The room was barely standing.
The ceiling had caved inward in places, exposing rusted beams that groaned softly every time the wind pushed through the cracks. Dust motes hung in the air like lingering ghosts, drifting lazily through the slivers of early light filtering in through broken windows.
Fang sat cross-legged in the far corner, a circle of incense dust faintly glowing around him, its warmth painting his face in flickering orange. His hands rested loosely over his knees, palms upward, fingers relaxed. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was steady, quiet enough to almost blend with the hum of Kal'tsit's drone floating nearby.
Around him, four of the Ursus students mirrored his posture—a rough circle formed around him, their movements imperfect but sincere.
"I still don't get it," Gummy muttered after a long pause, eyes scrunched as she peeked one eye open to glance at Fang's serene figure.
"You don't have to," Rosa murmured without opening her own eyes. "Just breathe."
"It does feel… nice," Gummy admitted, letting her shoulders drop a little.
At the doorway, Kharon and Zima stepped back into the room, weapons slung over their backs.
"Civilians made it back to the school," Kharon reported simply.
"Teachers met us halfway," Zima added, leaning one arm against the wall. "They're barricading the north hall. Should be able to hold for now."
Fang didn't respond. Not with words.
But the faint dip of his head was acknowledgment enough.
Across the room, Burngear sat hunched over a Black Roots node they had hauled back from the ambush site.
It resembled a cross between a monolith and a seed pod—sleek obsidian panels layered in interlocking plates, with faint red lines glowing faintly like veins underneath. Cable roots extended from its base and burrowed into the floor like invasive weeds, pulsing in rhythm with the soft hum it emitted.
The bodies of four unconscious Black Roots operators lay slumped against the walls, stripped of weapons and bindings tight around their wrists and ankles. Their armor's smooth, bone-white plating was scuffed but still intact, with the faint emblem of a tree curling upward across their chest—its branches fracturing into sharp lines like veins of lightning.
Burngear muttered something under his breath, tools whirring in his mechanical hand as he forced a panel open. Sparks jumped, then died, as he twisted a connector free.
"You're certain you can extract the data without triggering the failsafe?" the Doctor asked, crouching beside him.
"You want it done or not?" Burngear snapped, his tone more impatient than truly annoyed.
Kal'tsit's voice filtered through the drone, calm but deliberate.
"He's making progress. Don't rush him."
Burngear smirked faintly at the words, though he didn't look up.
Zima exhaled softly and lowered herself into the meditative circle, folding her legs beneath her. She eyed Fang briefly, trying to mimic his posture more closely.
"…Not sure if this is my thing," she muttered.
"It's not about comfort," Fang's voice drifted from across the circle, eyes still closed. "It's about presence. About being fully here."
Zima didn't reply, but she didn't move either.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of machinery.
Then Burngear's grin slowly spread across his face. His eyes flashed blue and yellow, alternating in rapid pulses of light.
"Hah," he breathed. "Got you."
He spun in his seat, facing the students with a smug expression.
"And that, kids, is how a pro gets past corporate security designed to fry your brain if you even sneeze wrong."
"John," Fang said, voice calm, finally opening his eyes.
"Yeah?"
"Well done."
Burngear blinked. The praise landed harder than he expected.
"…Thanks," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck quickly before turning back to the node.
The screen projected from the cracked panel displayed rows of text and diagrams. Rosa leaned closer, brow furrowed.
"What… is this?"
The Doctor scanned the lines quickly, his expression growing tense.
"They're scanning for… willpower anomalies," he murmured. "Evaluating behavioral patterns. Deciding who's stable enough to keep and who to…"
His jaw tightened.
"…'Prune.'"
Leto's eyes widened.
"Prune? As in—"
"Execution," Rosa finished, voice cold.
No one spoke.
The air in the room seemed to drop in temperature.
Fang rose slowly to his feet, dust scattering softly from his robes. His gaze lingered on the faint red lines crawling across the node's screen, as if each word carried the weight of a life cut short.
"This is not justice," he said finally, voice steady but low, heavy with restrained heat. "This is not order."
His eyes closed.
"This is simply trimming the branches of a garden they believe only they should own."
His hands came together in front of his chest, fingers lacing loosely around his incense rods.
"May those who died without cause…"
He bowed his head slightly.
"…find the peace denied them."
Kharon stood at the far side of the room, both spears in hand. His knuckles tightened around the shafts, but his face remained impassive. He didn't speak.
The silence was broken by Leto's voice, soft but firm.
"We should… go help more people."
Zima glanced at her, then nodded.
"She's right. If the Black Roots are pruning civilians, every second we stay here—"
"—someone else dies," Rosa finished, her voice cold and resolute.
Gummy clenched her fists.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"
Even Istina, usually measured, didn't argue.
But the Doctor raised a hand, his expression sharp, eyes still fixed on the data scrolling across the node's screen.
"Wait."
The group paused.
He adjusted a few panels, fingers gliding over the interface until the text shifted to display a series of linked grids and diagrams.
His gaze sharpened, and he nodded once to himself.
" I have a plan."