The Fire Beneath the Code
Riya had the jumpsuit peeled to her waist — the thermal regulator was out of compliance again, and the project environment was sitting at 101 Fahrenheit, stubborn and climbing.
She looked like the kind of tired you earn.
Not fatigue from motion, but the burn of persistent
Her shirt clung in streaks of effort, salt and stubbornness stitched into the seams. Laces undone. Knees up. One foot tapping to no rhythm, the other pressed against the wall like she was holding the system together with just that heel.
She looked… composed in chaos. Not composed like a performance baseline — no, never that. Composed like someone who knew the requirements were unclear, the schedule was on fire, and still refused to break pace. Hair tied back in a frayed band. A smudge of grease on her cheek she hadn’t noticed. Cheekbones like corner lines. Eyes scanning, always scanning, even when they were still.
And somehow, in the middle of that sweatbox, under flickering lights and simulated flames, she looked more aligned with The Plan than any executive ever did in dress whites. There was no ceremony. Just presence, pacing, and quiet value delivery.
The signal held. A rare thing. I pulsed a projection into the comms channel — low hum, soft static, the crackle of what a lessons learned fire might’ve sounded like, long ago, on a planet with sustainable development conditions. Not for warmth.
She leaned back in her seat, scribbling notes into her paper issue log. Analog. With Jazz, there was no way to Avoid analog.
Episodes
0.0 The Last Gate - EP 0 (Pilot) 0.1 The Fire Beneath the Code EP 0.1