
"I give you Three Days," his ultimatum fell like a death sentence.
"Open that logistics route. Surrender the underground transport monopoly to Senate oversight. Sever your ties with Kora and that mad Prophet."
He raised three fingers.
"If in three days you're still playing games with my faucets... I won't come alone again. I'll bring the full force of Zero Point City. I'll send Valdor to demolish your walls, Aurum to buy your men's loyalty, and the Arbiter to hang you in the square. This city will unite for the first time in history for one purpose: erasing you from the map."
"And you will receive a warning from me. One warning per day. Make sure you count them well, Vance. Because the third warning is the bomb."
I fell silent, frozen in my wheelchair whose machinery hummed wearily.
Hesitant.
Initially, I didn't dare disturb the Sky's interests. I was afraid. But a week ago, I gathered the courage to block the route because I thought I held an Ace.
Five more days...
The message came via the rat line a week ago. A message with a black wax seal without an emblem. A message from "Those Who Walk the Earth." The Hidden Kings.
"Hold the logistics route for 12 days. Make the Sky panic. Help will arrive on the 13th day."
That's why I dared. I'm not suicidal. I was waiting for cavalry. I was waiting for the original owners of this land to rise and support my rebellion. I thought I controlled the timeline.
But now...
I stared at Wynter's figure. He gave me three days.
The math in my head crumbled. The Hidden Kings' help would only arrive in five days. If I follow Wynter's ultimatum, I betray my shadow allies. If I wait for the Hidden Kings, Wynter will annihilate me two days before help arrives.
Checkmate.
Unknowingly, I was facing something far more terrifying than a regular Sky bureaucrat. This figure... he doesn't care about Earth or Sky politics. He is an anomaly. He cut through the timeline arranged by the Kings.
Unconsciously, I stared at the chair in front of me.
Empty.
There was only a charred, palm-shaped imprint on the metal table still glowing red, and a wisp of cold steam slowly dissipating in the air, leaving behind a sharp scent of ozone.
He was already gone. Vanished into the darkness of the pipes as if he had never been here. No sound of footsteps. No door opening. He vanished like a melting ice ghost.
Leaving me alone with my wildly racing heartbeat, the red button I never dared to press, and the terrible realization that my hoped-for help would arrive too late.
And for the first time in the ten years I've ruled this sewer... I felt truly small.