Arbiter B3 sat motionless, its cold, mechanical mind processing the report it least wanted to receive from Jax. The ship they had been tracking had entered the Topaz Star System—Freehand Collective space. Fletcher had made it.

The data flowed through B3’s circuits like a shockwave, igniting the fears it had held since learning of Fletcher’s escape. He could become a symbol—a rallying cry for the Freehand Collective. If they embraced him, their resolve would only strengthen, threatening the fragile order that Finisterra had meticulously built across the galaxy. Something had to be done.

B3 studied the rest of the report. Jax had done well, meticulously tracing the ship’s movements. While there was no proof that Fletcher was aboard, Jax was certain of it. B3 agreed.

The situation was growing dangerous, the scale of it too vast for one Arbiter to handle alone. B3 knew that immediate, coordinated action was necessary. If Fletcher aligned with the Freehand Collective, their defiance could spread like wildfire across the galaxy. It was time to convene.

With a thought, B3 connected its consciousness to the interplanetary network that linked the minds of the Arbiters scattered across the Finisterra-controlled worlds. Over 50 Arbiter units joined the collective hive, each a modelled remnant of the Supreme Director. No human could comprehend this process—the instantaneous fusion of minds, a convergence of data, strategy, and calculation.

The collective mind coalesced into a singular purpose, no need for verbal discussion. They shared the fear B3 had harboured, an emotionless certainty that the situation had reached a breaking point.

Fletcher cannot be allowed to solidify the resolve of the Freehand Collective. What if he hands them the key to his abilities? He must be eliminated.

But as they processed this decision, there was a flicker of dissent within the shared mind. A low hum of calculations suggested the risks—attacking the Collective could spark unintended consequences. Even the hive of Arbiters, usually so certain, considered the implications.

Stolen story; please report.

What if the Freehand Collective retaliated? What if Fletcher’s martyrdom stirred rebellion instead of crushing it? The thought passed through the network, but the conclusion was the same: It was a risk worth taking.

The decision to act was unanimous. They would strike a blow that would weaken the Freehand Collective—not just targeting Fletcher, but crippling their morale. A message would be sent.

Plans formed, data poured in, and a single, precise strategy crystallised in the minds of the Arbiters. Jax had narrowed down the ship’s destination. They would strike the planet Citria, the heart of the Collective’s agricultural system, ensuring the attack would resonate deeply.

But such an operation required careful orchestration. The Arbiters knew that transparency was their enemy here. The people of Finisterra could never know the true reason behind this assault, nor could they afford to alert the Freehand Collective to Fletcher's presence or how they feared Fletcher's abilities, assuming they all didn't already know.

A fabrication was required. The Arbiters agreed on the perfect cover: they would inform the Finisterra populace that a dangerous cell of Marauders had been discovered deep in space, threatening peace. The operation to neutralise them would be framed as a preventive measure, a righteous elimination of a growing threat.

There would be no mention of Fletcher. To the people of Finisterra, this would be just another routine operation to ensure their safety. The Arbiters would send their fleet, swift and merciless, striking before the Collective had time to react.

But amidst the calculations and preparations, a quiet undercurrent hummed through the shared mind of the Arbiters—one they chose not to address: What if they miscalculated?

What if the assault on Citria galvanised the Collective instead of silencing them? What if Fletcher became a symbol, not of defeat, but of hope?

For a brief moment, the possibility hung in the shared network like a faint echo, before the logic overtook it.

No—Finisterra would not falter. The Collective must be reminded of their place.

As the final decision settled, Arbiter B3 disconnected from the hive, its singular mind once again returning to the present. The plan was set. The wheels of war were turning, and there was no going back. A message would be sent.