Roxana's "Civil Stability Integration" faced its greatest test. A faction of former Syndicate mid-managers, calling themselves "The Clarifiers," began broadcasting messages. Their argument was slick, appealing to fear and nostalgia.
"The so-called 'Choir' has unleashed a magical pandemic," a sharp-faced man argued from a clandestine feed. "The water is alive? Nonsense. It's infected. They've traded clean, predictable science for dangerous, unstable mysticism. They can't give you a liter of pure water because they've lost the formula."
They offered a simple solution: storm the Spire, seize the Core, and let "real engineers" re-establish the separation protocols. They played on the very real hardships—the dim lights, the adapted food.
Rex's optimistic broadcasts were no match for their targeted fear. Regina's facts were dry tinder to their emotional fire.
Roxana didn't counter-broadcast. She requested a private channel to the Clarifiers' leader. On the feed, she didn't argue ideology. She presented a financial projection.
"You have holdings in the old polymer conduit industry," she said, her voice bored, as if discussing plumbing. "Under the new harmonic codes, those conduits are being replaced by resonant ceramics. Your wealth is turning to dust. This isn't about purity. It's about portfolio."
The leader spluttered. "This is about safety!"
"Of course it is," Roxana agreed flatly. "And the safest place for a discredited billionaire is in a comfortable, advisory role. The Council is forming a Materials Transition Board. I can guarantee you a seat. A quiet seat. Or you can keep shouting into the static until your money and your followers run out. Your choice."
The Clarifiers' broadcasts grew sporadic, then ceased. Roxana reported to the Council: "Discordant element harmonized." She had used the oldest leverage—greed—to silence a rebellion built on fear.