"This dossier is a parody," Estella said, slapping the fat mission file onto the stainless table.
A hologram erupted from Unit 630's avatar, a teddy with too-bright LED eyes. The hologram showed a manic, looping scream—the original's last memory—fragmented and raw.
"Original memory intact. Auditory hysteresis at fifty percent, visual blur at thirty," Unit 630 reported. "Scream reads: 'men—gone.'"
Hayes Duncan folded his fingers on the table and did not laugh. "It is not a parody. It is expensive. It leaks risk."
Estella flipped the file open with one finger. Pages packed with scripted charity galas, op-eds, security manifests. A social orbit in collapse. "You call this messy," she said. "I call it an algebra problem. Variables, constraints, a single objective. Leave the woman alone. Done."
Unit 630 projected a quick schematic: three lines labeled "Limitations" floated in sterile type.
"No transhuman spillover," Hayes read aloud, scanning. "No power above human ceilings. No timeline fusion."
"Correct," Unit 630 confirmed. "Bureau policy. Host world's metaphysics enforce a human ceiling. That ceiling removes macroscale miracles and prevents rerolls."
Estella raised an eyebrow. "So no swinging doors of destiny, no deus ex machina gifts."
Hayes's mouth tightened. "No deus. No miracles. If the original had nonhuman powers, they are suppressed. You will not grow powers that outstrip a top-tier athlete. You will not rewrite history."
"Simple," Estella said. "I will take the simpler wish: leave her alone. Minimal interference, maximal removal of external actors."
Hayes tapped a
