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LOCATION: KARNAX ENGINEERING
CITY: CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
DATE: DECEMBER 8, 2025 | TIME: 7:00 AM
With the launch of the 3D Forges postponed until all Grimwatch shops were upgraded, Vanessa turned her attention back to Project MIST—the global propagation of nanites. Her day was packed with meetings across eight separate teams, each managing a critical piece of the puzzle.
First up was a video call with Richard Levens and the lead engineer from Kaylon Systems, their primary defense contractor.
“Richard, how are things progressing with the Aetherdrones? Were you able to resolve the nanite synthesis issue?”
Richard, seated at his desk with the dreary December skyline of McLean, Virginia behind him, nodded and exhaled. He rubbed his temples, clearly still recovering from the engineering battle.
“The problem was thermal shielding,” he said. “The drones operate at sixty thousand feet, right on the edge of the stratosphere, where temperatures drop to minus sixty Celsius. During testing, the nanite reservoirs froze solid mid-process—completely seized up. No flow, no dispersal. Total failure.”
Vanessa frowned. “So how’d you fix it?”
“We switched to a dual-layer housing: carbon composite with an internal lining that siphons waste heat from the propulsion systems. It’s enough to keep the synthesis chamber just above freezing during production. After that, the nanites stabilize and disperse without issue.”
Vanessa tapped her stylus on her tablet. “I’m relieved you figured it out. That would’ve taken me a lot longer to solve. Well done.”
Richard smiled. “All credit to Jack’s team in materials engineering. They were relentless.”
“So when do we see birds in the air?”
He flipped to a spreadsheet on his second monitor. “Bodies for twelve drones are already assembled. Propulsion systems arrive from our subs this week. Now that the housing redesign is finalized, I signed off on the update over the weekend.”
While he double-checked timelines, Vanessa glanced at her own calendar. Everything depended on sequencing: the drones, the planetary Aethernodes, the forge upgrades. They had originally hoped for a coordinated global rollout on New Year’s Eve—one shared midnight, one collective dream. But reality wasn’t a game. Engineering setbacks, shipping delays, supply chains—all reminders that no amount of vision could erase logistics.
Richard returned to the call. “Best-case scenario? Shortest safe flight test is three days. The first twelve drones will be ready to launch by December eighteenth.”
Vanessa let out a breath and nodded. “We’ll take it. The Aethernodes will come online just a few days earlier. At least we’re staying in sync.”
Next, Vanessa had calls with the groups responsible for harvesting the sugarcane, soy, and corn byproducts that would serve as feedstock for nanite production. The early outlook was promising: they had already amassed enough to support the twelve soon-to-be active drones and the initial number of Aethernodes.
She confirmed that all stock was processed, hermetically sealed, and ready for deployment once orders came through in a few weeks. Until then, both teams would continue harvesting and refining more—because once the world went to sleep, a massive logistics operation would begin. On Day One of the global Tutorial, thousands of Aethernodes would need to be deployed, installed, and commissioned across the globe.
Last on her agenda for the day were the Aethernodes themselves. Two weeks earlier, the team responsible for renewable power integration had delivered a sleek and surprisingly elegant solution.
Each node required a small catalyst charge to start up, but after that, it could siphon just 0.5% of the nanite output to power itself. This self-sustaining loop meant no reliance on solar panels—no concern over cloud cover or frozen battery cells at high elevation or winter climates. As long as feedstock was present, the nodes could run indefinitely.
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Even better, the nanite synthesis team had made a breakthrough of their own. By switching to an alternative catalyst lattice, they had boosted production throughput by 50%. In practice, every gram of feedstock now yielded far more viable nanites.
Vanessa was thrilled. This efficiency gain reduced the feedstock resupply schedule from once every four weeks to every six, dramatically lowering global logistics pressure. It also meant they could justify building an entire Profession around the delivery and calibration of feedstock modules. The numbers finally made sense—and for the first time, it all felt scalable.
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LOCATION: CAPITOL HILL
CITY: WASHINGTON, D.C.
DATE: DECEMBER 8, 2025 | TIME: 2:00 PM
Valerie Connors had just finished arranging Senator Langston’s next two votes when a System notification appeared in her vision.
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You have received a message from: The Curator
Do you wish to view it now? [Y/N]
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Valerie hadn’t heard from the enigmatic Curator since the second day of her Tutorial, and the sudden contact immediately seized her attention. Since no one around her could see what she saw, she mentally selected Yes.
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Cleopatra’s Death was a tragedy.
3:00 PM. Today.
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Cleopatra… Oh! The sculpture at the Smithsonian. The Death of Cleopatra—Valerie remembered the powerful feeling it had stirred in her the first time she saw it. Created by Edmonia Lewis, a sculptor of African-American and Native American heritage trained in Rome, the work was both haunting and defiant. The portrayal of Cleopatra at rest after death was more than art—it was a statement. One Valerie had never forgotten.
She glanced at the time. She needed to move quickly. A few committee logistics still needed her attention, but she could rearrange her afternoon.
She filed the last vote confirmations, adjusted Langston’s schedule, and placed a final call on his behalf. Then she stood, sliding on her coat and slinging her shoulder bag over one arm.
A soft knock at Senator Langston’s office door earned her a quick “Come in.”
As she stepped through, she was struck, again, by how much younger he looked. The blush in his cheeks, the steadiness of his posture. Vitalyx had clearly done its work. And he still has no idea what’s coming, she thought.
“Sir,” she said, “I’ve wrapped up the votes and scheduled your final meetings. I need to run a few errands before tonight’s reception at the White House. Would you mind if I headed out a bit early?”
Barrett Langston looked up from his desk and smiled. There was always a spark in his eyes when he looked at her. The kind shared by people who knew things others didn’t.
“Of course, Valerie. I’ll see you there. Let me know if you run into any trouble getting in.”
She gave a warm nod, then texted her driver. Mallory had made sure she had access to secure, priority transportation—essential for her increasingly strategic movements in D.C.
Valerie stepped out of the private vehicle just past 2:50 PM, her breath misting faintly in the cold December air. The Smithsonian American Art Museum rose before her—an elegant neoclassical structure with tall Corinthian columns and a facade weathered by time and history.
She climbed the wide stone steps, heels clicking in the hush, and entered through the main entrance. Security barely glanced at her credentials. Had The Curator arranged that? Inside, the light was muted and warm, filtered through high arched windows and brass-trimmed lanterns that cast gentle shadows across the marble floors.
Though it was open to the public, the place felt curiously quiet. She passed a few patrons in the front galleries, but as she moved deeper, the museum seemed to empty around her. No murmuring visitors. No school groups. Just the soft echo of her steps and the occasional creak of polished wood.
Someone cleared this wing, she thought, her pulse quickening—not in fear, but in awareness. This wasn’t an accident.
She followed the signs for the Sculpture Hall, turning down a long corridor lined with 19th-century works. Then she entered the room.
There it was.
The Death of Cleopatra dominated the chamber, placed on a low marble pedestal beneath a skylight veiled in translucent linen. Cleopatra reclined in eternal stillness, her throne monumental behind her, the asp nestled against her bare breast. The workmanship was exquisite—tender, brutal, regal.
And she was alone with it.
Valerie stood frozen for a moment, drawn into the silence. The air felt thick, like something unsaid was pressing in.
Then, without words, a woman stepped into the room.
She wasn’t dressed like museum staff. She wore a charcoal coat, sleek and unadorned, with black gloves and a matching scarf. Her face was neutral, unreadable, but her poise hinted at military training or something close to it.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t even make eye contact.
She crossed the room in a straight line, paused in front of Valerie, and handed her a black envelope sealed with a violet wax crest.
Then she turned and left—no words, no hesitation—her footsteps vanishing into the hush like she’d never been there at all.
Valerie looked down at the envelope in her hand. The wax bore the impression of an ouroboros encircling a feathered quill.
The Curator’s Seal.