The stadium was not a place. It was a state of being. It was the "Reality-Prime" that Toby had died to reach, yet it looked more like a slaughterhouse than a heaven.
Lyra stood at the edge of the London-hologram, her feet planted on a floor that felt like cold, pressurized starlight. Behind her lay the ruins of the Underground, a flickering, 3D projection that was losing its resolution. In front of her was the Audience. Millions of "Developers"—the entities known as the Celestials of Data—were rising from their seats. They were beings of pure, translucent geometry, their faces shifting patterns of color that represented their "Subscription Tier" to the universe.
"They're beautiful," Lyra whispered, her voice carrying across the silent vacuum of the stadium. "And they're hollow."
