The purges started at dawn. Selene's orders spread through the web like a clean blade: identify deviations, excise them, restore order. Atlas walked the streets of District Seven as the living emblem of that order.
His body moved on command, the arm guiding each step with mechanical precision. But inside the soul-crystal embedded in his chest, a small window of autonomy flickered open. He felt it as a sharp intake of breath that wasn't his lungs.
The mutations had already taken root. What used to be the Sheep Union building now pulsed with wet flesh.
Vein-creatures spilled out, their bodies stretched into elongated forms with too many joints. They surrounded a group of citizens in the square, bleating in perfect bureaucratic cadence.
"State your production quota for the cycle," one creature droned, its mouth a circle of teeth and suction cups. It latched onto a man's arm and began draining.
