Chapter Eighty-Five: Fire Snatchers
Section One: Electric Eye
Midnight, the seventeenth signal relay station on Iron Valley's midsouth loop went offline.
Three rounds of remote signal hopping failed, five data interference points spun out of control, and ARGUS flashed a red alert in the control room:
[Node ID: E-17]
[Signal Status: Locked]
[Attribution Shift: Unknown Protocol Standard · Signature: Blackvine-SC]
[Alert: This zone's signal has been re-encoded; this system no longer has read access]
Zhao Mingxuan reported grimly, "Blackvine's making a hard grab."
Tarn stood beside him, staring at the signature data, his face cold as steel.
"This isn't an intrusion," he said. "It's a takeover."
When Jason entered the control room, the system was calculating the spread rate of the compromised zone.
In under five minutes, the relay's control radius grew to five kilometers. Local broadcast nodes went silent, resident movement patterns reorganized, and several scrapyard outposts lost connection, forced to default sync channels.
Worse, Fuxi issued a warning:
[Enemy node structure aligns with system recognition logic]
[Prediction: Within 72 hours, the system will designate this zone a "signal recovery area," revoking Rust Street's monitoring rights]
[Hexagram: Thunder-Water Release]
"A forceful breach, soft cover as attack. Without destroying their core, sovereignty cannot be reclaimed."
Zhao Mingxuan translated, his voice low, "If we don't act, this ground's no longer ours."
Jason didn't speak. He stepped to the terminal, pulling up the "point-to-point recovery plan."
"Who's in that zone?" he asked.
Tarn checked the roster. "Three peripheral tech auxiliaries with a spare tap set. Not Rust Street regulars, just laying packet-seal lines."
"Can we pull them back?"
"They're off comms," Tarn said quietly. "Not a glitch—when the tower was taken, they were still inside."
After a few seconds of silence, Jason ordered:
"Send a team."
"If they're alive, we get them out; if not, we find their position; if neither, we dig up what they touched."
"Tell Blackvine the fastest way possible: if you want this place, you'd better be ready to hold it."
The strike team assembled in twenty-five minutes.
Tarn led, taking five men equipped with new "angled bone" exoskeleton frames, loaded with low-frequency EMP jammers, signal intercept modules, and pneumatic breaching kits.
They weren't going to negotiate. They were going to rip wires, kill machines, and recover bodies.
Maria stayed at the backend data tower to analyze Blackvine's signal sequences. Jason kept her off the front line.
"You stay back," he said. "Once we pull the point, you activate the counter-encoding on-site."
She paused, then nodded.
"I need to know," she asked, "are we really wiping out all of Blackvine?"
"Not wiping them out," Jason glanced at her, "but making sure they can't call this ground theirs."
At one in the morning, the team moved out.
Target: Relay Station 17.
Status: Fallen. Enemy zone nearing system tolerance threshold, countdown active.
The operation had no name, but everyone knew the job.
Not defending faith, not explaining who "owns the map."
They were telling those claiming to restore order:
This place isn't yours to take.
Section Two: Uprooted
The target zone sat behind an abandoned power conduit, a three-story collapsed building. The third floor's supports had caved, rebar jutting like iron thorns, but the data core was buried in that concrete husk.
Unmanned. Unguarded. Yet fully signal-silent.
This wasn't a "taken" relay—it was a station pretending to be untouched, yet wholly changed.
Tarn stepped off the vehicle, his stride steady as a blade's edge. No standard mask, just a dark gray exoskeleton wrapping him tight. Each step rang with low steel.
His five-man team included two "signal clearers," one peripheral combat trainee, and two unnamed recruits handpicked by Jason.
No rally speech, no codewords.
Tarn said only, "Go in, pull that tower down."
The operation began.
The perimeter was empty, a half-steel plaza barren except for guideline stickers on support pillars, printed with:
"Enter work zone: comply with pre-station sync, frequency reporting, rhythm uploads.
This area is under standardization; do not alter structures."
One team member cursed under his breath, "Feels like a control zone and a damn hospital."
"They're turning this into a template factory," another said coldly.
"Won't work," Tarn said. "As long as the signal's main pulse is live, we can smash it."
They hugged the walls, advancing while clearing ground beacon scraps. EMP guns were unlocked, ready to pulse-wash.
But as they rounded the tower's side, nearing the main hub port, a signal mine detonated at the tower's center.
"Ambush!"
"Fall back!"
"Find cover!"
"Not auto-defenses—people! They left men in the station!"
Tarn rolled into the collapsed hall, spotting two figures leap from an opposite window, wearing gray-green uniforms, silver headband tags: Blackvine Beacon Management Unit · Field Operators.
First contact erupted.
Tarn's trio used breaching packs to punch through the station's side wall, cutting into the main control room. They weren't there to wipe out enemies—they needed to sever the data upload chain.
"Ignore them, cut the line—where's the mainboard?"
"Found it—core's a packaged clone, they planned to loop it online post-takeover!"
"Handle it!"
"Hot-melt severance, go!"
An EMP bomb slammed the main conduit, frying the signal chip and power line. The control tower's interior went dark, all template processes frozen.
In the rear, enemy remnants scattered, but not in chaotic retreat.
Tarn saw one's back, printed with two lines:
"We're not an army."
"We're restoring management."
He didn't flinch, firing a pulse shot that dropped the man hard.
Fifteen minutes later, the tower was fully offline.
Maria's remote hack confirmed: all crowd process guidance pages were down, Blackvine's "standardized directive framework" inaccessible.
Fuxi prompted:
Action triggered "standard signal structure severance model completion"
Hexagram Shift: [Thunder-Water Release] → [Wind-Heaven Minor Accumulation]
Meaning: "If the enemy claims our zone with directives, cut their source, discard their commands"
Jason ordered, "Don't rebuild the directive tower. We don't take over—just let them know: whoever grabs, gets hit."
An hour later, local crowds dismantled Blackvine's process guides. Not because they couldn't read them—but because they feared being mislabeled.
Section Three: Gray Spine
Blackvine Society's inner management module, command hall in the B-2 underground passage.
Temperature held steady at 17 degrees, air dry, no vents, yet purified round-the-clock. Four walls of angled glass film, interior light fading evenly from top to bottom, never revealing the ceiling.
At the glass wall's center stood a man in a black sensory suit, a metal ring pinning his shoulder fabric. No ID badge—he didn't need one.
He was Rei Isard, Blackvine's current protocol maintenance officer.
He stared at a screen of briefings, concise and brutal:
[E-17 Tower Clearance Failed]
[Control Point Total Loss]
[Beacon Station Suppressed, Cannot Restart]
[Crowds Reverted to Rust Street Default Process Modules]
He slowly closed the page, looking at the young woman across. She wore gray cloth blinders, her face blank.
This was Fran Hertu, Blackvine's field system planner, tasked with the "city order template return plan."
"They can kill," she said quietly.
"Didn't they say Rust Street wouldn't hit their own zones?"
Rei asked softly, "Who told you E-17 was theirs?"
Fran didn't answer.
Rei continued, "Think we're dealing with idealists? That's TRACE's mistake."
"Jason Carter isn't a faith-builder; he's a planner. He holds E-17 today, he'll turn one of our plants into his lab tomorrow."
"He's not guarding order."
"He's crafting control models."
Fran was silent, then, "Time to move?"
Rei nodded.
"Phase two, full rollout."
"Push protocol packs to the periphery. Seed 'Gray Spine' response codes at beacon receivers."
"No more 'management suggestions.' We send 'return commands.'"
"They're self-organizing? We give them a standard for what organizations do."
"Not suggestions—commands."
At the same time, Rust Street's control room.
Fuxi's holographic deduction map showed nine of thirteen peripheral outposts with reactivated beacon zones, popping "Gray Spine Group" default call statements.
All documents embedded binding mechanisms: download and execute, and nodes auto-activated, tying user identity and accountability paths.
Maria's report:
"Gray Spine documents don't ask if you accept. Use the process, and you're 'part of the system.'"
"Not an attribution error."
"It's implanted definition."
Jason studied Fuxi's hexagram calmly.
[Wind-Heaven Minor Accumulation] → [Heaven-Mountain Retreat]
"When the enemy's strength dominates, dissolve their structure; retreat isn't escape, yielding seizes the lead."
System Recommendation:
"Launch 'Misplaced Identity Plan.' Rust Street builds reverse signal packs, deploys fake management teams to infiltrate Gray Spine nodes."
"Use their framework to disrupt their expectations."
Zhao Mingxuan explained, "We pretend to be them, mess up their formation."
Jason nodded.
"Our opponent's finally showing their face."
"Then it's time we 'help them restore order.'"
Section Four: Imposter Team
Three in the morning, Rust Street's sealed third tactical corridor, combat operatives completed disguise deployment.
At the operations table, Maria reverse-engineered a "Gray Spine Coordination Standard Protocol" document structure.
"Their system's nested clean," she said, working fast. "Process includes entry greetings, work annotation templates, reporting hierarchies, even response rhythms."
"Go into a site with the wrong rhythm, they'll know you're fake."
Tarn checked his terminal, confirming language modules synced perfectly.
"So this isn't a raid."
"We're infiltrating to flip their table ourselves."
Maria glanced at him, voice steady, "If you can flip a table to their standard, I'll believe you."
Target: F-3 zone, a pilot site for Gray Spine templates.
Terrain: a repurposed derelict solar plant, where peripheral crowds just started using Gray Spine documents, not yet fully loyal.
Tarn led three, disguised as a "standardized template verification team," armed with preliminary auth codes, station directive maps, and encrypted logic packs.
The entrance was unguarded.
Blackvine's arrogance: once their process started, they assumed no one would question who was behind it.
Tarn stepped into the main control layer, tossing a standard greeting to the duty officer: "Execution Group B-15, updating node credentials."
The gray-clad coordinator stood, handing over files.
"What's today's task?"
"Format transcription and node assessment," Tarn replied, pitch and pace flawless.
Two teammates slipped to the rear beacon control and data dispatch zones, prepping to insert fake "command delay packs."
The op needed five minutes.
Insert a "process update failure," and the framework would trigger a signal feedback error within two hours, forcing the system to downgrade the node to "incomplete template" and observation status.
The outpost would be dead.
But things blew up faster than planned.
The third teammate, in the data dispatch zone, spotted something—a body stripped of ID, cold-stored behind a control cabinet.
Not an enemy, but a "crowd coordinator" who'd followed the process.
Identity erased, blood still wet.
Tarn ordered an immediate pullout. But before they could exit the core control room, external broadcasts blared:
"Full site lockdown.
Process executors will undergo clearance.
All authorizations must be re-verified.
Non-Gray Spine tags will be flagged as anomalous signals."
A silent infiltration turned into a wall-busting breakout.
Tarn's team charged the main gate, hitting a wave of drone mines; side barriers sprayed signal-kill frequencies. Tarn slammed the "signal rebound module," covering the rear's retreat.
One teammate took a hit, exoskeleton pierced, collapsing.
Tarn didn't look back, only saying, "Carry him."
Breaking the outpost's perimeter, the "process recovery zone" behind them looped high-frequency broadcasts:
"This isn't about you.
This is restoring order.
Whoever executes wrong is the enemy."
On the return, Maria received the data, confirming the enemy system detected "unauthorized template nesting," triggering a full-line template self-check.
Rust Street's fake template insertion forced the system to bite itself.
Fuxi's feedback:
Target zone beacon locked due to successful structure disruption
Hexagram Advance: [Retreat] → [Contention]
"False becomes true, the enemy falls by their own logic. To build their case, first destroy their proof."
Jason ordered:
"Make it look like they purged their own process."
"We don't show. But we let everyone see—they're killing their own, not enemies."
"That's enough."
Section Five: Branded
The next morning, five thirty, F-3's broadcast tower went silent.
Gray Spine's execution directives froze, pages replaced with a warning:
"Current process ID invalid. Reapply for access."
The access link was swapped by ARGUS to a fake guidance system uploaded from a Rust Street outpost.
Operators clicking it got: "Access Denied · Source Conflict."
Meanwhile, Blackvine's internal control received a backtrace signal chain report:
[Process Execution Failed]
[Conflict Points: Language Template Chaos + Parameter Collisions]
[Suspected Anti-Process Module Insertion · Source Code Mutation]
[System Tagged F-3 Process as "Damaged Template" · Auto-Removed]
Rei Isard stood at the command table, not angry.
He said calmly, "The order we built over weeks was shattered by their three-minute fake directive."
"Next, it's our move."
In Rust Street's control room, Fuxi posted the round's results:
Successfully made F-3 process node system-deemed obsolete
Blackvine unable to redeploy similar templates within 72 hours
Crowds didn't identify Rust Street as interveners, action remains in "Fuzzy trust" state
Hexagram Update: [Contention] → [Water-Wind Well]
Annotation:
"Use old vessels to draw deep intent; avoid empty words, strengthen roots. Attack cannot hold, defense cannot last—now forge a new fire."
Zhao Mingxuan read, "Fuxi says we're not winning this round, but building a new 'control logic' before they can regroup."
Jason nodded.
"No more letting crowds think processes are neutral."
"We give them a choice."
"Not 'who to follow,' but—'who guarantees you don't die next.'"
Tarn added, "Next action, we're not hitting processes."
"We're hitting the ones releasing them."
Action Results:
Rust Street disrupted Blackvine's standardized expansion via reverse infiltration;
System deemed Rust Street uninvolved, reverting to "Blur memetic status" per "unidentifiable directive source";
Crowds showed no clear trust reversal, but Rust Street's moves gained default advantage;
Blackvine shifted strategy: from "process deployment" to "structure stripping + central dispatch";
Next Phase Warning: Enemy will deploy "logic guard units" to directly kill anti-process actors.
Fuxi's final note:
"Within three rounds, a command structure will be decided. The nameless will have no ground to hold; the undecided will perish in chaos."
Jason didn't respond.
He opened the "new process template candidate library."
He said, "We need to decide—should Rust Street release its own process?"
Section Six: Self-Forged Directive
Jason stood at the control table for a long time.
Before him were three process prototype drafts from Fuxi, each weaving weeks of crowd feedback, data rhythms, conflict reports, and logic scraps from Blackvine's failed models.
The drafts had no names, only system codes:
Plan A: Shortest Process Priority Structure
For high-pressure chaos zones, prioritizing "do then blame," sacrificing safety for efficiency.
Plan B: Trust Proxy Protocol
Allows lower nodes to propose coordination, but actions need "neutral review" confirmation, suited for infiltration and dialogue phases.
Plan C: Confrontational Self-Sealed Template
Defaults all non-Rust Street nodes as enemies, embedding conflict backup logic; execution by others signals "enemy-ally split."
Zhao Mingxuan stood aside, his gaze heavy.
"You realize," he said, "if we pick C, we're admitting we're not coordinators."
"We're rulers."
Jason didn't answer. He stared at a long text from Fuxi.
Current Strategic Environment Hexagram Evolution:
[Well] → [Great Excess] → [Revolution]
"When voices fade, a sole directive endures. Revolution isn't change—it's severance.
Indecision breeds disaster; namelessness returns to void."
Fuxi Recommendation:
"Establish a single authorized interface; restrict directive sources; build preemptive identification rights."
"No longer let enemies define us."
Maria approached from the back, pale.
"Just got a signal convergence report."
"Blackvine's deploying a 'Process Command Guard' in G District's south end."
"They sent real soldiers, in process-specific uniforms, with jurisdiction guns, badges, and process auth certificates."
"They're not deploying processes."
"They're—enforcing."
The meeting room fell briefly silent.
Tarn let out a cold laugh, "Good. They've named themselves."
"Then we name too."
That night, Rust Street issued an internal directive code:
HX-S1: "Basic Protective Action Recommendation Framework (Trial)"
Its language was stark, seven points:
1. In resource disputes, process executors hold first response rights.
2. All who've aided Rust Street outposts gain "evacuation priority" protection.
3. Unknown processes without clear signatures are deemed unusable by default.
4. Self-proclaimed enforcers must publicly state process affiliation.
5. Directive codes update every 12 hours; old templates auto-expire.
6. Those losing comms during action are deemed detached, not directive-bound.
7. Directive execution accountability lies with Rust Street, not individuals. Anyone can refuse execution but loses process protection.
This wasn't a process.
It was a claim to the right to define processes.
Fuxi logged the directive's release, annotating the structure map:
"This marks Rust Street's first claim to process naming rights."
"Not a slogan, not a call, not crowd-assumed."
"A formally issued command."
At two in the morning, G District's southern power tower received Blackvine's "Process Command Guard" temporary camp-building orders.
Three hours later, they'd reach a northern scrap equipment yard—where the seven-point "HX-S1" standard had just been printed.