Ozone. Not the damp, mushroom-rot breath of the forest, nor the copper tang of her own exhaustion. Soraya smelled fresh photocopies. Hot toner. The dry, static-charged atmosphere of a windowless room. She skidded to a halt, boots carving furrows in the mud. Pain shot up her left arm, a jagged line of fire following the purple veins pulsing there. The rhythm was wrong—too fast, too frantic. "Why have we ceased locomotion?" The voice vibrating from the terra-cotta pot strapped to her chest was high, reedy, and annoyed. "My root-hairs detect a ninety-percent probability of precipitation. I require soil stability, not this erratic lurching." Soraya didn't answer. The word for the scent lodged in her throat, a shape without a sound. *Law.* No. *Bureaucracy.* It smelled like a summons. She crouched, knees popping, and pressed a palm to the moss. The vibration traveled through the earth, faint but precise. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* Not a heartbeat. Footsteps. Measured. Relentless. "We're being tracked," she whispered. Her voice scraped like a rusty hinge. "An obvious deduction." A small, glossy leaf unfurled from the Scion’s central stalk, twitching as it tasted the air. "I detect high-grade enforcement magic. Class A. The distinct signature of state-sanctioned violence. You have led us into a trap, meat-vessel." "Shut up." Soraya scanned the treeline. The Iron-Wood grew dense here, trees twisting into impossible knots, bark grey and slick as wet concrete. Shadows stretched thin, distorted by the low light. "It's the... the hunter. From the city." "Agent Jafari," Twig supplied, dripping with academic disdain. "The Tribunal's premier retrieval specialist. Statistical analysis suggests our evasion chances are negligible. Perhaps if you surrendered, they would merely prune you and replant me in a municipal garden. Degrading, but preferable to composting in this wilderness." Soraya ignored him, rifling through the library of her mind for a weapon. It was getting harder. Every time she reached for a spell, her fingers brushed against holes. Where the incantation for a fireball should have been, only grey static remained. The complex geometry of a teleportation weave had blurred into missing variables. The Rot was hungry today. It had eaten the nouns for *breakfast*, *safety*, and *home* while she walked. Now it gnawed on her arsenal. She needed a shield. Not a physical one—bullets she could dodge, knives she could parry. She needed something to stop a Tribunal agent. Something legal. *The Justiciar’s Summons.* The name floated up from the murky depths, attached to a flicker of memory: dust, old leather, a stern teacher with a ruler. *Order of Nullification.* A defensive ward that turned the enemy’s authority against them. "I need to cast." Soraya unslung the heavy supply pack, keeping Twig strapped to her chest. She wasn't letting the parasite out of her sight. "Watch the south." "I lack ocular organs, you carbon-based fool," Twig retorted, though his leaves stiffened, orienting toward the approaching threat. "However, my photosensitivity detects a disturbance in the localized mana-field. Something approaches. It is... orderly." Soraya knelt in the mud. Her hands shook as she dug into her pouch. Salt? No, she didn't have the word for the white crystals anymore, but the texture was right. She grabbed a handful of the grit and scattered it. *Focus.* She squeezed her eyes shut. Not a weave of fire or light. A contract. A rigid, glowing structure of laws and clauses. She had to build it in her mind before pushing it into the world. The Rot pushed back, a wade through molasses. Soraya reached for the first stanza, but her mind slipped on a patch of nothingness. *By the power of... of the thing that rules. The big seat. The gavel.* "The High Court," she gasped, sweat slicking her forehead. "By the power of the High Court, I invoke the... the..." "Stalling," Twig observed. "Your synaptic pathways are degrading. Fascinating, in a morbid, inefficient way." "Quiet!" Soraya dug her fingers into her temples. She didn't need the words. She needed the *intent*. She was a witch of the Old Way, before the Tribunal codified everything into forms and permits. She felt the shape of the magic—a wall of absolute denial. She grabbed a piece of chalk—*calcium carbonate*, her mind supplied uselessly—and drew symbols in the mud inside the salt circle. Not arcane runes. Legal seals. The stamp of a notary. The signature of a judge. The air grew cold. Ozone choked out the forest damp. "Target approaching," Twig announced, his voice losing its haughty edge for a flat, biological urgency. "Distance: two hundred meters. Velocity: constant. She is not running. She is walking. That is significantly more terrifying." Soraya didn't look up. She poured her will into the mud. "Come on. Answer the summons." She bit her thumb. The copper taste was sharp, grounding. She pressed the blood to the center of the circle. "I call the Audit!" she screamed. "I demand the Stay of Execution!" The ground rumbled. Not an earthquake, but the deep, grinding sound of heavy stone doors sliding open. The mud bubbled, rising, knitting itself together with vines and roots. It didn't form a golem. It formed a desk. A heavy, oak desk, covered in moss, rose from the earth. Behind it, a figure coalesced from the grey bark of the Iron-Wood. Vaguely humanoid, tall, gaunt. Its face was a blank, smooth slab of slate. It wore robes of woven thorns. The Guardian of the Spell. The Bureaucrat. "State your business," the entity droned. Its voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "Form 7B-Delta is required for all emergency defensive petitions." Soraya scrambled up, chest heaving. The magic worked—sort of. She had summoned the construct; now she had to navigate it. "I am... I am the petitioner." She pointed a trembling finger south, where the trees parted. "I require a Class Four Barrier. Immediate implementation. Danger is... imminent." The slate-faced entity remained motionless. "Class Four Barriers require a filing fee. And a background check. Current wait time is six to eight weeks." "I don't have six weeks! I have six seconds!" "Expedited processing available," the entity said, bored. "Cost: One verified memory of Innocence. To prove you are worthy of protection under the Good Samaritan clause." Soraya froze. Innocence. The Rot laughed in the back of her mind. Innocence? She barely remembered if she had eaten yesterday. But her past? A graveyard. She had cast the spell that created the Rot. She had killed... someone. A brother? A friend? "I..." Soraya stammered. "I don't..." "Insufficient funds." The entity began sinking back into the mud. "Application denied." "Wait!" Soraya lunged, slamming her hands onto the mossy desk. Rough bark bit into her palms. "I can pay. I have... other currency." "We accept Truth," the entity said. "We accept Grief. We accept Regret. Exchange rates vary based on emotional density." "Soraya," Twig whispered. "The carbon-unit hunter is visible." She looked over her shoulder. Through the trees, a hundred yards out, a figure in a grey tactical coat walked toward them. Agent Kenza Jafari moved with fluid, terrifying grace. She didn't hack at the undergrowth; she moved around it, as if the forest stepped aside for her. She held a silver rod—a null-baton. She wasn't running. She knew exactly where they were. Soraya turned back to the stone-faced bureaucrat. "Grief. I have Grief." "Present the item for valuation." A stone tray slid from the desk. Soraya closed her eyes. She had to go back. She had to touch the wound she had been trying to forget. *The brother.* She didn't know his name. The Rot had taken that weeks ago. But she knew his face. She knew the way he laughed—a sharp, barking sound that made her smile even when she was angry. She knew the smell of his jacket (tobacco and rain). She knew the moment he died. It wasn't a clear image. It was a sensation of cold. A flash of green light. A scream that shredded her throat. The crushing weight of guilt that she had survived and he hadn't. It was the anchor keeping her human. The pain was the only thing that felt real. "Take it," she whispered. She reached into her chest—metaphysically. She grabbed the cold, jagged shard of memory living next to her heart. It hurt. Like tearing a fishhook out of her skin. Her knees buckled. "Warning," Twig said softly. "Removing structural load-bearing memories may result in catastrophic personality collapse. You are... unwise." "I have to." Soraya pulled. A glowing blue orb materialized in her hand, pulsing with sad, heavy light. Inside, a flicker of a boy with messy hair turned to wave at her. She stared at it. If she gave this up, would she remember him at all? Or would he just be a hole in the world? "Valuation complete," the entity droned. "High purity. Acceptable." Soraya slammed the orb onto the stone tray before she could change her mind. The tray retracted. The entity swallowed the light. "Transaction approved. Deploying Justiciar’s Summons." The desk exploded. It didn't shatter; it expanded. Wood and stone flew outward, dissolving into a shimmering, translucent wall of golden light. It curved around Soraya and Twig, forming a dome of absolute order. The air inside went still. The forest smell vanished, replaced by the sterile scent of a courtroom. Soraya fell back into the mud, gasping. Her chest felt hollow. Light. Too light. She looked for the pain. The grief. Gone. She tried to conjure the boy's face. Nothing. Just a vague sense of loss, like keys she couldn't find. "You are damaged," Twig stated, extending a tendril to tap her cheek. "Your pupil dilation is asymmetrical." "I'm fine." Soraya lied, scrambling up to face the threat. "It's up. The shield is up. Nothing can get through that. It's absolute law." The golden dome hummed, a masterpiece of defensive magic. It denied entry to anything unauthorized. Impenetrable to force, fire, or malice. Agent Jafari stepped into the clearing. She stopped ten feet from the golden wall, expression unreadable behind amber-tinted tactical goggles. She didn't raise her weapon. She didn't scowl. She tilted her head, like a bird studying a worm. "Impressive," Jafari said. Her voice was amplified, cutting through the air with perfect clarity. "A Class Four Nullification Ward. Haven't seen one of those since the Academy. You must be desperate, Vane." Soraya stood her ground, legs shaking. "You can't come in. That shield rejects hostile intent. It rejects *you*." Jafari reached into her coat pocket. Soraya flinched, expecting a grenade. Instead, Jafari pulled out a small, flat rectangle. A badge. "Soraya Vane," Jafari said, bored. "By the authority of the High Tribunal, under Section 12, Paragraph 4 of the Emergency Powers Act, I hereby commandeer all local magical infrastructure." She held the badge to the golden wall. The shield rippled. The golden light didn't shatter. It didn't fight back. It turned green. "Access granted," a mechanical voice boomed from the air itself. Soraya’s blood ran cold. "No. No, that's... that's cheating." "It's not cheating," Jafari said, stepping forward. "It's bureaucracy." The agent walked straight through the barrier. The light washed over her like water, parting to let her pass, then snapping back into place behind her. She was inside. Soraya stumbled back, tripping over a root. She scrambled backward on her elbows, mud soaking through her coat. Jafari loomed over her. Up close, the agent looked exhausted too. Dark circles under her eyes, a fine layer of grime on her tactical gear. But her hand was steady as she leveled the silver baton at Soraya’s chest. "End of the line," Jafari said. "Hand over the asset." "The asset has a name," Twig snapped. "And it is *The Scion of the First Branch*, you glorified gardener." Jafari’s eyes flicked to the pot. A flicker of something—surprise? confusion?—crossed her face. "It speaks. The report didn't say it spoke." "The report was likely written by an illiterate gargoyle." Soraya seized the moment. While Jafari was distracted, she grabbed a handful of the salt-mud mixture. Not a spell. Just dirt. She threw it. A pathetic move. A child's move. Jafari didn't even flinch. She turned her head slightly, letting the mud splatter against her cheek and goggles. She looked back at Soraya, unimpressed. "Really?" She wiped the mud from her goggles with a gloved thumb. "That was your plan B?" "I'm working on it," Soraya wheezed. She tried to rise, but Jafari stepped on her ankle. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to pin her. "Stay down," Jafari ordered. "I don't want to hurt you, Vane. My orders are to bring you in alive. The Rot is eating your mind. We can help you." "Help me?" Soraya laughed, a ragged, hysterical sound. "Like you helped the others? Like you *sanitized* the safehouse?" "Protocol," Jafari said, voice tightening. "Contamination risks must be contained." "I am not a contamination risk! I am a person! I have a name!" "Do you?" Jafari asked softly. She leaned down. "Do you remember your middle name, Soraya?" Soraya opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She searched. *Soraya. Soraya...* Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. She knew she had one. It started with an E. Or maybe an A? "See?" Jafari said, voice tinged with pity. "It's already gone. Come with me. We have stasis chambers. We can freeze the progression. We can save what's left." "Save what's left?" Soraya spat. "You mean put me in a jar? Study me?" "Better a jar than a husk." Jafari reached for the straps of the harness holding Twig. "Give me the plant." "Do not touch me," Twig warned. "I am a protected species. Touching me without a permit is a federal offense." Jafari ignored him. Her hand closed around the terra-cotta rim. *Snap.* Soraya didn't think. She didn't cast. She didn't invoke. She reacted with pure, animal instinct. She bit Jafari's hand. She clamped her teeth down on the leather glove, grinding hard enough to taste the bitter tanning chemicals. Jafari yelped—a human sound—and jerked her hand back. "You feral little—" Soraya rolled. She kicked out with her free leg, aiming for Jafari's knee. The agent stumbled back, losing balance on the slick mud. Soraya scrambled up. She didn't try to fight. She ran. "Stop!" Jafari shouted. "The barrier is still active! You can't leave!" Soraya didn't stop. She ran straight for the golden wall she had created. The wall designed to keep enemies out. But she wasn't an enemy. She was the caster. She hit the light. It felt like running through warm honey. It resisted, pulling at her, trying to verify her identity. *Name?* the magic whispered in her ear. "Soraya Vane!" she screamed in her mind. *Verification failed. Identity fragmented.* "Let me out!" *Payment required for exit visa.* "I already paid!" Soraya roared aloud. "I gave you my brother!" The wall shuddered. The mention of the transaction seemed to confuse the logic of the spell. *Receipt verified. Refund processed.* The wall spat her out. Soraya tumbled onto the forest floor on the other side, gasping. She scrambled into the undergrowth, boots slipping on wet roots. Behind her, Jafari cursed. Then, the sound of the barrier humming. "Override code Alpha-Nine," Jafari's voice drifted through the trees. "Disable." The hum died. Soraya ran. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs felt like lead. She ran until the smell of ozone faded, replaced by the deep, rotting scent of the Iron-Wood. Only then did she collapse against the trunk of a massive tree, sliding down to clutch the pot to her chest. "Status report," Twig said. He sounded shaken. His leaves trembled. "We... we got away," Soraya wheezed. "Temporary evasion," Twig corrected. "She disabled your barrier in four seconds. She has administrative privileges, Soraya. You cannot fight the system with the system's own magic. It is illogical." Soraya closed her eyes. Her head pounded. She reached for the memory of the boy again, just to comfort herself. It wasn't there. Just a smooth, grey blankness. Tears pricked her eyes. Hot, angry tears. "I know," she whispered. "I know." "We need a new strategy," Twig said. "One that does not involve cannibalizing your own autobiography. You are running out of chapters." Soraya looked down at her hands. Mud and salt. Shaking. "She knew my name. She knew I wouldn't remember my middle name." "Psychological warfare," Twig dismissed. "Standard interrogation tactic." "No." Soraya looked at the dark forest around them. The trees seemed to lean in, listening. "She was right. It's gone. Elizabeth." Twig paused. "What?" "My middle name," Soraya said. The word tasted strange on her tongue, like something stolen. "It was Elizabeth. I just... I just remembered it." "How? You traded the memory block containing your familial connections. That data should be deleted." "I don't know." She touched her chest, where the hollow ache lived. "Maybe the Rot didn't eat it. Maybe the spell didn't take it all." "Or," Twig said, "maybe you are simply stubborn enough to retain data that has been formally erased. An anomaly." Soraya laughed, a weak, brittle sound. "Stubborn. Yeah. I can do stubborn." She pushed herself up. Her body screamed, but she forced her legs to hold her weight. "Where are we going?" Twig asked. "The vector of the hunter suggests she will intercept us at the river crossing." "Then we don't go to the river." Soraya looked deeper into the woods, where the shadows were thickest. "We go off-road. We go where the maps don't work." "The Wilds?" Twig's voice climbed an octave. "That is unzoned territory! There are no regulations there! No physics! We could be eaten by a metaphor!" "Better a metaphor than a bureaucrat." Soraya adjusted the straps of the pack, wincing as they dug into her bruised shoulders. "Come on, Twig. Let's get lost." She stepped into the darkness, leaving the path behind. *** The deeper they went, the less the forest made sense. Trees ceased to look like trees, resembling frozen explosions of wood, branches jagged and chaotic. The ground turned spongy, covered in moss that pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent glow—neon pink and sickly green. Soraya tried not to look at it too closely. If she stared, the colors moved, rearranging themselves into dizzying patterns. "Sensory overload imminent," Twig muttered. "The chlorophyll content in this sector is... wrong. It tastes like television static." "Just keep your eyes... your leaves... open." Soraya walked with a limp now. Her left ankle was swollen where Jafari had stepped on it. She needed rest. But she couldn't stop. Every time she slowed, she imagined the smell of ozone. *She’s still coming.* Jafari wasn't the type to give up. She was a machine. A wolf in a grey coat. "Soraya," Twig said. "Query." "What?" "Why did you bite her?" Soraya blinked. "What?" "The hunter. You possessed magical capability. You had a tactical advantage. Yet you chose to engage in physical mastication of her appendage. It was... undignified. And unsanitary." Soraya touched her jaw. It still ached. She could taste the leather glove. "I don't know. I just... I wanted to hurt her. I wanted her to feel it." "Anger," Twig mused. "An inefficient emotion. But effective in generating adrenaline." "It wasn't just anger." Soraya stepped over a log that looked suspiciously like a sleeping alligator. "It was... hate. She looked at me like I was a broken toaster. Like I was something to be fixed or thrown away." "You *are* broken," Twig pointed out. "And I am currently being carried by a toaster. The analogy holds." Soraya stopped. She looked down at the pot. "You're welcome," she said dryly. "I did not express gratitude," Twig sniffed. "I merely stated a fact." Soraya shook her head and kept walking. The forest changed again. Trees thinned out, replaced by tall, jagged rocks. The air grew colder. "Where are we?" Soraya whispered. No landmarks. No stars. Just the oppressive canopy of the Iron-Wood. She reached for a map in her mind. *North? South?* The words were slippery. *Up? Down?* "Directionality is compromised," Twig said. "My magnetic sensors are spinning. We are in a flux zone." Soraya leaned against a rock. It felt warm, like a living body. "We need shelter. I can't... I can't walk anymore." "Agreed. My root-cramps are reaching critical levels. And I believe I am developing a fungal infection on my lower leaf. This humidity is atrocious." Soraya scanned the area. A small cave opening yawned at the base of a cliff nearby. Dark, uninviting, but dry. "There." She stumbled toward it. The mouth was small, barely high enough for her to crouch through. She squeezed inside, dragging the pack behind her. The cave smelled of dry dust and old bones. Soraya collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she hit the floor. She closed her eyes. "Safe?" Twig asked. "For now." She let her head fall back against the stone. Tired. So tired. She tried to think of the boy again. The brother. The hole in her chest throbbed. *Elizabeth.* She held onto the name. A lifeline. A tiny, fragile thread connecting her to who she used to be. *Soraya Elizabeth Vane.* She repeated it in her mind, over and over. *Soraya Elizabeth Vane.* She wouldn't let them take that. She wouldn't let the Rot eat that. She drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of a boy with no face, waving goodbye from inside a glass jar. *** When she woke, the light outside had shifted to a bruised purple twilight. Something was wrong. Soraya sat up, wincing as stiff muscles protested. "Twig?" she whispered. "Present," the sapling replied instantly. "And alarmed." "Why?" "Listen." Soraya held her breath. At first, nothing. Then—*Click. Whir. Click.* Mechanical. Precise. Close. "She found us," Soraya breathed. "Impossible. We entered a flux zone. Tracking spells should be scrambled." "She's not using a spell." Soraya crawled to the cave entrance and peered out. Down in the valley, moving through the strange, neon moss, a drone hovered. Small, the size of a hummingbird, made of brass and glass. It scanned the ground with a red laser grid. "Tech," Soraya hissed. "She's using tech." The Tribunal hated technology. It was chaotic, prone to malfunction, hard to regulate. But Jafari... Jafari was practical. "She is cheating," Twig said, sounding scandalized. "Technology is a violation of the Natural Order Act of 1894!" "She doesn't care." Soraya watched the drone. It moved in a grid pattern. Searching. Heading toward the cliff. "We have to move." "Negative," Twig said. "Motion will trigger the sensors. We must remain static. Mimic the environment." "I can't mimic a rock!" "Not with that attitude. Hold your breath. Lower your heart rate. Become... vegetable." Soraya glared at the plant, but she froze, pressing herself back into the shadows. The drone drifted closer. Red light swept over the rocks. It swept over the cave entrance. Soraya held her breath until her lungs burned. The light lingered on the darkness of the cave. The drone hovered, brass wings blurring. *Click. Whir.* It moved on. "Gone," she whispered. "For now," Twig said. "But the hunter is close. That device is a scout. The main unit will follow." Soraya nodded. Her hands were still shaking. "We need a weapon. A real one." "You have magic. Broken, fragmented magic. But magic nonetheless." "It's not enough. She has clearance. She has codes. I need... I need something she can't regulate." She looked at Twig. "You." "Me? I am a botanical specimen. Not a firearm." "You ate the barrier spell in the alley," Soraya said. "You ate the rules." "I metabolized the magical energy," Twig corrected. "It gave me indigestion." "Can you do it again? If she uses a spell... can you eat it?" Twig was silent for a moment. His leaves rustled. "Theoretically. If the magical density is high enough. And if I am sufficiently... motivated." "Motivated how?" "Fertilizer," Twig said. "High-grade. None of this generic compost." Soraya stared at him. "You want a snack?" "I want *sustenance*. Combat metabolism requires energy. If you want me to consume a Tribunal-grade enforcement spell, I will require payment." "I don't have any fertilizer." "You have memories," Twig said softly. Soraya froze. "No. No more memories." "Then we will likely perish. It is a simple calculation. Survival requires sacrifice." Soraya looked at the pot. The glowing blue veins on the plant's leaves pulsed. He was hungry. "We'll find another way," Soraya said firmly. "Optimism," Twig noted. "Another inefficient human trait." Soraya ignored him, crawling back to the entrance. The drone was gone. "Let's go." She stepped out into the twilight. The air hung heavy, waiting. Soraya Vane took a step forward, into the dark. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know if she would remember her own name by morning. But she knew one thing. She wasn't going to make it easy for them. She checked the straps on the pot, adjusted her coat, and started to walk. One foot in front of the other. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* The sound of her own heart. The only rhythm she had left. And somewhere behind her, in the distance, the smell of ozone began to rise again. *** High Proctor Silas Ashworth did not sweat. It was a physiological response to stress or heat, and he permitted neither in his office. He sat behind his desk—a slab of polished obsidian that seemed to absorb the light of the room—and read the report. *Subject: Vane, Soraya.* *Status: Active / Fugitive.* *Location: Sector 4 (Iron-Wood).* *Pursuit Agent: Jafari, K.* He picked up a fountain pen. The nib was gold, sharp as a needle. "Inefficient," he murmured, tapping the paper. "Agent Jafari is... playing with her food." He looked up. Standing in the corner, almost invisible in the shadows, was a figure in a grey suit. No face. Just a smooth, blank mask. An Auditor. "Sir?" the Auditor asked. Voice like crumpling paper. "Authorize the escalation," Ashworth said softly. "If Agent Jafari cannot secure the asset within twenty-four hours... initiate the Burn Protocol." "The Burn Protocol will destroy the forest sector," the Auditor noted. "The paperwork will be extensive." Ashworth smiled. A small, tight movement that didn't reach his eyes. "I like paperwork." He signed the document. *Silas Ashworth.* The ink dried instantly, turning the color of dried blood. "Send it." The Auditor bowed and vanished. Ashworth turned his chair to look out the window. Below him, the city of the Tribunal sprawled like a clockwork cancer, gears turning, steam rising. Order. Perfect, beautiful order. And out there, in the chaos of the woods, a single variable was running. "Run, Soraya," he whispered. "Run as fast as you can." He closed his eyes. "You can't outrun the ink." *** Soraya stopped. "Did you hear that?" "Hear what?" Twig asked. "A voice. In my head." "Auditory hallucinations," Twig diagnosed. "A symptom of advanced Rot. Or perhaps you are just going mad. It is a subtle distinction." Soraya shook her head. "No. It sounded like... paper." She shivered. "Keep moving." They walked on, into the night. The Iron-Wood watched them pass. Trees shifted branches, whispering to each other in a language of creaks and groans. *She is forgetting,* the trees said. *She is fading,* the wind answered. *But she is still here,* the earth grumbled. Soraya Vane, the witch who was losing her name, walked on. She didn't look back. If she looked back, she might remember what she had lost. And that would break her. So she looked forward. Toward the Heart of the wood. Toward the cure. Toward survival. "Twig," she said softly. "What?" "Don't let me forget." "Forget what?" "Everything." Twig was silent for a long moment. "I will record the data. For archival purposes." "Thanks." "Do not mistake data storage for affection," Twig snapped. Soraya smiled. A real smile this time. "I know. You're just a plant." "And you," Twig said, "are just a vessel." "Yeah. I guess I am." She adjusted the pot. "Let's go, vessel," she whispered. And they disappeared into the dark.