Sister Danica remained in a combat crouch, her one good hand white-knuckled around the hilt of her combat knife. She stared at the orange aluminum cylinder Miles called "Fanta" with the intensity of an inquisitor facing a suspected heretic.
"Drink it. It's just fruit-flavored carbonation," Miles urged, his hands raised in a gesture of non-threat. His yellow ducky slippers squeaked softly on the kitchen tiles—a sound that, in this silence, was embarrassingly loud.
Danica took the can with agonizing slowness. She sniffed it first. The scent—an unnaturally concentrated, syrupy sweetness—triggered every tactical alarm in her brain. But her body was at its breaking point. Dehydration was a slow killer, and her armor's internal vox was crackling with power-failure warnings.
With the resolve of a martyr, she tilted her head back and took a massive, military-grade gulp.
The shock was physical. The liquid exploded on her tongue, a violent surge of high-fructose corn syrup and carbonated fire.
"This... this alchemical gold," she wheezed, her voice trembling. "It burns the throat, yet it resuscitates the soul. Saint Miles... is this the 'Blood of a Conquered Star'? Have you harvested the essence of a dying sun to sustain me?"
"It's Fanta, Danica. Its only superpower is giving you a sugar rush," Miles sighed with relief.
Encouraged by her lack of immediate heart failure, Miles moved toward the fridge. He needed to get them moving; the Hum was already buzzing at the back of his skull, warning him that his "Sanctum" was being probed by external signals.
He grabbed a green can from the shelf and shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie. "Alright, we need to go. I'll grab a Sprite for the road."
Danica froze. The air in the kitchen suddenly turned cold enough to frost the windows.
"What did you say?" her voice was a low, lethal rasp, like a blade sliding over stone.
"I said, I'm grabbing a Sprite..." Miles started, turning around.
"BLASPHEMER!" Danica moved with the blurred speed of a genetically enhanced predator. Her heavy ceramite boot shattered a floor tile as she lunged. Her left hand—the good one—clamped onto the collar of Miles's hoodie like a hydraulic vice. She slammed him backward against the refrigerator, his feet danging inches off the floor.
"You... you dare admit your crimes so casually!" Danica's eyes burned with a terrifying, fanatical fire. "You have imprisoned a Spirit? You have trapped a holy essence within a primitive metallic cylinder, to be 'consumed' at your leisure on the road?"
Miles turned a concerning shade of purple, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. "No—it's—Sprite! S-P-R-I-T-E! It's a drink! Not a Spirit! They just sound the same!"
"Do not use your silver tongue to decorate your heresy!" Danica roared. In her world, only the darkest Tech-Priests of the Fallen would dare bind a spirit to a vessel without the proper rites of anointing, oil-burning, and twelve-hour chants.
"It's soda! It's lemon-lime! It has no soul!" Miles choked out, frantically slapping at her armored arm.
The Hum pulsed violently in Miles's mind, sensing his imminent expiration. A translucent HUD snapped into focus before his bulging eyes:
[LINGUISTIC CALIBRATION ERROR DETECTED] [SOURCE WORD: Sprite (Soft Drink)] [INTERPRETATION: Spirit (Machine Spirit/Essence)] [SUGGESTION: Immediate pressure release to prove physical state.]
"Hiss—!"
With a desperate, trembling hand, Miles managed to hook his finger under the tab of the green can and pull.
A sharp, pressurized burst of carbon dioxide whistled out of the can, spraying a fine mist of cold, lemon-scented liquid directly onto Danica's scorched chest-plate.
Danica flinched, but she didn't move. She stared at the liquid dripping down her silver armor. There were no psychic screams. No warp-taint. No agonized wail of a trapped soul being released. Just... sticky bubbles and the faint smell of lime.
She slowly loosened her grip. Miles collapsed onto the floor, gasping and clutching his throat.
"This... is truly just water?" Danica picked up the green can, inspecting the logo with lethal suspicion. "It does not howl. It does not demand a prayer."
"I told you, it's just sweet water that makes you burp," Miles croaked, rubbing his neck. "In this world, a Sprite isn't a Spirit. It's two dollars of carbonated regret. Now, put the knife away, 'Spirit-Liberator.' We really have to go to the 'Cathedral of Industry' now."
Danica stared at the two cans in her hands—one "Alchemical Gold," the other a "Liquid masquerading as a Spirit." Her suspicion of Miles hadn't vanished; it had evolved. This man was either a master of high-tier forbidden technology, or he lived in a pocket dimension so bizarre even the God-Emperor had looked the other way.
"I will follow you, Miles Halloway," she said, tucking the Sprite into her belt like a captured prisoner. "But if that can starts to pray, I will end you."