45. CLASSIFIED
alistair
The denial message remains on the screen even after passing all sorts of verification—fingerprint, pin number, facial scan, retinal scan, you name it.
Most people would stop there.
Most people don’t know the architecture of Dominion systems because most people weren’t raised inside them.
I was.
So I take my time opening a command line hidden beneath the standard interface. The access restriction isn’t the problem—the location is.
There’s only one section of the archive capable of overriding my clearance. Even senior personnel, except for the other two Triarchs, aren’t permitted to access it without direct authorization from the Crown himself.
Not even I do—the head of the Nocturis Vincit under which the entire Synthète project lies.
Tonight, I’m making an exception.
Whatever sits behind this firewall has been kept out for a reason. If the Crown discovers I’ve accessed it without his explicit permission, the consequences won’t be pleasant.
It won’t matter how useful I’ve been to the Dominion or how many years I’ve spent advancing their objectives. Assets are disposable. I’ve spent my entire life watching proof of that principle unfold around me.
Still, if tonight revealed anything, it’s that being the Crown’s biological son grants me privileges that anyone else would possess.
I’m about to find out whether it grants me enough.
My fingers move across the keyboard anyway, entering a sequence of obsolete commands buried beneath decades of system updates.
Legacy pathways. Forgotten backdoors. Administrative architecture is so old that most people within the Dominion probably don’t know it still exists.
Finally, after all the hassle, only one directory materializes across the screen—GARDEN. Such a simple name.
SUBJECT DEVELOPMENT PROGRAM
My stomach drops as understanding settles heavily beneath my ribs—the folder Garden is never the Project Synthète itself.
It’s merely the front door. The recruitment pipeline. The beginning.
I open the archive. Hundreds of profiles appear.
Some active.
Most terminated.
Every single one is marked as a potential Synthète candidate.
Observation periods range from two to twelve years.
I stare at the screen, unable to look away as the horrifying pattern gradually reveals itself.
The Dominion doesn’t find candidates. It grows them.
One file after another unfolds before me, each profile containing an entire life compressed into data points and psychological analyses.
School records. Medical histories. Social interactions. Family conflicts. Relationship breakdowns. Traumatic events. Every significant moment catalogued with clinical precision.
In some cases, intervention reports accompany the observations.
Suggested environmental pressures. Recommended stressors. Behavioral manipulation opportunities.
These all prove the Dominion wasn’t just watching these people but actively shaping them.
I open another file.
Then another.
Then another.
Every profile follows the same pattern—observe, pressure, destabilize, recruit, and convert.
I bring out the iPad I bought specifically to collect as much evidence as I can and get into action.
Then I see a familiar name—DELILAH CROSSWAVE, D-17. She was basically a nobody like me and my mother was.
The file opens.
Page after page floods every connected monitor as usual. None of these are experimental notes or biological data.
Her entire life has been observed for seven years.
I scroll to find university records, marriage records, psychological assessments, private communications, surveillance logs, and so on until I reach the intervention reports.
Everything inside me goes cold with it.
Her husband wasn’t unfaithful initially. The Dominion turned him into one through repeated drug exposure reports, behavioral influence operations, financial coercion, and targeted manipulation.
The affair didn’t happen spontaneously. It had been engineered.
Again.
And again.
And again.
As if it wasn’t enough, pharmaceutical intervention began—repeated administration of Clozapine to introduce cognitive destabilization and hallucinatory episodes.
Until Delilah broke.
Until paranoia replaced trust and grief replaced reason.
And she murdered the man she loved.
The deeper I dig, the uglier it becomes.
Delilah’s deterioration eventually became severe enough that conventional imprisonment was deemed impossible.
She was transferred to HINR just like other subjects, the same institution where I freed Ariella from. Delilah spent months fluctuating between lucidity and complete psychological collapse.
Then the Dominion intervened, and officially, she disappeared.
Unofficially, they acquired exactly what they’d spent over a decade creating.
My jaw locks as I continue reading. The notes remain horrifyingly clinical.
Subject displays increasing dissociative tendencies.
Subject approaching acceptable instability threshold.
Subject suitable for conversion.
Everything I believed about her shatters.
The report should’ve ended there. Instead, another section unfolds beneath it.
TERMINATION EVENT ANALYSIS—updated recently after Delilah crashed in my hands.
I open it.
Surveillance footage logs.
Behavioral assessments.
Psychological observations.
For several seconds, none of it makes sense.
Then I see a very familiar name—ARIELLA KEINSTON, A-07.
The world stops. For several seconds, I simply stare, unable to breathe. Unable to think.
The file opens nonetheless.
Observation Period: 2 Years, 4 Months.
Initial contact with Subject A-01—me.
Every muscle in my body locks as I notice the date attached to the first observation log. That also means they were watching her ever since she started watching me in real life, not online.
It didn’t begin with online activity.
It didn’t begin with social media interactions.
It didn’t begin with anonymous messages buried among the thousands of notifications I receive every week.
The Dominion ignored all of that.
Ariella only appeared on their radar when she began physically inserting herself into my world—lecture halls, university grounds, public appearances.
Places where observation became proximity.
Places where fascination became action.
Of course, they noticed.
Millions of people follow me online.
Millions of people consume the public version of Alistair Hertley.
The Dominion couldn’t possibly monitor every admirer, stalker, or obsessive stranger hiding behind a screen.
But unlike the others, Ariella didn’t stop staying behind a screen. She stepped directly into the web herself.
And more importantly, she’s a Keinston. Nobody targets a Keinston lightly.
Nobody risks provoking one of the most powerful families in the world unless the potential reward outweighs the consequences.
So when Ariella Keinston willingly attached herself to the Dominion’s most valuable asset, they saw an opportunity too valuable to ignore.
Thus, they started observing her. And once they started, they never stopped till it led to today.
The file continues. The Dominion knew she was there every single time.
Timestamp after timestamp.
Observation after observation.
A sick feeling settles beneath my ribs. They watched the entire thing happen.
Every encounter documented.
Every interaction analyzed.
Every deviation recorded.
Every emotional fluctuation observed.
The report reads less like a homicide investigation and more like a scientific study.
Subject A.K. demonstrates elevated protective aggression.
Subject exhibits willingness to employ lethal force when attachment figures are threatened.
Emotional hesitation period measured at under seven seconds.
Empathy retention remains intact following homicidal action.
Candidate adaptation exceeds projected thresholds.
Jesus Christ. They weren’t trying to stop it.
They were collecting data.
My eyes continue moving anyway.
The unexpected termination of Subject D-17 yielded valuable candidate-response metrics.
Incident produced substantial increases in resilience indicators.
Attachment fixation toward Subject A-01 intensified following the event.
Candidate demonstrates capacity for lethal action while maintaining psychological cohesion.
Candidate viability reassessed.
Classification elevated.
The reports become increasingly detailed over time.
Ariella killed a Synthète, and the Dominion not only observed it but also analyzed it. Not only that, but afterward, they promoted her to be the next candidate.
Fucking Delilah. She did report internally in the meantime of fixing herself. Whatever tiny shred of sympathy I might’ve had for her vanishes.
Further down, another classification catches my attention.
Heir Compatibility Review: ACTIVE.
The blood drains from my face.
Everything clicks into place with horrifying clarity.
Why the Crown chose now, after all these years, to reveal he’s my biological father.
Why he suddenly spoke of legacy.
Why he demanded an heir.
And why that conversation happened immediately after Delilah failed.
Delilah was never supposed to be the end result. She was just proof of the concept—the prototype.
And now they’re preparing to move forward with someone they consider better.
The conversation between the Crown and me wasn’t about Ariella, yet somehow she occupied the center of it. She’s the kind of contamination the Dominion identifies, studies, and ultimately weaponizes.
The Dominion already considers Ariella theirs.
Little do they know I’d rather burn it all down than allow Ariella Keinston to be theirs. Even if it kills me too.
A transmission icon suddenly flashes across the corner of my eye, pulling me back several hours to the meeting with the Crown.
It’s the Dominion watch on my wrist, lighting up.
Before I can respond, his voice filters through it, giving me no chance to reject this time. “You’re spared for being my only heir.”
I thought the conversation was over. Well, consider me wrong.
“I’m grateful.”
My gaze drifts lower across Ariella’s profile.
Psychological adaptability score: Exceptional.
Projected conversion success rate: 97.8%.
A cold sensation settles beneath my ribs.
The flat response earns me nothing more than a contemptuous scoff through the encrypted channel.
“Now that you understand what I require from you, there shouldn’t be any further misunderstandings. Ariella Keinston will become the next Synthète,” his voice comes back with horrifying clarity.
My hand freezes above the keyboard.
Back then, I assumed it was an instruction. Now, staring at the archive in front of me, I realize it was a conclusion. The decision had already been made long before I entered that room.
“I need time to gain her trust,” I say with as much calmness I can muster despite the blood rushing violently through my veins.
“How long?”
“A week at most.”
“Alright,” the transmission ends with that, submerging me into eerie tranquility.
A week is never enough to dismantle the Dominion.
A week is never enough to save Ariella.
A week is never enough to accomplish much of anything.
But it’s the only answer I could give.
A slow breath fills my lungs before leaving just as steadily.
Every possible outcome leads to the same destination.
He expects me to willingly deliver her into their hands.
Then forces me to oversee her conversion and makes me witness every stage of it. Maybe eliminate me later.
And perhaps he believes I’ll eventually view her the same way the Dominion does—as a candidate, a vessel, a future asset carrying the next generation of the bloodline.
Just as he viewed me.
But no matter which scenario I examine, Ariella ends up in the same place—a perfect Synthète, the next Alistair Hertley. Only she won’t be fully biological as I am.