Go:O:Dbye 01000010!!

 The sound of rain echoed like a symphony of melancholy over the Meridian Clock Tower. Shinku stood at the edge, staring down at Binar’s lifeless body. The sight of his idol—shattered, lifeless, and leaking oil into the rain-soaked streets—felt surreal.

The words slipped from his trembling lips, barely audible over the downpour.

“I’m… human.”

His voice carried resignation.

“Shinku!” A voice called out from behind him.

Shinku turned slowly, his movements sluggish and heavy. Tackle stood at the other end of the rooftop, her soaked hair clinging to her face as she scanned him with concern.

“What… did he just say?” she thought to herself, taking a step forward.

“How did you find me?” Shinku asked, his voice hollow, devoid of emotion.

Tackle hesitated, caught off guard by the lifelessness in his eyes. “I… I stuck a bug on you,” she admitted. “Then I used a teleportation ticket to get here.” Her gaze shifted past him. “Where’s Binar…?”

Shinku nodded. “Tackle…He’s…”

The infection in his arm flickered, then faded entirely. The rain seemed to grow heavier as Shinku took a step toward Tackle, his legs weak and unsteady.

Tackle instinctively opened her arms to embrace him, but before he could reach her, Shinku collapsed. His body hit the wet rooftop with a dull thud.

“Shinku!” Tackle cried, rushing to him, but her injuries caught up with her. She stumbled and fell beside him, her breathing ragged.

The rain continued to pour, drowning the city in its relentless cadence.

The scene shifted to the somber interior of the Cybersecurity Force’s main lobby, now transformed into a memorial, heavy with grief and reverence.

At the center of the room stood a framed image of Binar, his face illuminated by a holographic display of flowers. Officers filled the rows of seats, dressed in formal black suits, their faces marked with sorrow and respect.

Shinku stood near the stage, his usual presence replaced by a darker, more subdued demeanor. His eyes were shadowed, and his expression was unreadable.

Roton, standing at the podium, adjusted the microphone. His voice broke the silence, solemn and deliberate.

“Ahem… ahem. Today, we gather to honor one of our officers, one of our friends, and one of our supervisors: Binar Kuragare.”

His words echoed through the hall, filling the void left by Binar’s absence.

“His death has saddened us all,” Roton continued, his tone heavy. “Binar’s contributions to the Cybersecurity Force and to society as a whole were nothing short of extraordinary. His dedication, his brilliance, and his sacrifices will not be forgotten.”

Tackle, still recovering from her injuries, sat in the audience alongside Bontly and Joye. She glanced toward Shinku, whose darkened expression remained fixed on the floor. “Thanks for saving us yesterday.” she whispered.

Roton paused, bowing his head. “I am thankful for your service, Binar. May you rest in peace.”

A moment of silence followed. The officers rose in unison, saluting the framed image of Binar.

Roton straightened himself, his voice steady as he spoke again. “We now have words from Officer Shinku, the only officer present at the scene of Binar’s death, to pay his respects. An officer under Bina’s supervision”

All eyes focused on Shinku as he slowly stepped forward. Roton stepped aside as Shinku reached the podium, his disheveled appearance drawing murmurs from the seated officers. His uniform was unkempt, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead.

He took a shaky breath, looking out at the sea of faces before him. The image of Binar’s lifeless body flashed in his mind.

He gripped the edges of the podium, his knuckles white, as he began to speak.

“What I’m going to say may not be typical for this kind of setting,” Shinku said. “But it must be spoken.”

He glanced at the holographic display of Binar’s face, the serene image juxtaposed cruelly with the storm of emotions within him.

“I owe my life to him,” Shinku admitted, his voice softening as he continued. “Binar saved me during the drowning of Technamor and Pootle. It was the most terrifying moment of my life. That day he pulled me from the chaos and showed me what it meant to be a cybersecurity officer. As I’m sure he did for many of you in your own situations.”

The crowd nodded subtly, their expressions reflecting agreement and admiration for the late officer.

“But,” Shinku’s voice dropped. “on the day of his death, I learned who he truly was.”

The murmurs stopped. The air grew heavier, the officers leaning forward in their seats as Shinku continued.

“Binar wasn’t killed by someone,” Shinku said, his voice trembling but firm. “He committed suicide in front of me.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

“I suspected him of murdering Kirria—a human child.” Shinku pressed on. The shock waved in the crowd. Even Roton’s composed expression faltered.

“Binar wasn’t the man I thought he was. He wasn’t the computer many of you believed him to be,” Shinku said, his voice gaining intensity. “He was using viruses to kill hybrid communities as a test run. His ultimate plan? To feed those viruses to Mother Brain in District 3 and eliminate the possibility of hybrid births altogether. He was working with that group, the Human Killers.”

The room erupted. Officers whispered and gasped, their faces painted with disbelief and confusion. Roton took a step forward as if to intervene but stopped himself.

“I know this is hard to believe,” Shinku said, raising his voice to cut through the noise. “I understand your doubt. But if you look around, you’ll notice two officers missing today—Gork and Epongi.”

At the mention of their names, acknowledgment spread through the room. Officers Prog, Aiye, and Kimida exchanged glances, their expressions grim.

“They haven’t been here since the crime,” Shinku continued. “And they aren’t coming back. They’re already in District 3, preparing to kill Mother Brain.”

The room fell silent again.

“And it doesn’t stop there,” Shinku said, his voice laced with fury. “When I confronted the Human Killers, they admitted that President Vitron is involved in this plan.”

Another wave of turbulence rippled filled the audience. Roton’s composure cracked under the weight of the revelations.

“Take that as you will,” Shinku said, his voice quieter now. “But I’m going to stop them. I don’t care if you believe me or not. To me, Binar has no legacy. He never represented what this force was supposed to uphold. He betrayed everything I thought we stood for!”

With that, Shinku stepped away from the podium, his steps heavy but purposeful.

The room was silent, the officers too stunned to react. Roton slowly returned to the podium, clearing his throat as he tried to regain control of the moment.

“Thank you, Officer Shinku,” Roton said, his voice strained but steady. “For those… powerful words.”

The silence returned, the weight of Shinku’s speech settling like a storm cloud over the room.

In the audience, Tackle sat frozen, her mind racing. She watched Shinku’s retreating figure, his boldness and conviction leaving an indelible mark on her. Looking around she saw many conflicting opinions.

She thought to herself, Shinku… you’re not just fighting for the truth. You’re fighting for what’s right. Even if it means standing alone. I appreciate what you do for humans.

Johe sat next to Bontly surprised. “Look at him riling everyone up.

Bounty was shocked. “Oh, boy!”

In the city. The television screens flickered, illuminating the dimly lit streets of District 1 with a blue glow. Crowds of humans gathered outside storefronts, their eyes fixed on the debate playing out on the screens. Inside their homes, computers observed the same broadcast with a mixture of intrigue and calculation.

On the television, Vitron stood calm and poised, as Gemu fired accusations at him. “You’ve been nothing but a passive antagonist to humanity,” Gemu declared, his voice sharp and cutting. “Deny it all you want, but your policies and actions have always undermined human progress.”

Vitron, unfazed, responded with a subtle smirk. “And yet here we are, thriving under my administration. Accusations without evidence are as hollow as your claims, Gemu.”

The moderator, intervened, attempting to redirect the conversation before escalation, but the tension remained, an war of ideologies playing out before a divided audience.

Gemu pressed on. “Let’s talk about education, shall we, Vitron? While your ‘thriving’ society limits access to schools for humans, prioritizing your own kind, you leave our children to the data mines as their only choice. Your policies don’t foster progress for all. How many young humans have been denied an education, simply because your administration deemed them ‘unfit’ for higher learning?”

Vitron’s composure remained. “And yet, the human race still prospers. How many humans do you think would survive without the systems I’ve put in place? The only thing you’ve provided, Gemu, is a narrative of helplessness. My choices are strategic, and they ensure survival.”

The human and computer viewers conversed. Some nodded in agreement with Gemu’s criticisms, others murmured in defense of Vitron’s seemingly ‘rational’ approach.