By morning the feed had two million views and the academy had a problem it couldn't reassign.
Soren watched the clip once, at the booth terminal, with Dani's coffee going cold between them.
Forty seconds of it.
Selah's cylinder going up, Maren's fire carpet rolling, the wolf coming out of the seam bigger than she went in, and behind all of it, framed dead center by whoever held the camera, the exhibition square the committee had fought to keep Class Z on.
Their coordinate. Their grave. Their festival.
"They can't bury us," Dani said.
"They can't bury us quietly." He scrolled the coverage. Foreign outlets had it. The delegation's home press had it with the delegate's own footage cut in. "Quietly was the only way they ever did it."
"So what do they do now?"
"Now they find someone to blame who isn't them, and they do it in a room with witnesses, because they've learned that's the only kind of room I attend."
The notice went up before noon.
