The high-pitched, sterilized hum of the Type-4 hovering camera drones vibrated in Zeraya's teeth.
The Sub-Level 4 broadcast studio was a blinding, artificial lie. P.A.C.I.F.I.C. had built a mocked-up safe zone designed to look like a pristine surface settlement. The rocks were painted styrofoam, the grass was synthetic, and the sky was a seamless poly-glass projection.
Standing in the center of the set, Zeraya suffocated under the weight of the Tier-3 Ceremonial Armor. The "Golden Savior" gear was functionally a gilded straightjacket. It restricted her range of motion, pinches her shoulders, and reeked of chemical polish and ozone. It was designed to look heroic to the starving masses while actively monitoring and suppressing her vitals.
But Zeraya wasn't looking at the armor. She was staring through the blinding halo-lights, watching a localized, Morse-code power-grid ping translate into a solid, ticking red timer in her peripheral vision.
[Global Timer: 00:54:12]
