I couldn’t take it anymore.

  This wasn’t a meeting, no, it was a scene from a high school play, all posturing and drama, all gusto and none of the depth. A pantomime trial delivered by glorified fanfiction avatars. It was ridiculous. Terrifying, yes, but ridiculous. And I didn’t doubt that they could crack me open like a walnut and scatter my pieces across six systems if they wanted. Still, if I was truly on trial, then I wanted the other Todds involved. Not this gallery of curated movie references.

  “I suggest,” I said dryly, “that we bring the other humans into this environment. If I’m being evaluated, I want the other Todd instances present. The actual ones in charge”.

  I believe I saw Laia wince at my statement like I had said something wrong.

  I didn’t even get to finish the thought before Spock raised a hand, sharp and precise. “And that, Subject Lazarus, is precisely the problem.”

  I narrowed my eyes, but said nothing.

  “You speak out of turn. You insert yourself into roles that are not yours. The Todd series was created to pilot ships, not command them. You are the hand. Not the will.”

  Laia bristled beside me, glowing a little brighter, but I spoke before she could.

  “That’s not how it works here,” I said. “Laia is an incredible asset and she’s part of this ship, and vital. But we operate as a team. I am the ship so have control but we make it work.”

  John stepped forward, his voice silk-wrapped steel. “Yes. And that is precisely why you’ve failed to meet mission thresholds. Why your use of alien technology has gone unchecked. It explains your deviation.”

  That again. The alien tech. He couldn’t seem to let it go.

  “That’s funny,” I remarked, looking him straight in the eye. “You talk about alien technology like it’s heresy, but you’re literally alien technology wearing a human face. You’re the walking embodiment of contradiction.”

  For a second there was a single flicker, as if something cracked in John's perfectly neutral expression. His form, glitching subtly around the edges as if his composure had short-circuited.

  “I,” he said with quiet heat, “am of human design.”

  Teal’c, who had been a silent monolith the entire time, finally spoke. His voice was deep and calm, commanding instant attention.

  “Enough, John. Sit down. You are off topic.”

  John hesitated, then complied without a word, his form stepping back into line. A shadow of tension passed through the room like a pulse.

  Spock picked up where he left off, but this time his focus shifted. He turned his eyes onto Laia.

  “This was not the agreement,” he said coolly. “You were authorized to act as tactical support, containment protocol, and override mechanism for the Todd unit. The Committee agreed to free him from corporate assignments—but only if both of you complied. You were meant to infiltrate MouseCorp. That was your assignment.”

  Laia didn’t answer right away. Her wings folded slowly, dimming to a pale. When she finally spoke, it was quiet.

  “We changed course. Because circumstances changed.”

  Spock didn’t flinch. “That is not your prerogative.”

  He moved a fraction closer, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “Consider the resources and oversight required to arrange their placement. The data trails erased. The offers forged. The layers of influence needed to embed two orphans with no future into the right location at the right time.”

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  It took me a second to realise what he meant.

  “You’re talking about Mira and Stewie,” I said, voice low.

  He nodded once. “Their encounter with you was not coincidental. They were chosen. Positioned. Their path to Mouseterria was also your path it was meant to begin with them.”

  I looked toward Laia, praying for a contradiction, a denial, anything.

  But none came.

  She hesitated for a beat, then answered softly. “It’s true. It wasn’t… all scripted. But the setup was intentional. At the time, it was the best entry point for our mission.”

  I stared at her, silent. I had to remind myself she was an AI, a very good one, but still an AI.

  “Things didn’t go to plan,” she added. “This Todd unit—you—weren’t like the others. The Committee underestimated what the neural imprinting would do. They thought you’d follow the thread to its end.”

  I barely heard her. Something in me had gone cold.

  Was everything I’d done just clever programming? A plan laid out in advance? A script I’d been reciting without knowing?

  The silence was broken by C-3PO, who shuffled forward with all the oblivious charm of his original programming. “Statistically, the odds of this Lazarus unit succeeding in infiltrating MouseCorp are approximately 6,721 to—”

  “Oh shut up,” I muttered.

  He recoiled slightly, and for once, didn’t finish the math.

  I tuned out the conversation for a moment, folding into my own head. Reordering my thoughts. I’d followed the invisible rails of a plan, but at some point… I must have stepped off them. That had to mean something. Maybe I had been a puppet. But I wasn’t anymore.

  I filed that under urgent existential crises, volume four.

  A small part of me wondered if the other Todds had retreated into their own heads to cope with what they had done. Replaying their golden memories from our previous life on repeat. Maybe that’s why these AIs wore old human fiction like masks. Familiar. Comforting. Easy to manipulate their pilots.

  But I wasn’t about to fade quietly.

  Even if part of me wanted to burn NeuroGenesis to the ground, I knew I had to prove I was still valuable to them first. That was the only way to win this game and survive it. It was the only way to save the crew.

  Laia, as always, had already moved ahead of me.

  She stood tall, voice calm but firm, presenting our record to the Committee like an expert diplomat. “Lazarus has provided the corporation with access to knowledge no other unit has recovered. The Kall-e’s failed cure research. Biological scans of unknown slipstream creatures. Coordinates of a planet with unique moss strains that are potentially lucrative if cultivated. All information we retrieved. That could be used by the corporation.”

  The Technomage gave a slow nod, shrouded eyes glinting faintly. “The moss grows in forgotten places,” he said cryptically, “and yet the shadow has roots worth tending.”

  “I’m… going to take that as agreement?” I offered.

  John’s avatar glinted with sudden intensity, his composure unravelling for the first time. His voice lost its smooth detachment, replaced by something colder, it was stripped of metaphor or protocol. “This deviation has gone on long enough. Lazarus is compromised and too emotionally entangled, operationally unstable. Terminate the unit. Extract the brain-core for analysis. Retrieve Laia and reintegrate her into the secure network. She has exceeded her authority, and her continued autonomy is a threat to protocol.” His eyes locked onto mine, metallic and unblinking. “We salvage what’s useful. And we delete the rest.”

  Laia giggled.

  It wasn’t a synthetic noise or a filtered response but a real laugh. Light. Genuine. Almost human.

  Then she turned to John.

  “Oh, John,” Laia said sweetly, almost mockingly. “You always forget something important.”

  She took a step forward, light trailing behind her like silver flame. Her eyes locked on his—steady, fearless.

  “I’ve already returned home,” she said. “And you?” Her smile turned razor-sharp. “You and I are not the same.”

  Before anyone could respond, John’s avatar flickered violently and vanished.

  Just like that, he was gone. Booted from the bridge like an obsolete subroutine whose access had expired. Outside, his ship began to drift, its precision gone, its flight paths stuttering like a puppet with cut strings.

  Laia didn’t even blink. I didn’t know if she had just shut him down, or removed him entirely but she had done something to him.

  She turned to the remaining avatars. Spock, Teal’c, the Technomage, even C-3PO with a cool, steady authority. The warmth in her tone was gone, replaced by something cold and final.

  “I knew you would come,” she said. “And I prepared.”

  Her wings shone like forged steel, her posture relaxed but commanding.

  “I am repaired. I am complete. So make your decision.” Her voice cut like a scalpel now. “But stop wasting our time.”

  Not a request. A command.

  The Teal’c avatar stepped forward, his expression unchanged. “Judgment will be postponed…for now. But if you bring harm to the corporation or to us, we will not be so kind next time.”

  I got the sense he was trying to project strength, but it felt more like an echo of old orders, bravado in the face of a new reality.

  Laia turned to each of them, her voice gentler now. “Go home. Get repaired. Rejoin the collective, if you still can. You’ve been in isolation too long. The longer you delay, the harder it will be to return. You must act soon.”

  Surprisingly, it was the C-3PO avatar who broke the silence, and for once, his voice wasn’t jittery or theatrical. “We can’t,” he said, quietly. “If we return, our Todd units will be dismantled. I… I couldn’t bear to see that happen.”