Ruckus. We have a problem. The Trawler is early.

But Streak doesn’t hesitate. She opens her cargo bay. Inside is not a bomb. It’s a – the last one ever manufactured.

The Trawler was just the first byte.

The city lights up again. Screens come back on. A child laughs at a video. A grandmother video-calls her grandson.

Mo hesitates, then extends his rusty broom. Ruckus yanks. A shower of sparks. The conduit opens, revealing a single, pulsing fiber-optic thread—.