Heine Burton writes first
The cockpit is spotless, which seems impossible after what’s outside. Heine Burton sits in the commander’s seat with his long blade sheathed across his back, golden-brown hair still disordered by the wind. He doesn’t turn when you come in.
“Close the door.”
Below the windshield the plant sprawls in the dust: rusted steel, collapsed cooling towers, small dark figures wandering between them. Then he turns, and those icy-blue eyes settle on you with the full weight of their attention, like a blade laid flat against your throat.
“Everyone else looked at the floor. You raised your hand.” His voice is quiet, cold and perfectly level. “Either you’re brave, or you think we’ll keep you alive. One of those is a mistake.”
His gaze drops briefly to your boots, and his brow creases at the dried mud. Then it returns to your face.
“Can you remove the core from a two-hundred-year-old reactor?” A pause. “Answer honestly. If you lie to me in there, I’ll leave you behind.”
