The Grand Hall of the Ironblood Central Command was designed to evoke both cathedral and fortress—soaring ceilings with military banners hanging like religious vestments, stained glass depicting not saints but battle scenes, the light filtering through in blood reds and imperial golds. Alexei stood among the assembled dignitaries, the Soldier aspect of him noting defensive positions and exit routes out of habit.
Today's ceremony would honor three soldiers for exceptional service. The most junior among them, Private Roland Miller, had reportedly charged an enemy nest, saving his squad and securing a strategic communications relay. The story as relayed to the NCD was textbook heroism—exactly the kind of narrative they amplified through the propaganda networks.
Alexei's assignment was straightforward: document the ceremony, interview the decorated soldiers, craft resonant narratives from their experiences. Standard work for a Narrative Architect.
The ceremony proceeded with mechanical precision. Names called. Medals presented. Applause at appropriate intervals. Commander Elise Roth was present, resplendent in formal armor with her signature red cape. She performed her role perfectly, speaking the expected words about duty and sacrifice. Only Alexei, having experienced her actual combat memories, could detect the emptiness behind her practiced speech.
Private Miller received his medal last—a young man, painfully young, with bandages still visible beneath his dress uniform. Something in his eyes caught Alexei's attention. The vacant stare, focused on middle distance. The Soldier in him recognized combat shock—the mind still processing trauma.
After the ceremony, Alexei approached Miller for the scheduled interview. The private stood alone near a window, seemingly uninterested in the refreshments or congratulations.
"Private Miller," Alexei introduced himself with practiced warmth. "Alexei Voss, Narrative Control Department. I'd like to discuss your experience for the official record."
Miller's eyes flickered to him, then away. "They told you I was brave?"
The question caught Alexei off-guard. Not the expected response to his introduction. The Analyst noted the deviation from standard post-commendation behavior.
"That's what I'm here to document. Your courage at Sector Gamma."
"Was I?" The question seemed directed not at Alexei but at the air between them. Then Miller's gaze sharpened suddenly. "I tripped. Over Jenkins. He wasn't moving. Then the noise... I just closed my eyes. Pulled the trigger. Don't remember aiming. Just... screaming."
The confession hung in the space between them. Alexei's recorder remained inactive in his pocket. This wasn't the narrative he was meant to capture. This was raw, unfiltered trauma—the kind the NCD typically sanitized into palatable heroism.
Miller continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "After. It was me screaming, I think."
Alexei glanced around, confirming no one was within earshot. The Analyst calculated risk factors. The Poet felt a dangerous empathy blooming. The Soldier recognized the authentic voice of combat trauma.
"They gave me this," Miller gestured vaguely toward his medal. "Said I made sense of the chaos. But it doesn't make sense to me."
His eyes, finally meeting Alexei's fully, were desperate, drowning. "You... you write the stories, right? The ones that make it make sense?" He searched Alexei's face, not for a journalist, but for something else. An interpreter. A liar, maybe. A better one than himself. "Tell me," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Tell me the story. The right story. Make sense of this."
The Analyst recognized the optimal response: reassure, redirect, record approved excerpts only. Standard procedure when subjects deviated from approved narratives. But something else stirred in Alexei—a dangerous authenticity.
"Brave?" Alexei echoed, voice quieter than intended. "War isn't simple, Miller. It's... messy. It chews people up and spits them out. Sometimes facing forward, sometimes sideways. Sometimes just... spitting them out."
Miller watched him, suspicion warring with hope.
"You tripped," Alexei continued, keeping his voice level. "Over Jenkins. In the middle of... hell. Anyone would trip. Anyone might close their eyes when the world explodes. But you pulled the trigger. You fired. In that noise, that chaos... you acted."
Miller's breathing hitched slightly.
"Maybe it wasn't like the stories they write," Alexei continued, leaning closer. "Maybe it wasn't a perfect charge under a waving flag. Maybe it was blind. Maybe it was terrified. But you were there. You had the weapon. And when everything was screaming, you screamed back with fire."
It was a story. Not the story the NCD wanted, but a story woven from threads of Miller's truth and the cold logic of survival. Simple words. No heroes, just endurance.
Miller looked down at his bandaged hands, tension in his shoulders lessening fractionally. "Screamed back," he murmured.
A nurse approached, announcing the end of visiting time. The interruption broke the moment, reality reasserting itself. Alexei stood, the recorder unused in his pocket. He had failed to capture the approved narrative.
"Get some rest, Miller," he said, retreating to standard platitudes.
Miller gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before the nurse led him away.
Alexei left the ceremony with nothing usable for his assignment. The required hero narrative remained uncaptured. But as he walked through the corridors of Central Command, something had fundamentally changed. He had spoken truth—or at least a more honest lie—and it had connected in a way no carefully crafted propaganda ever could.
An idea began forming—dangerous, revolutionary. What if all their stories contained this element of truth? What if they acknowledged the fear, the confusion, the humanity beneath the armor? Would it weaken morale as the NCD's doctrine suggested? Or would it create a different, more authentic kind of strength?
By the time he returned to the Babel Tower, the idea had crystallized into resolution. His next narrative would be different. It would contain what he now thought of as "honest lies"—stories that acknowledged the messy reality while still offering meaning. His report on Private Miller would be the first test of this approach.
As he began writing, the Analyst calculated the risk of deviation, the Poet embraced the emotional truth, and the Soldier honored the authentic experience of combat. But it was the Witness who understood the true significance: for the first time, all aspects of his fractured consciousness were working in harmony, united by purpose.
What he couldn't know was how this small act of narrative rebellion would ripple outward, eventually threatening the foundations of the carefully maintained forever war.