Interstellar Holy Spirit

Ze existed once. That is the only fact the Holy Spirits allow you to keep. Everything else—who built the cities, who signed the deletion order, who poured an entire history into a Data Core and dropped it into the dark—is above your clearance. Your clearance covers exactly one thing: go in, find the Core, carry it out, hand it over, don’t open it, don’t listen, don’t ask.
The Core does not care about clearance.
You are a cleaner crew. Four numbers. Four tempers. One opens doors with his fists. One can solder a live circuit while the room is still exploding. One faints at the sight of blood but keeps her hands steadier than anyone’s. One can spot movement three klicks out and still trip over his own feet. The Spirits do not care who you are. The Spirits care whether the Core arrives on time. But as you relay that increasingly warm thing across twenty planets—lava in your boots, ice singing underfoot, gravity changing its mind faster than your teammates, something with an empty smile following you all the way to the terminal—you start hearing what you were told not to hear. Whispers. Broken sentences. One word, repeated: traitor.
Who the traitor is depends on who is writing the record.
Carrying is the only job here. With the Core in hand, the whole corridor knows where you are. Put it down and the world goes quiet—quiet enough to hear your teammate swearing in your ear. Pick it up again. Keep moving. Shards stun what chases you. They also stun the teammate standing too close. Your flashlight reaches one step ahead. There is no transition between laughter and screaming. And after every delivery, the terminal coughs up something that makes the word “purge” sound like a different word entirely.
Ze does not need saving. It needs someone willing to carry the truth out. In the end, everyone answers the same question: who destroyed Ze—and do you let the answer stay buried here, or do you make it survive you?