The argument started in a bakery.
Which was fitting.
Most important arguments in District Nine started somewhere that sold food.
The bakery owner was arranging fresh pastries when one of the regular construction workers pointed toward the television mounted in the corner.
Seraph's speech was replaying again.
For what felt like the thousandth time.
The worker frowned.
"I think she has a point."
The bakery owner didn't even look up.
"Which point?"
"The villain one."
That narrowed it down considerably.
The bakery owner sighed.
"You're going to have to be more specific."
The worker crossed his arms.
"Malachai is still a villain."
The bakery owner nodded.
"Yes."
The worker blinked.
"...That's it?"
"That's a factual statement."
The worker looked mildly annoyed.
"You're supposed to argue with me."
"Why?"
The construction worker opened his mouth.
Paused.
Then frowned.
The bakery owner returned to arranging muffins.
"People keep acting like agreeing with one thing means agreeing with everything."
The worker considered that.
Unfortunately.
It made sense.
He hated when that happened.
---
Elsewhere, another argument was taking place.
This one involved heroes.
Which somehow made it worse.
A younger hero sat across from Solin in a Guild cafeteria.
The television nearby replayed another section of Seraph's speech.
The younger hero pointed at the screen.
"She's right."
Solin looked up from his coffee.
"About what?"
"About villains."
The hero immediately regretted how broad that statement sounded.
Solin clearly noticed.
"That narrows it down significantly."
The younger hero groaned.
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
The hero looked toward the television.
Then back toward Solin.
Then immediately regretted asking the question.
"How can you date Nyxara after hearing that speech?"
The cafeteria became noticeably quieter.
Several heroes suddenly found their lunches fascinating.
Solin sighed.
Not because he was offended.
Because he had answered this question before.
Many times.
"Because I know her."
The younger hero frowned.
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"No, it isn't."
Solin took a drink.
Then shrugged.
"Knowing someone tends to complicate simple categories."
The younger hero hated that answer.
Mostly because it sounded correct.
---
Across the city, Nyxara was having a remarkably similar conversation.
Unfortunately for everyone involved.
The younger villain confronting her was significantly louder.
"Heroes cannot be trusted."
Nyxara looked up from her drink.
"Interesting."
"They arrest people."
"Generally, yes."
"They work for the Guild."
"Also true."
The younger villain looked victorious.
Nyxara blinked.
Then pointed toward a framed photograph hanging on the wall.
The younger villain followed her gaze.
The picture showed:
Nyxara,
Solin,
several retired heroes,
several retired villains,
and what appeared to be a barbecue disaster.
The younger villain stared.
"...What am I looking at?"
"A fire."
"No."
"A tragic misuse of lighter fluid."
"Nyxara."
The villainess sighed.
"People."
The younger villain frowned.
"That doesn't explain anything."
Nyxara smiled.
"It explains everything."
---
Far above the city, Elara sat on her usual rooftop.
The little girl sat beside her.
Again.
Neither acknowledged the absurdity.
Below them, District Nine continued living.
People argued.
People worked.
People laughed.
People disagreed.
Life continued.
The little girl kicked her feet.
"They're talking about her everywhere."
"Yes."
"You've been thinking about it."
"...Yes."
The child looked toward the skyline.
Then asked the question that had apparently been bothering her all day.
"Can two people both be right?"
Elara stared.
That was significantly more philosophical than expected.
The child continued.
"Because Lord Malachai helps people."
"Yes."
"And Seraph helps people."
"...Yes."
The little girl frowned.
"Then why are people arguing?"
Elara opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
The answer should have been simple.
Instead—
it wasn't.
And somehow that felt important.
---
The retired heroes and villains were arguing too.
Though in their case it looked more like a card game.
A younger hero sat among them.
Still attempting to understand how any of this worked.
The television replayed another segment of Seraph's speech.
Nobody reacted this time.
They already had.
Hours ago.
The younger hero finally looked toward the Celestial Knight.
"You knew her."
The older man nodded.
"Yes."
"What was she like?"
The room became quiet.
The retired villain nearest him sighed.
"Dedicated."
The retired hero across from him nodded.
"Stubborn."
Another voice joined.
"Exhausting."
The table considered that.
Then collectively nodded.
The younger hero blinked.
"That's it?"
The Celestial Knight smiled faintly.
"No."
The room waited.
The old hero looked toward the television.
Toward the woman speaking.
Toward years long gone.
Then:
"The anthem wasn't dangerous because it was wrong."
Silence followed.
The younger hero frowned.
"Then why was it dangerous?"
The Celestial Knight looked tired.
The kind of tired earned over decades.
"Because it made everything sound simple."
Nobody spoke afterward.
Because everyone there remembered what happened when people started believing that.
---
Far away, hidden among screens and observation reports, the Deceiver reviewed another set of notes.
District Nine.
The Guild.
The Justicars.
The Old Guard.
Arguments.
Discussions.
Disagreements.
Questions.
The speech had produced exactly what they expected.
Ripples.
Small ones.
But real.
Then the Deceiver paused.
A new report appeared.
Another psychological model.
Another prediction.
Another attempt to understand Seraph.
The result was disappointing.
Again.
The model failed.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The same thing kept happening.
Malachai didn't fit.
Seraph didn't fit.
The Celestial Knight didn't fit.
Even Nyxara and Solin refused to behave predictably.
The Deceiver stared at the screen.
Then slowly laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Soft.
Amused.
Almost delighted.
"Why," they asked the empty room, "are all the interesting ones broken?"
No answer came.
Only more reports.
More contradictions.
More people refusing to become simple.
The Deceiver leaned back thoughtfully.
The experiment was becoming far more complicated than expected.
And for perhaps the first time in a very long time—
they were enjoying themselves.
Outside, the world continued arguing.
Not fighting.
Not yet.
Just talking.
Just questioning.
Just thinking.
The ripples spread.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, a storm was still gathering.
But for now—
the world had time for one more conversation before the first punch was thrown.