Missio:N Mo:Ther Brain

The next few days at the Cybersecurity Force were grim. A cloud of gloom hung over the office, a direct consequence of Binar’s death and the revelations surrounding him. Every conversation seemed weighed down by the weight of the truth Shinku had revealed during the funeral.

In hushed voices, the officers debated Shinku’s speech.

“He turned it into a political spectacle,” one officer grumbled. “That wasn’t the time or place for it.”

“I disagree,” another said, their voice softer. “What he said needed to be heard. Would you have preferred he stood up there and lied to everyone?”

“It’s not about lying,” the first retorted. “It’s about knowing when to speak and when to stay silent.”

The divide was clear, and though no one said it outright, the truth of Binar’s actions had shaken everyone to their core.

Shinku walked among his group. The weight of everything—the betrayal, the fight, the speech—pressed down on him. He could feel the stares of his colleagues, some sympathetic, others judgmental.

Tackle, alongside him,noticed his silence. “You okay?”

Shinku didn’t respond immediately. When he finally did, his voice was low. “Not really.”

Before the conversation could continue, Prog approached them.

“As of today, you’re all under my supervision,” Prog announced, his tone authoritative but not unkind. “Let’s move forward with focus.”

The group nodded in approval.

Later that day, as the officers approached the locker room, they found a poster taped to the door. The bold letters at the top read:

“Pro-Human? Sign Here.”

Beneath the heading was a checklist, asking officers to mark an “X” with their data if they were computers or to initial if they were humans. The note emphasized anonymity, stating:

“If you’re not pro-human, don’t sign.”

The officers stood in silence, the poster’s presence a stark reminder of the growing divide among them. Shinku and the others exchanged uncertain glances before stepping forward one by one.

Some hesitated before signing, others marked their choice without a second thought. The act felt heavier than it should have, each stroke of the pen or data input carrying the weight of personal convictions.

When everyone had made their choice, Roton appeared, collected the paper without a word, and looked over the group. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said.

As he walked away, the officers entered the locker room, the silence between them louder than any words.

The locker room, usually a space for camaraderie and banter, was eerily quiet. Shinku stared blankly at the metal door. The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with the unspoken tension of a fractured team.

Tackle approached him cautiously. “What do you think Roton’s doing with that list?”

“I don’t know,” Shinku admitted.

She nodded, her expression mirroring his unease. “This whole thing with Binar… it’s changed everything.”

Before the conversation could continue, a voice called out from the hallway. “Attention, officers! Assemble in the main meeting area immediately.”

One-by-one supervisors came inside to individually grab officers from the locker room.

Johe exchanged a glance with Shinku. “What’s this about?!”

“No idea,” Shinku replied.

In the expansive meeting hall, officers gathered in confusion. The room buzzed with murmurs as Roton stood at the center, flanked by Prog and several other supervisors.

“Why’d you drag me into this?” Johe grumbled, his tone dripping with annoyance. “I told you, I don’t care about politics.”

Tackle shot him a sharp glare. “Does it hurt to care about anything other than yourself for once?”

Johe scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Attention, officers,” Roton began. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the events surrounding Binar’s death and the revelations that followed. Today, you’ve been assembled here based on your responses to the checklist from earlier.”

The crowd exchanged puzzled glances, unsure where this was going.

Roton continued. “Some of you may be wondering how I identified you. I requested that all hybrids and computers sign the checklist using their data. Through forensic analysis, we traced your responses. To those who signed as pro-human, I thank you for your commitment.”

Shinku felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Aiye and Kimida standing behind him.

“Hey, Kimida,” Tackle greeted.

Kimida chuckled. “Glad to see you all here. Epongi and Gork were idiots—good riddance to them.”

Aiye and Johe fist-bumped, while Shinku gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Kimida smirked. “I like your hair, Shinku. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Roton continued. “Today, all of you will accompany me on a special mission. Many of you haven’t seen me in my suit before, but I wear it now because today, we fight.”

The crowd murmured in confusion.

“We’re going to District 3,” Roton announced. “You’ve all heard what Shinku revealed about the larger plan: the viruses circulating in hybrid communities, the conspiracy to feed them to Mother Brain, and the attempt to eliminate hybrid births altogether. Some of you may have doubted this, but I assure you, it’s real. And it’s time we do something about it.”

The officers shifted uncomfortably.

“To clarify,” Roton continued, gesturing to his left, “Supervisor Hellim will remain here to manage the officers who didn’t sign as pro-human.”

Hellim, a comically goofy-looking computer shaped like an inflatable tube, waved enthusiastically. His thick glasses wobbled with his movement, making him look entirely out of place in such a grim setting.

“Hello!” Hellim chirped.

Roton’s commanded. “The rest of us will proceed to District 3’s Cybersecurity Office. Our mission is simple: we destroy this operation.”

The room fell silent as the gravity of the mission settled over everyone. Shinku glanced around, noting the nervous expressions of his colleagues. Even Tackle, usually so confident, looked uneasy.

Shinku’s expression became uneasy.

Kimida noticed and stepped closer. “What’s wrong, Shinku?” she asked, her voice low.

Shinku forced a small smile. “It’s nothing. Just… thinking.”

Kimida pouted but didn’t press further.

Roton raised his voice. “I can feel the energy in this crowd. You’re nervous. You’re scared. And that’s natural. But let me tell you this: justice always prevails.”

“However,” Roton continued, his voice growing heavier, “I won’t sell you a mistruth. This line of work is not easy. What you’re about to do is not easy. We are strong, yes, but so are they. The officers we’ll face in District 3 are just as strong as you—perhaps stronger. Our goal is to save Mother Brain, but make no mistake: a fight will likely ensue.”

“And some of you,” Roton said, pausing for emphasis, “no, a lot of you, will die.”

The crowd tensed. Even the most stoic officers exchanged glances, their expressions betraying their apprehension.

“But it will be for a good cause,” Roton continued, his voice steady. “This mission will determine the future—for both humans and computers. And now, before I reveal our plan, I’ll give anyone who isn’t interested a chance to leave.”

A heavy silence followed as all eyes turned toward the exits. For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, a few officers shuffled out of the room. Their footsteps echoed in the stillness.

Bontly scanned the remaining crowd and let out a low whistle. “Wow. Not as many as I expected.”

Roton nodded. “For those of you who remain, we begin now.”

The crowd shifted to the utility shop, where officers hurriedly gathered weapons and equipment. In-house engineers rushed to supply them artillery. Aiye armed himself with a candy cane-styled sword. Kimida stocked up on more hydroarms. Tackle left with a small gadget herself. The engineer urged. “You understand?”

“Yes.” Tackle replied.

Roton narrated their preparation:

“Each year, every district is required to perform an audit on another district. It’s a formality, a way to ensure order and accountability. It wouldn’t make sense for us to simply stroll into District 3 without justification, so we’ll mask our true intentions as an audit.”

“I’ve prepared responses to any questions they might ask,” Roton continued. “When we arrive in District 3, do not answer anything beyond what I’ve instructed. They’ll try to provoke you, to test you, but you must remain disciplined.”

"We'll all wear these communication devices on our person. Keep them muted while we're there. Only use them if there is a large fight that breaks out. Unmute if information that everyone must know must be shared such as an officer death."

The crowd shifted again, this time to the deployment hangar where armored vehicles waited. Officers filed into the vehicles. Prog led Shinku’s group, his commanding presence offering a small measure of reassurance.

Shinku climbed into the vehicle, his heart pounding. Beside him, Tackle stared straight ahead, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her knees.

The garage rumbled as engines roared to life. One by one, the vehicles began to roll out.

“Let’s move,” Roton commanded, his voice cutting through the noise.

The convoy began its journey, carrying with it the weight of their mission—and the hope of survival.