The observation room in the Babel Tower's east wing offered a panoramic view of what remained of Geneva. Alexei Voss stood at the glass, watching tiny figures move through the reconstruction zone—workers rebuilding what yesterday's precision strikes had destroyed. Tomorrow, those same buildings would be targets again. The cycle was mathematically perfect.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Director Krause's voice came from behind him. "The most efficient economy humans have ever created."
Alexei didn't turn. The Analyst—currently dominant in his fractured consciousness—calculated the exact tone needed for his response. "Seventy-three percent efficiency in the eastern quadrant. We could improve it with better narrative integration."
Krause chuckled, joining him at the window. "Always the perfectionist. That's why you're my best."
A subtle shift occurred within Alexei—the Poet stirring beneath the Analyst's cold precision. Suddenly, the distant explosions weren't data points but wounds in the fabric of existence. He suppressed the urge to wince.
"The Ironblood offensive needs a stronger conceptual framework," Alexei said, maintaining his detached tone. "Their current narrative lacks emotional resonance."
"That's precisely why I've called you here." Krause activated the room's display system. Holographic footage materialized—a battlefield where mechanized armor units engaged in choreographed destruction. At the center, a figure in distinctive black armor with gold detailing and a crimson cape fought with extraordinary precision.
"Commander Elise Roth," Alexei identified immediately. "Seventh Division. Seventeen confirmed kills in the Danube Campaign."
"Twenty-three now," Krause corrected. "This footage came in yesterday. She single-handedly prevented a breach in the Ironblood defensive line. But the raw footage lacks... significance."
Alexei understood. Raw combat data needed transformation—emotional context, narrative weight, symbolic resonance. War wasn't effective without meaning.
"I'll craft something suitable," he said.
"Not just suitable, Alexei. Transcendent." Krause's eyes gleamed. "The Crimson Republic is gaining popular support with their liberation rhetoric. We need Commander Roth to become more than a soldier—she needs to embody Ironblood virtues in a way that resonates across demographic segments."
The Analyst processed the assignment parameters while the Poet silently recoiled at the commodification of heroism. Somewhere deeper, the Soldier assessed Roth's actual combat techniques with professional admiration.
"I'll need access to her psychological profile and previous combat records," Alexei said.
"Already authorized. And something special." Krause handed him a small memory crystal. "Her unfiltered combat experiences from the Memory Library. Normally restricted, but for our best narrative architect..." He smiled. "Consider it inspiration."
After Krause departed, Alexei inserted the crystal into his personal terminal. The room dimmed as neural-link interfaces emerged from recessed panels. He hesitated before connecting—direct memory access was intense even for stable minds. For someone with his condition...
He inserted the neural links anyway. The world dissolved.
Blood on her gauntlets. The weight of armor suddenly too heavy. The sound of screaming—her own troops or the enemy, impossible to distinguish through the commlink static. The squad pinned down in the artificial ravine. No extraction possible. The decision: advance alone. Draw fire. Create the opening. Statistically: suicide. Emotional override: responsibility. Moving before conscious thought completes. The first enemy unit—human eyes visible through the armor's faceplate. Young. Afraid. The blade finding the gap in plating anyway. Muscle memory. Not murder if it's combat. The second, third, fourth kill. Halfway to the objective. Pain exploding along her left side—a hit, breach in the armor. Sealing compound automatically deploying. No time to assess damage. The sixth kill. The seventh. Reaching the communication array. Setting the charges with wounded hands. The explosion should have killed her too. It didn't. Walking back through the smoke. Her troops staring at her like she's something holy. She's not. She's just better at killing. The shame of that truth beneath the pride of success.
Alexei gasped as the connection terminated. The Analyst cataloged the tactical decisions, the Poet absorbed the emotional resonance, and the Soldier recognized the familiar dissociation of combat. But it was the Witness who integrated it all, who understood what he'd just experienced wasn't merely a soldier's memory—it was a human being fracturing under the weight of mythologization.
He understood Commander Roth because he recognized himself in her compartmentalized existence. She too wore armor that wasn't just physical.
His fingers moved across the interface, words flowing in three parallel drafts. He was creating not just a narrative but a persona—a Commander Roth who was simultaneously human enough to connect with and transcendent enough to worship. By morning, citizens across Ironblood territories would encounter this new version of her: the reluctant warrior whose tactical genius was matched only by her sacrifice for the greater good.
It was a beautiful lie, perhaps his most perfect yet. Something in him—the Child perhaps, with its innocent perception—wondered if Roth would recognize herself in his creation. Another part—the Witness—knew she wouldn't, and understood that was precisely the point.