So I guess I'm going to introduce myself. My name is Doctor Alexandre Hopkin. I'm, uh... a researcher for the Subministry of Science, department lead of the Local Group Research Project. We do work with the Station and all of its components and substations. A lot of archeotech on Firewatch, most of which we don't understand... uh, we're archeologists, in a way. I guess.

So, um... let's start with what Cells are, I suppose. And to immediately answer my own question... well, we don't really know. That's, um... that's a running theme in Local Group Research. A lot of unknowns. So don't expect to get all the answers; not in these recordings, at least. But let's go over what we do know.

So what is a cell? "Cell" is, uh, the blanket term that we have given to the range of intelligent android units that perform functions similar to the security and maintenance teams of our society, but these only answer to Firewatch. The station. Oh yeah, I should, uh, probably clarify that. Um... what do you mean no time? It's a 30-minute lesson! I swear if Sharon only booked the room for five minutes again I'm going to kill someb-

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Alex's footsteps echoed through the vaulted halls of a deserted Sarpeka, trailing a hand along the smooth marble walls as she made her way past portraits of her ancestors.

Someday, her face would be on that wall, for Alex was bound to an oath that she had never taken, one that she had no desire to fulfill.

She was bound to be Queen.

A man stepped out of shadow; a Queensguard, in full battle plate. He snapped to attention, bowing deeply as Alex walked past.

The Queensguard were likely the only souls in the Sarpeka. Today was the final day of the Crown Gala, a week-long festival celebrating nothing in particular save for the fact that the land continued to prosper. It drew crowds from across Firewatch, as far outward as the peripheral ringreefs all the way to the great collection booms that brushed up against the event horizon of the black hole that gave the station life. The Sarpeka, then, was emptied, its numerous chambers temporarily deserted save for the men and women who were obligated to defend them.

After the ninth duke asked her to dance, Alex had excused herself, relegating herself to roaming the labyrinthian Sarpeka. She had a guard - she was crown princess, after all, and now that she was twenty, it was no longer possible for her to do anything alone. But he trailed her at a respectable distance, displacer rifle drawn, emitting a constant, dull drone that Alex found strangely comforting.

She had grown to value the Queensguard immensely for a reason that seemed counterintuitive initially; they rarely spoke. Not that Alex was antisocial, quite the opposite. But she had grown sick of hapless old men trying to explain to her that it was her "duty" to take the throne, that it was her "duty" to serve the kingdom. Her bastard mother accepted her future with open arms, so why couldn't she?

Alex had only recently discovered that rambling for hours to members of the Guard was an excellent means of catharsis. They were forbidden from standing at ease when in the presence of royalty, so they always looked like they were paying attention. They never retorted with some bullshit traditionalist reasoning - actually, they never retorted, period. They were conditioned to conceal emotions so that Alex couldn't infer a response from facial movement, a skill that had necessarily developed ever since she got involved with ruling the nation a year ago. It was basically like talking to a wall, except with one significant upside.

Given permission, Queensguard were allowed to speak freely. They went everywhere, saw everything, and so always had gossip. On occasion, the results were unbelievably ludicrous.

Her current guard, known to Alex only by the rank of Custodian, was also in full battle plate. She could sense the ambient energy pouring off his armor and weapon, saturating the air around him. It was mildly annoying -- even slightly painful -- but she wasn't about to tell him to turn off his equipment.

Now the Custodian stepped forward: "My Lady."

Alex glanced over her shoulder, eyebrow raised.

His head dipped slightly into a slight bow. "I have orders from Her Majesty to escort you to your quarters."

She tilted her head quizzically. "Hmm?"

"There has been a security breach. Your life may be in danger."

But Alex wasn't listening anymore.

There was someone. Someone in the shadows. She could feel their presence.

Unfamiliar. Alien. Hostile. Whoever it was, they didn't belong here, and they certainly weren't looking for a dance with the princess.

Behind her.

She spun around, but the Custodian was faster, pushing Alex to the cobbled floor and entombing her within a small shield bubble. His displacer sang not a second after, scorching a trail through the hall with searing bursts of light. Undaunted and unharmed, the assassin lept out of the afterflash, appearing as little more than a blur.

It was a semicloak.

The assassin was a sorcerer.

The Custodian took a step back. Resolute in his oath, he dropped his rifle, clenched his fist, and let free a crackling blade of pure plasma from his gauntlet. The assassin lunged forward with a sword of his own, pulsating black with magical energies.

Alex staggered backward, struggling to fight hyperventilation. There was so much ambient energy now saturating the air that she could barely think straight.

Queensguard trained from birth. They were loyal to a fault; they would gladly die to defend any member of the royal family. And as the two traded blows, Alex realized that was exactly what was going to happen.

Staggering to her feet, Alex tried her best to calm her pounding heart. She was sweating buckets, and waves of nausea and lightheadedness threatened to consume her.

Alex was not much of a warrior. Never wore a suit of power armor, wielded a plasma gauntlet, or so much as touched a displacer.

But agys, she could do.

Magic could be a powerful weapon, but it wasn't without flaws; that much Alex knew from a very young age. It could be checked as long as sufficient power was used against it.

The displacer blasts had long since dissipated. Alex cursed herself for her delay, scrambling over to the discarded weapon. It was clearly active, yet she sensed nothing.

Dammit. Displacers didn't have an internal magazine. They drew energy from pocket dimensions.

Her mind shot back to her first lessons with the Tomekeepers. One of the first things she was taught was how to weave a spoilspell. Alex was only young when they deemed her ready for live practice. She would watch them lob balls of energy down the high vaulted halls of the Outer Sanctum, drawing energy from the lights to spin-

The lights. She looked up; they were on but faint, and after reaching out quickly, she confirmed her suspicions. She needed something more potent.

The shield bubble. It was powerful enough but built to be resistant to magic. Given time, she had no doubt the warding could be defeated. 

A cry caught her attention, and her head snapped up, only to realize in abject horror that the Custodian was missing an arm. Eyes wide and with her mouth agape, she watched the Custodian catapult himself onto the offensive with a flurry of attacks, seemingly unfazed. His armor sealed around the wound, but it was now evident who would come out on top.

She was out of time.

There had to be something. Alex shook herself into action and glanced around frantically before her eyes lit up the Custodian's gauntlet blade.

Pure plasma.

Time to even the playing field.

As the Custodian parried a vicious overhead strike, she closed her eyes and raised a trembling arm, weaving the power seeping out of the gauntlet blade into a spoilspell.

The effect was immediate and drastic. The assassin's semicloak dissolved, exposing a short, middle-aged man in, of all things, shorts, and a T-shirt. His arms froze solid mid-swing, and he glanced at Alex, eyes wide, gawking as his power was effortlessly subjected under the will of a more powerful agystyr.

The Custodian slammed his elbow into the assassin's temple, and he crumpled like a paper bag.

Before Alex could take another step, a pair of Queensguard teleported in a few meters away, one hastening to bind the assassin while the other turned to face her.

"My Lady, you must come with me. Immediately." His cape, trimmed in gold, meant he was one of her mother's personal retainers. That set off more than a few alarms in her already racing mind.

"Why?" Alex asked after a moment to collect herself, her heart still pounding, glancing down as she stepped over the assassin's limp body, wrists and ankles already bound.

He took a suspiciously long time to respond, and Alex knew something was up. But it prepared her no better for the truth.

"My Lady... the Queen is dead."

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That had been over a year ago.

The day her mother died, Alex was dragged into the throne room by her great uncle and a company of Larian armored infantry. In the state she was in at the time, she could scarcely focus on repressing her magic, so her uncle ordered her bound and warded lest the seat of the Kingdom went up in a nuclear fireball.

A simultaneous incursion on the genetic database occurred during the assassination, leaving 21 dead and the quantum computer in ruins. The backups were corrupted by a targeted cyberattack and were unrecoverable. For a moment, the War Council feared a decapitation strike, and auto-battleships were skip-jumped to the border. The entire kingdom went into lockdown. 

And so there she was held, in chains for her own safety, crying over her mother's broken corpse while the Queensguard poured over every square inch of the Sarpeka and the Home Guard swept across the country like a pack of ravenous beasts. A hundred were executed that day, a thousand more imprisoned for gods knew how long. The Queensguard were inexorable, their quest for vengeance unsated until the entire Capitol was purged of any suspected to be treasonous to the crown.

By the third day, she had grown numb to the grief. All she could feel was dread, the dread of the shoes she was now destined to fill. Dread of the damage she would have to repair. Her mother was immensely popular, notwithstanding being born out of wedlock, and the ability of the court to protect the monarch was already being brought into question in an increasingly divisive world. Now a woman barely old enough to drink was being asked to take up the same mantle and lead a kingdom into an uncertain future.

Worse still, she could already sense the doubts of what was once her mother's court. They obviously considered her too young to rule.

Alex took it upon herself to prove them all wrong.

It had been a year now. A year of doubting every speech she ever gave, every proclamation she ever issued, every mustering she ever signed. The court had rallied in support of her, but the Minor Houses were still an uphill battle. They were mired in rotting traditions that had no place in a dying world.

Alex partly understood their reservations. She was barely twenty-two, over three decades younger than her mother had been when she ascended to power. But her advisors would do well to remember that she was the current monarch, and Alex had no intention of becoming a pawn to her own retinue.

They wanted the crown? They could pry it off of her corpse.

At least the view was excellent, she mused, staring out across the rolling hills of the Harvin Gap from her perch upon the northerly windowsill of the Sarpeka's penthouse. Far below, golden fields of wheat and Larian barley melded into craggy outcroppings of granite, which themselves grew into three concentric walls, once serving as the outer defenses for Jespyr Castle and the seat of the monarch. And above the castle citadel, the Aryarastone, flag of the Royal Larian Navy, cast a shadow over squadrons of cruisers, destroyers, and shoals of lesser craft.

A light knock on her door roused her from a state of torpor.

"Enter."

"My Queen." The aide bowed deeply, his chest forming a near-90-degree angle with his torso.

"Rise." One-word commands were preferable. They left nothing to interpretation.

"I have a report from Sir Marshall Whinyas, Your Majesty."

Alex held a groan. Such actions weren't considered becoming of a Queen, so she forced a tight smile instead. "Thank you, Carson."

Carson bowed once more before backing out.

Marshall Whinyas was the Lord-Commander and the High Duke of the Western Fringe. He was also insufferably narcissistic. When Alex had refused his hand at marriage, he looked visibly appalled, as if even the mere concept of rejection was repugnant to him.

Thankfully, the Western Fringe was currently under an assault from, of all things, feral Laden, which served as a handy excuse to explain why Whinyas was seldom invited to the Capitol anymore. Marshall Christian had already deployed in support, so Alex saw no reason to mobilize royal assets. Surely, their conjoined regional armies should be adequate to suppress some rabid beasts?

Regardless, she had more important issues at hand. Reports of a bombing in the border territories earned the attention of the Ministry and a Strider, something Alex was decidedly not pleased about. And Alex was due to visit Jespyr Castle for a meeting with the Naval Engineering Board in five hours to discuss the adoption of new regulations for the thickness of fusion reactor coolant pipes in unmanned weather control and containment satellites.

What fun, she thought dryly.

She took a deep breath, closed her window with a simple hand motion, and flopped onto her four-poster bed to read the report.