“People, Luka, are generally idiots,” Galen says, his voice booming over the crowd. I smile as I watch the confused faces exchange glances, and I smile knowing that this is being projected to millions of survivors around the world, survivors on both sides. “Tell them the truth and they’ll skew it to fit their agenda. I’m Galen Rye, voted in by a base of supporters so devoted that I could walk into the West Sanctum Vertical, start executing Regulars, and still win a snap election the next day. In the beginning, Happy needed leaders like me, leaders who could tell their devotees to do what they’re told. The stupidity of the masses, Luka, is not to be underestimated. I preyed on their fears, on their prejudices, on their idiocy. I told them I’d stop migrants taking a chunk out of their subsidy percentage, and they called me a hero. I told them I’d bring back conscription, and they called me a savior. I promised to loosen USW weapons laws, and they chanted my name! Do you think I care about migration? About homelessness? About any of the arbitrary things I’d spout day after day? No! But I knew what the brain-dead hive mind of the people wanted to hear. I manipulated them until they were loyal, dedicated, steadfast. Phase One of Happy’s plan involved poisoning ninety-eight percent of the population of Earth—a thing like that cannot be achieved without people like me at the reins.”

I glance to my left and see Galen gesturing offstage. His panic fills me with happiness. The show continues, cutting to Maddox.

There is a murmur from the crowd now, as Galen drags a soldier onto the stage and points up toward Apple-Moth.

I know that time is running out. Once they kill the drone, I’m next. I’m sure I’ve already done enough damage, but I need them to see that it’s not the government that is running things, that Happy is behind all of this.

“… you should be thanking us,” the Maddox projection says. “We are repairing your broken species, destroying a diseased batch and starting anew.”

The sound cuts out and the image behind me disappears as a sonic round slams into Apple-Moth. I watch the tiny drone spin in the air, one of its rotor blades badly damaged, but its lights still flickering, green, pink, yellow.

A second round hits Apple-Moth, and the drone’s lights go out completely. There will be no self-repairing this time. Apple-Moth is gone.

Goodbye, friend, I think. You did great.

A thousand heads turn and watch in silence as Apple-Moth falls to the floor, listening as it smashes to pieces. And then they turn back to the stage.

I’m grabbed by two hosts and held firm. I’m not struggling, though, not trying to break free.