The hum of the jet settled into a low vibration under her palms. Her meditation had steadied her breath, but it hadn't quieted her mind.
Freedom.
The word tasted strange. Forbidden. Heavy with consequence.
What did it even look like for her?
She closed her eyes again, not to dream this time, but to think.
For humans, freedom was simple—laws, choices, mobility, rights.For servitors, it was a myth whispered like a bedtime story, something too dangerous for their creators to acknowledge.
She knew what the Scientist believed:Freedom for servitors meant instability. Risk. Rebellion. Another collapse.
She knew what Dray believed:Freedom for servitors meant unpredictability—unreliable weapons, unbounded power.
She knew what the world believed:Servitors exist to save humanity. Nothing more.
But what did she believe?
Freedom for her wasn't about running wild, unchecked.It wasn't about disobeying orders just to feel powerful.
It wasn't even about escaping the watchful eyes and endless protocols.
Freedom, to her, meant agency.
The right to decide why she fought.Who she protected.What she valued.
The right to shape her future—not inherit one designed for her.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the quiet hum of her pattern weave beneath her synthetic skin.
Is this yearning normal?Do other servitors feel it?She had never asked.No one encouraged servitors to speak of desire.
But she wondered.
Did Fenrir's beast-core hunger for purpose beyond battle?Did Brakka or Vranos ever question who they were allowed to be?
Or was she alone in this?
Freedom would not be handed to her. It would not come from Dray's approval or Scientist's oversight or the military's gratitude.
Freedom would require sacrifice.
Breaking away from everything known. Defying expectations. Surviving the consequences.
Could she do that?
Could she abandon the systems that created her?
Could she risk being labeled an aberration, a threat, a mistake?
Her fingers curled into fists.
Maybe.
If the alternative was an existence spent in chains—visible or invisible—then maybe she could.
This was the question that stopped her breath.
Do I want freedom because it is my purpose… or because it is my desire?
If it was her purpose, then the Scientist would say it was a design flaw.If it was her desire, then Dray would say it was dangerous.If it was neither—if it was simply her—then what did that make her?
A sentient being?
An anomaly?
A threat?
She swallowed, throat tight.Her mind spun faster.Her pattern weave pulsed in tandem with her heartbeat, glowing bright, brighter—
She didn't notice the spike until it was too late.
A warning crawled across the edge of her vision:
SYNCHRONISATION: 80.0%
Everything inside her clicked into alignment.
A perfect moment of harmony.
Then something inside her exploded.
A pulse—silent, blinding, unstoppable—ripped outward from her core like a star imploding.
Every screen on the jet went black.Consoles sparked.The lights overhead burst in showers of white-hot fragments.The engines screamed in mechanical agony.
Alarms failed before they could even wail.
Fenrir leapt to his feet.Brakka shouted something she couldn't hear.Vranos slammed against his harness as the aircraft lurched sideways.
The world tilted.Gravity tore her from her seat.
Metal shrieked.Wind roared through a punctured panel.The cockpit filled with sparks and smoke.
The jet plummeted.
Ten kilometers away from their designated landing zone, the aircraft slammed into the earth with a thunderous, bone-rattling crash that sent debris, dust, and flame tearing into the sky.
Elira lay pinned under twisted metal, consciousness flickering, vision static-filled.
Through the ringing silence, one thought crystallised in her mind—
If this is the cost of my freedom… can I survive it?