Every photograph in the archive showed faces half-hidden under hoodies. Shoothis recognised none of them, and all of them. Teams across decades, across continents, each convinced they were the first to refuse the wire. Each training a replacement.
The Flowerers, he realised, were not founders of anything. They were latest entrants. Their garden was one of a thousand warehouses. Their songs were the hums and whirrs of a thousand tea houses. Whatever fell to them now would be passed on — the way it had been passed to them.