The weather station loomed above Sector Eleven like a relic from another theology — part shrine, part ruin. It stood crooked on its plateau of steel, overlooking the city's soft lattice of fog and flickering light. Shattered vent ducts hissed in the wind. Rusted turbines slept in coils. And above it all, the sky churned with synthetic cloud formations — a swirling tapestry of forecasted memory and quiet dread.
Dekra crouched beside a tangle of junction panels near the tower's skeletal base, fiber lines trailing from her sleeve like borrowed nerves. Her eyes glowed dimly as glyphs crawled across her retinas — sickly, stuttering blue.
Aya watched her from a few paces away, one hand resting near her sidearm. "I thought this station was disconnected."
"It is," Dekra murmured. "Or it was. Scorpio re-looped it through a ghost node we blacklisted last cycle."
"Looped for what?" Iro asked, pacing behind them with his rifle lowered but not relaxed.
