Buttons pressed their beak against the ventilation grate, watching the commander's boots disappear down the corridor. The space helmet hummed softly—not that they'd ever admit to wearing one. For three months, they'd been collecting proof. Files went missing from locked offices. Security footage corrupted at useful times. The commander thought nobody noticed the life support readings, the subtle drops in oxygen levels on specific decks. But Buttons noticed everything. They squeezed through the gap in the panel, wings tucking tight against white feathers, and headed toward the document archive. Tonight, they'd leave another piece of evidence where the right person would find it. The commander had made one mistake: underestimating a chicken. The bridge waited at the end of this game. Buttons had memorized every viewport, every control panel, every security station in that command center. The commander sat there each morning at 0600 hours, reviewing reports and deleting files. Soon, all the evidence would point exactly where it needed to go. The arbitrators were corrupt, yes, but not all of them. Buttons had found three who still cared about protocol. They'd already discovered the oxygen logs in their lockers, the maintenance records tucked inside their duty rosters. When the final piece landed on the bridge console during the commander's shift change, there would be nowhere left to hide. Buttons fluffed their feathers and slipped into shaft C-7 through the service panel. The commander's career would end where it had flourished—surrounded by screens that showed everything except the truth. The information billboard flickered to life as Buttons emerged near the main junction. Its bright display showed duty rosters, maintenance schedules, station announcements. The commander's name appeared at the top of every authorization list. Buttons tilted their head, yellow eyes reflecting the blue glow. They'd already memorized which arbitrator would pass this corridor at 0730 hours. A data chip sat tucked beneath their wing, copied from the commander's personal files during last night's seventeen-minute camera blackout. The billboard's maintenance panel hung loose—purely accidental, of course. By morning, the chip would be inside, programmed to display across every screen on the station during the shift change. The bridge would light up with evidence. The commander would stand there, watching their own corruption broadcast from the command center they thought they controlled. Buttons pecked once at the panel, innocent as ever, and vanished back into the walls. A cargo robot rumbled past, hauling containers toward the loading bay. Buttons watched from the shadows between deck plates. The robot's manifest glowed on its side panel—life support components, the same ones that kept disappearing from inventory. The commander had been selling station supplies, letting oxygen levels drop while profits climbed. Buttons compressed through a three-millimeter gap, following the robot to document its route. Each container held another piece of the pattern. The evidence was complete now. Three honest arbitrators. Seventeen minutes of camera blackout tonight. One data chip that would broadcast everything when morning came. Buttons had been patient, meticulous, ruthlessly focused. Tomorrow, the commander would sit on that bridge and watch their lies collapse across every screen. A simple chicken had done what the whole station couldn't. Buttons tucked deeper into the maintenance shaft and waited for the cameras to fail.