_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">Sector 17 Supply Depot - Late Evening"That's all of it?" Councilor Jace asked, his weathered face illuminated by the flickering light of a salvaged power cell mp.

  Tel nodded, her expression grim as she gestured to the meager collection of medical supplies spread across the makeshift table. "Three bottles of broad-spectrum antibiotics, seventeen analgesic patches, one surgical kit with dull instruments, and thirty-two rolls of binding cloth." She hesitated. "And the neural development supplement we salvaged from the abandoned research outpost st month."

  The five members of Sector 17's leadership council exchanged troubled gnces. Outside, the wind howled through the settlement's patchwork buildings, carrying the distant sounds of children pying despite the te hour—their designated recreation time scheduled after the day's salvage and repair work.

  "The winter's coming," said Councilor Maren, the community's most experienced medical practitioner. "These supplies won't cover half our anticipated needs. The binding cloth alone—we used twice this amount st winter."

  "And the food stores?" Jace asked, turning to Councilor Dren.

  "Seventy-eight percent of minimum projected requirement," Dren replied, consulting a tattered notebook filled with precise calcutions. "We can stretch it to eighty-five if we reduce rations by twelve percent across the community."

  "And what about the Game preparation resources?" Councilor Maren asked. "We have nine children between ages fifteen and seventeen. They'll face mandatory interface impntation within three years."

  A heavy silence fell over the room. Even in Sector 17, there was no escaping the Game. ProtectoCorp sweeps regurly captured Unaligned youth approaching activation age, forcing neural interface impntation and immediate Game entry. Their survival rates were abysmal—less than 5% made it past the first floor without proper preparation.

  Councilor Elsin, who had remained silent until now, spoke softly. "We need to discuss the Lyra situation."

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop further, though the heating unit hadn't changed its output. Tel's posture stiffened visibly.

  "What situation?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

  "The resource allocation situation," Elsin crified, meeting Tel's gaze directly. "She receives twenty percent more nutritional value than other children her age. The neural supplement alone could be traded for enough antibiotics to treat everyone in the community for a regur winter."

  "She's not a 'situation,'" Tel said, her voice sharp. "She's a child. An extraordinary child."

  "That's precisely the point," Elsin countered. "We've all seen what she can do. Last month she repaired the water filtration system when even Merik couldn't figure out what was wrong. The month before, she reconfigured the perimeter sensors to give us triple the warning time for ProtectoCorp sweeps."

  "Those aren't just impressive tricks," Jace added, his tone softening. "Those are survival advantages. Advantages we desperately need."

  "So what are you suggesting?" Maren asked, though the direction of the conversation was becoming clear to everyone.

  Councilor Dren pced his notebook on the table with deliberate care. "I've been running calcutions on resource optimization. If we divert additional resources to Lyra's development—nutritional, medical, educational—the projected community benefit outweighs the immediate cost by a factor of three-to-one over a five-year timeline."

  "You're suggesting we prioritize one child over the rest of the community?" Maren asked, though her tone carried more resignation than outrage.

  "I'm suggesting we invest in the community's best hope for the future," Dren replied. "In ten years, she'll face mandatory Game entry like every other citizen. With her neural architecture and technical abilities, properly developed, she might actually have a chance to survive it—maybe even thrive. That benefits all of us."

  Community Hall - The Following DayThe community meeting had begun calmly enough, but as the council expined their proposed resource allocation pn, voices had risen and faces had flushed with emotion.

  "My son needs those supplements too!" shouted a woman from the back of the hall, a thin child clutched to her side. "His growth is already stunted from st year's shortages."

  "My daughter's cough hasn't improved in three weeks," called another voice. "And you want to give the medicine to a child who isn't even sick?"

  Tel stood at the front alongside the other council members, her heart pounding but her voice steady when she spoke. "I found Lyra. I brought her here. I've raised her as my own. Do you think this is easy for me? To suggest that she receives more than other children?"

  "Then why are you supporting this?" asked the mother of the coughing girl.

  Tel took a deep breath. "Because I've seen what she can do. What she understands. Her mind works differently—she sees patterns in technology that even our best technicians miss. The neural connection points at the base of her skull—they're unlike anything I ever worked with, even when I was a neural technician for the corporations."

  She looked around the room, meeting the eyes of parents whose children would eventually face the Game. "We all know what happens to our children when they turn eighteen. ProtectoCorp sweeps take them, corporate interfaces are forced on them, and they're thrown into the Game with no preparation. How many have we lost in the past year alone? Six? Eight?"

  She gestured around the room. "Every piece of functioning technology in this room has been touched by her. The heat regutors that keep us from freezing. The water purifiers that keep us from getting sick. The perimeter sensors that keep us from getting caught." Her voice grew stronger with each example. "She is eight years old, and she understands systems that took me years of corporate training to grasp."

  A thoughtful silence fell over the crowd, broken by an older man near the front. "So she's valuable. I understand that. But at what cost? How do we tell our children they get less so one child gets more?"

  Councilor Jace stepped forward. "We tell them the truth. That we're making a hard choice now for a better chance ter. That's always been the way of Sector 17—we look further ahead than tomorrow."

  A murmur ran through the gathered residents, not quite acceptance but no longer outright rejection.

  "I propose a compromise," said a quiet voice from near the door. Merik, the chief technician, rarely spoke at community gatherings. "Let those of us without children donate a portion of our rations. I'll take the first cut."

  Others began to nod, a solution taking shape that would spread the burden more evenly. But Councilor Dren shook his head slowly.

  "That won't be enough," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of his calcutions. "I've run the numbers every way possible. For this to work—for us to give her the development support that will maximize her potential—it will require community-wide sacrifice. There's no way around it."

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Education Center - One Week LaterLyra sat cross-legged on the floor of what had once been a storage closet but now served as her specialized learning space. Around her y the dismantled components of a neural interface salvaged from a ProtectoCorp patrol officer who had ventured too close to the sector's boundaries. Her small fingers worked methodically, separating the delicate neural connectors from the control unit.

  Beside her, Tel watched with a mixture of pride and concern, occasionally making notes on a piece of salvaged paper. On a small table nearby sat a cup containing a cloudy liquid—the neural supplement that had been the subject of so much debate.

  "I think I see how it works," Lyra said suddenly, her eyes never leaving the components. "The connection points link directly to the limbic system, but there's a secondary processor that filters the emotional responses. That's how they control the patrol officers—they let them feel enough to remain functional but block the empathy responses."

  Tel tried to hide her surprise. Lyra's understanding of neural technology had accelerated dramatically in the past weeks, since she had begun receiving the supplement and additional technical materials.

  "That's... very insightful, Lyra," she said carefully. "How did you figure that out?"

  Lyra looked up, her eyes bright with the excitement of discovery. "The circuitry pathways. See these copper fiments? They're too fine for gross motor control—they must be carrying emotional data packets. And these dampening nodes would regute the signal strength."

  She pointed to a tiny component that Tel, despite years of neural technology experience, had never identified correctly.

  "Drink your supplement," Tel said, nodding toward the cup. "You need to finish it while it's still active."

  Lyra reached for the cup but paused, her expression changing. "Tel... where did this come from? I know we don't have manufacturing capabilities here."

  Tel hesitated, weighing how much to share with an eight-year-old, even one as perceptive as Lyra. "We salvaged it from an abandoned research outpost."

  "And there's enough for everyone?" Lyra asked, her eyes suddenly distant in calcution. "There are twenty-seven children in Sector 17 between ages six and twelve. For optimal neural development during critical growth periods, each would need approximately 200 milliliters weekly. That's..." Her voice trailed off as she completed the mental arithmetic.

  Tel watched the realization dawn on Lyra's face. The girl was too intelligent not to understand.

  "The others aren't getting this, are they?" Lyra asked quietly.

  "No," Tel admitted. "They're not."

  Communal Dining Area - EveningThe food line moved slowly as each resident received their carefully measured portion. Lyra stood between Mira and an older boy named Tav, watching as the server pced a precisely measured scoop of protein mash onto each pte.

  When Lyra's turn came, the server hesitated almost imperceptibly before adding a slightly rger portion to her pte. The difference was subtle—not obvious enough to draw immediate attention—but Lyra's keen eyes noticed immediately.

  "You gave me more," she said, her voice carrying in the suddenly quiet dining area.

  The server, an older woman named Sera who had lost her own children to a ProtectoCorp raid years earlier, looked uncomfortable. "Council's orders. Growing brains need protein."

  Lyra looked down at her pte, then at Mira's beside her. The difference was small but unmistakable. She gnced around the room and saw several adults watching the exchange, their expressions ranging from resignation to resentment.

  "I don't want more than everyone else," Lyra said, loud enough for those nearby to hear.

  Sera's weathered face hardened slightly. "This isn't about what you want, child. It's about what Sector 17 needs. Now move along—others are waiting."

  Lyra stepped away from the serving table, her appetite suddenly diminished despite the gnawing hunger she'd felt earlier. She found a seat next to Mira, who was already eating her smaller portion with the efficiency of someone who had known hunger all her life.

  "Why did you get more?" Mira asked, her voice curious rather than accusatory.

  "I don't know," Lyra lied, unable to meet her friend's eyes. "Maybe it was a mistake."

  But as she stared down at her pte, the pieces connected in her mind with perfect crity—the neural supplement, the additional technical materials, and now the extra food. The community had made a decision about her value retive to others.

  She remembered overhearing two adults talking st week about "preparation for interface compatibility" and "Game survival potential." Even at eight, Lyra understood what that meant. Every citizen faced mandatory neural interface impntation and Game entry at eighteen—even Unaligned children hiding in sectors like hers. ProtectoCorp sweeps captured those who tried to evade it.

  Across the room, she caught Tel watching her with an expression of mingled pride and sadness. In that moment, something shifted in Lyra's young mind—a weight settling onto her shoulders that would never fully lift. If they were investing this much in her, what were they expecting in return? Survival? Something more?

  She picked up her spoon and began to eat, forcing herself to consume every bite of the rger portion. If this was the community's decision, she would make sure their investment wasn't wasted. Whatever they saw in her, she would become.

  Beside her, Mira chattered about finding a piece of genuine pre-colpse pstic that afternoon, unaware of the invisible barrier that had just formed between them—a barrier of privilege, expectation, and destiny.