Page 73 of Broken Sentinel

"They wouldn't." His tone turns slightly harder. "Some members believe you're still too connected to Unity to be included in strategic planning."

"And what do you believe?"

He glances at me, amber eyes reflecting the late afternoon sunlight. "I believe you're neither Unity nor traditional Splinter. You're something new." A pause. "Something necessary."

"For what?"

"Survival." He stops walking, turning to face me fully. "The climate is still deteriorating. Unity's arcologies are resource-intensive and ultimately unsustainable. Traditional Splinter adaptations are effective but often come with severe limitations or side effects. Neither path leads to long-term human viability."

"And I'm supposed to be the magical solution?" I ask skeptically.

"Not alone," he says. "But what your mother designed—controlled adaptive modification without the drawbacks of forced change—might be."

The thought that my existence might actually serve a larger purpose—not just as a political bridge between factions but as a genuine path forward for human survival—settles strangely in my chest. It's simultaneously a burden and a possibility.

"So you're on board with my mother's grand plan?" I ask.

His brows knit together in thought. "I'm on board with survival. With adaptation. With evolution." He studies me fora long moment. "Your mother's methods were controversial, but her vision wasn't wrong."

"And what about my choice in all this?" I press. "Everyone seems to have plans for what I represent, but what about what I want?"

"What do you want, Flutterby?" he asks, the nickname softening the serious question.

I open my mouth to respond, then realize I don't have an answer. What do I want? For most of my life, my wants were shaped by Unity—to be the perfect Sentinel, to protect the arcology, to eliminate threats. Since discovering my true nature, I've been reacting rather than choosing, fleeing Unity, adapting to my changing body, trying to understand what I'm becoming.

"I don't know yet," I admit finally.

Vex nods as if this is an acceptable answer. "Then maybe that's your first real choice, to take time to decide, rather than letting anyone else decide for you."

As we resume walking toward the settlement, I find myself thinking about the butterfly—its complete transformation from crawling caterpillar to chrysalis to winged creature soaring above the ground. Maybe that's where I am now—emerged from my chrysalis but still testing my wings, discovering what this new form makes possible.

We're nearly at the main gates when I spot a familiar figure waiting—Trent, his posture rigid even in casual clothes, eyes tracking our approach with careful neutrality that doesn't quite mask the tension beneath.

"Your watchdog is waiting," Vex comments, low enough that only enhanced hearing would catch it.

"He's not my anything," I reply automatically.

Vex makes a noncommittal sound that might be disbelief. "The council meeting is at sundown in the main hall. Whether you're invited or not, I think you should be there."

"Planning to sneak me in?" I ask, half-joking.

His smile turns predatory. "I rarely follow rules I don't agree with. Another lesson you might want to consider, Flutterby."

With that, he peels away, heading toward what I've learned is the security sector of the settlement, leaving me to approach Trent alone.

"Productive training?" Trent asks as I reach him, his tone carefully neutral.

"Very," I answer. "Vex mentioned a council meeting tonight about the Haven children."

Trent's expression tightens slightly. "Yes. I was just coming to inform you."

"Let me guess—I'm not invited."

"Not officially," he confirms. "But I advocated for your inclusion, given that you're the only successfully transitioned Haven child we have access to."

The fact that he argued for my involvement doesn't surprise me as much as it might have a week ago. Whatever his flaws, Trent has a strong sense of fairness.

"Vex thinks I should attend regardless of the official invitation," I say, watching Trent's reaction.

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