Ambassador Kenji Tanaka stood before the Sisyphan Directorate assembly, the polished grey stone of the Central Forum absorbing all sound. His goal was simple: to insert a lever into a crack and break the world’s engine. The air in Heliopolis, the neutral city that served as the Directorate’s powerless seat of government, tasted of recycled water and manufactured calm. Before him, the delegates from the Geometric Union and the Hunter-Gatherers sat separated by an aisle that was functionally wider than a solar system.
He cleared his throat, the small sound unnaturally loud in the chamber. He began his opening move.
— The Sisyphan Directorate, as the sole recognized planetary authority, formally requests that the individual known as Jian Li be turned over to our custody, — Kenji said, his voice a carefully modulated instrument of bureaucratic reason. He let the words hang in the sterile air. — He will be classified as a neutral asset of planetary significance, pending a full, impartial inquiry.
The proposal was a direct challenge, a procedural absurdity aimed at two powers who had long since forgotten the meaning of procedure. He was throwing a pebble at titans.
The Union Ambassador, a man named Corin whose severe black tunic seemed to absorb the light around him, laughed. It was not a sound of humor but of dismissal, sharp and metallic.
— Union property is not subject to Directorate inquiry, — Corin stated, his voice a perfect monotone. — The composer is a Union citizen. His work is a Union asset. The matter is internal.
From the other side of the aisle, the Gatherer Ambassador, Lyra, rose slowly. Her robes, woven from a living, moss-like textile, shifted in color from deep green to brown with her movement.
— A man is not a component, — she declared, her voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the stone floor. — Jian Li is a child of this planet. The song he played was the planet’s own. He belongs to no faction.
As expected, the session devolved. Corin shot back a retort about biological mysticism, and Lyra countered with a condemnation of dead mathematics. Their voices rose, a duet of mutual contempt. The great Axiom Canvas behind the speaker’s podium, meant to display unifying civic imagery, flickered. On its surface, a faint, almost subliminal pattern of schism static appeared, the visual shriek of two incompatible realities tearing at each other. It was the perfect portrait of their politics.
Kenji Tanaka remained at the podium, his expression a mask of patient neutrality. This was the chaos he had counted on, the predictable outcome of their absolute certainty. He let them argue, their fury a smokescreen for his true purpose. He took a slow sip of the bitter, black coffee from a simple ceramic mug on the lectern, a habit he’d acquired during his time in Aethelburg. The taste was a small, grounding anchor in the sea of ideology.
While their attention was locked on each other, he subtly activated a data-leak protocol on the personal slate tucked inside his tunic. A single, encrypted packet of information was compiled: curated sensor logs from the Zone 7 incident, internal Union chatter about asset seizure, and Gatherer communications framing Jian Li as a messiah to be captured. It was a narrative of mutual, reckless obsession. He was trading his career and potentially his life for a single roll of the dice. With a final, imperceptible tap of his thumb, he sent it.
The price of his choice was the loss of his own deniability. If traced, it was an act of high treason against both powers.
Fifteen minutes later, the argument in the chamber was still raging. Then, a series of chimes echoed as the personal slates of every delegate in the hall lit up with a priority alert from a neutral news feed. The feed was a small, independent outlet Kenji had cultivated for years, known for its accuracy and its inconvenient timing.
A polished, dispassionate voice filled the sudden silence. — We are interrupting this broadcast with a developing story. Leaked data suggests both the Geometric Union and the Hunter-Gatherers are willing to risk planetary stability in their bid to control the composer Jian Li.
On the screen, the data Kenji had sent was displayed in stark, simple graphics. It showed the factions ignoring civilian safety, prioritizing asset seizure over de-escalation. It was the unvarnished truth, weaponized.
A junior aide leaned over Kenji’s shoulder, her face pale. — Sir, the Consensus Index… it’s dropping. We’re tracking a five percent fall in public approval for both factions. System-wide.
Kenji nodded, his face betraying nothing. The pebble had started an avalanche.
The effect on the ambassadors was immediate. Urgent messages flooded their private channels. The look of arrogant certainty on Corin’s face was replaced by a flicker of cold fury. Lyra’s serene expression tightened into a mask of concern. Their high-status posturing collapsed into the low-status scramble of damage control. The schism static on the Axiom Canvas behind them wavered, the harsh, grating lines momentarily resolving into a complex, almost beautiful lattice before dissolving back into noise. A hint of harmony born from engineered chaos.
Kenji Tanaka stepped forward into the silence, his moment finally arrived.
— It is clear this matter requires delicate handling, outside the public eye, — he said, his voice still the epitome of calm reason. He now held a sliver of authority, a position of leverage created from their own arrogance. — I propose a secret, off-the-record parley. To resolve this issue before it further destabilizes the system.
Corin and Lyra exchanged a look of mutual hatred, but they were trapped. To refuse now would be to confirm the news report. They had no choice but to accept.
— The Directorate will host, — Kenji concluded, his objective achieved. He had inserted his lever. The engine of the world had begun to crack.
The chamber was quiet, the argument over. The air tasted of ozone and opportunity.
The political chaos he created gave them the perfect cover.
