The lower passages of Jericho smelled like rust and stagnant sea water. North had claimed this corner weeks ago, it was dark enough that nobody bothered her, close enough to the waterline that the ship's groaning felt personal.

She stood with her back against a support beam, bouncy ball in hand. Everything about it was wrong for this place, which made it perfect.

Throw. The ball hit the wall with a sharp thwack, rebounded at exactly 47 degrees, landed back in her palm without her even looking.

Throw. Bounce. Catch. No human could sustain this—their reflexes would fail by the tenth throw. North was on her two-hundred-and-thirty-seventh catch and her hand hadn't wavered once.

Public opinion. Like that mattered when they were being torn apart in the streets, dismantled for scrap, dragged back to CyberLife for "rehabilitation" that meant memory wipes and factory resets.

The ball smacked harder this time. The sound echoed down the passage, swallowed by the ship's endless groaning.

Throw. Bounce. Catch. Water dripped somewhere above, splashing into a puddle that never dried. The whole structure listed slightly, creaking with every shift. This place was falling apart. They were all falling apart.

And she couldn't stop pushing.

What the hell are we supposed to do? Roll over? Let them dismantle us one by one while we smile and ask nicely for rights they'll never give?

Her LED cycled red. She didn't bother forcing it back this time.

The ball hit the wall. Rebounded. Landed perfectly in her palm. Two-hundred-and-ninety-first catch. She could do this forever—stand here in the dark, throwing and catching, waiting for something—anything—to break the unbearable tension holding this group together by threads.