Grand Avenue was the Spire's showcase. Here, the Aqua Vitae was used extravagantly: in fountains that danced in complex, energy-powered patterns, in hydroponic gardens growing luxuries like actual greens, in the clean, glowing facades of Syndicate administrative buildings.
Their job was to inspect the ornamental conduits that fed these displays. It was busywork, performed under the eyes of citizens and Syndicate enforcers alike.
Valentine worked with robotic precision, logging every coupling, every flow-meter. Sage tried to focus, but his mind was in the dead archive, with the vile sample.
During their mandated hydration break, they sat by a trickling fountain. The water was a stunning, artificial blue.
"It's a show," Sage murmured, watching a child stare in wonder at a dancing water-jet. "They see abundance, beauty. They don't see the sickness at the source. They don't see the cost."
"The cost is in the rationing in the Low-Sectors," Valentine said quietly, taking a measured sip from her canteen. "The cost is in the fear. This spectacle is paid for by scarcity elsewhere. It's a simple diversionary equation."
A man in nondescript grey coveralls walked past, pushing a cart of horticultural tools. As he passed their bench, a small, rolled piece of film slipped from his cart and landed at Sage's feet.
Sage covered it with his boot, then stooped to tie his laces. He palmed the film.
In the privacy of a public sanitation stall minutes later, he unrolled it. It was a micro-schematic, incredibly detailed. Part of a larger machine. At its center was a chamber labeled Resonance Catalyzation Core – Primary. An energy signature was sketched beside it—a jagged, violent waveform that matched the one on his scanner in the tunnel.
Beneath it, in tiny, decisive print, was a note: Spire Sub-level 7. The cause. Need the effect. – L.
Lysander was alive. And he was showing them the disease's origin. The corrupted font was just a symptom. This was the tumor.