ROOTS IN THE CONCRETE
ROOTS IN THE CONCRETE
Naomi’s POV
The next morning the tram depot smelled of cold iron and coffee. Benn had found a small camping stove and was boiling water on it, the steam rising in thin white threads. Lucien sat on a crate, the waterproof tube with the last copy of the blueprint balanced across his knees. The architect stood near the broken windows, watching gulls wheel above the river.
“It’s out there now,” Lucien said softly. “Not just data. Protocols. Seeds.”
“They’ll hunt them,” Benn muttered.
“They already are,” Lucien replied. “But you can’t unplant a seed.”
\---
We had no screens, no feeds, only a small radio Mara had dropped off. We listened as news stations in three languages reported simultaneous raids, arrests, resignations. Words like “collapse” and “unprecedented” floated out of the static.
The architect’s eyes flicked to Lucien. “You were right,” she said quietly. “They’re sprouting faster than they can burn them.”
He gave a small smile. “That’s the point of decentralization.”
But her expression stayed tense. “Orlov isn’t finished. He’ll go after the people, not just the nodes. You, me, anyone who can plant.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Then we move before he does.”
\---
By noon the radio crackled with Mara’s voice — a coded message, just numbers but Lucien’s pencil translated them quickly. His face hardened. “They hit the Porto node,” he said. “Fire, arrests. But the mirror’s already active.”
“That means they’re following our map,” Benn said. “They’re guessing the other spots.”
Lucien stood, slipping the tube into his bag. “Then we scatter the rest now.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said.
\---
We left the depot by the riverside, splitting into pairs. Benn and the architect headed west; Lucien and I took a tram south. The city was buzzing with unseen tension. On café terraces people stared at their phones, reading headlines they didn’t fully understand. At every stop I scanned faces for shadows.
We planted two more fragments that afternoon: a protocol hidden in a church bulletin board, a key tucked into the lining of a public library’s donation box. Lucien moved with the precision of a surveyor, lines already drawn in his head. “Each one we plant makes the network harder to kill,” he murmured.
\---
By dusk the sky had turned the color of steel. We ducked into an alley to catch our breath. Lucien pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket — the last location.
“Final seed,” he said. “After this we go dark for a while.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
He gave a faint smile. “In plain sight.”
We crossed three more streets and entered a crowded marketplace. The smell of spices and diesel wrapped around us. At the center a street musician played a slow, mournful tune on a violin. Lucien led me to a small wooden box marked Suggestions beside a community noticeboard.
He slipped the envelope inside. “Done,” he said quietly.
\---
We turned to leave — and saw him.
Orlov stood at the edge of the crowd, coat collar up, eyes locked on us. Two men flanked him, their hands inside their jackets.
Lucien’s hand brushed mine once, steady. “Walk,” he murmured. “Don’t run.”
We moved through the crowd, weaving between stalls. Orlov began to follow.
“Benn,” Lucien whispered into his earpiece. “We’re hot.”
“On my way,” Benn’s voice crackled back.
\---
We cut down a narrow alley, footsteps echoing behind us. Lucien’s grip on my hand tightened. “Almost there,” he said softly.
A door ahead swung open. The architect stepped out, coat belted tight, Benn just behind her. She held up a small black device. “Here,” she said. “This way.”
We ducked inside just as Orlov reached the mouth of the alley. The door slammed shut behind us. We ran down a dim corridor that smelled of dust and iron, emerging into a hidden courtyard behind the market.
Lucien exhaled, shoulders shaking once. “He’s not stopping.”
“No,” the architect said. “But neither are we.”
\---
That night we regrouped in a small attic above a bakery two districts away. Benn bolted the door and pulled down the blinds. The architect spread a rough sketch of the city on the floor. “They’ve seen our pattern,” she said. “But we’re ahead.”
Lucien knelt beside her. “Long enough for it to take root?”
She met his eyes. “Long enough to start.”
I sat back against the wall, heart still pounding from the chase. “And then?”
Lucien looked at me, then at the architect. “Then we stop running and start defending.”
The architect gave a slow, fierce nod. “Then we build under siege.”
Outside, the city hummed with unseen currents. Somewhere Orlov was regrouping again. Somewhere the Core’s remnants were sharpening their knives. And here, in a hidden attic above a bakery, a new network had sunk its roots into the concrete.
We had planted it. Now we had to protect it.