Chapter Seven #2
I huff a breath, my lips quirking. The technology is astounding. From my limited knowledge of before the Collapse, nothing this advanced existed. Absurd that the Syndicate has made so much progress in this, even as they’ve regressed in nearly everything else.
We watch as Vito navigates through the simulated street, eventually encountering a standoff in a small plaza.
Six men hold weapons on a group of cowering civilians—mostly women and a few children.
A hand slides to his hip, drawing a weapon he does not possess in the real room.
He raises some sort of gun—thinner than those the Enforcers normally carry, with a faintly luminescent core visible through transparent chamber sections.
Vito approaches with obvious caution, speaking to who he’s dubbed as the leader of the hostile group. The simulation transmits audio, which only adds to my awe. They demand release of prisoners, threatening to harm the hostages if Vito doesn’t comply, which sours his attempts at negotiation.
I spend a moment observing the women. All apparent civilians. All terrified. All in need of male protection. The imagery is nauseating and reinforces the idea that women are weak, helpless, and incapable of self-defense or authority.
Or autonomy.
Vito focuses so intently on the male leader that he fails to notice one of the female hostages slowly rising from her crouched position. While his attention is elsewhere, she pulls a knife from beneath her torn dress and lunges, slicing Vito’s throat from behind.
His hands fly to the simulated wound, though nothing appears beneath his fingers, the clanking of his gun ringing through the open space.
The simulation flickers before dissipating, leaving our group in an eerily quiet space once more.
The shimmering cube remains, but there is no longer a projected image along the side.
Vito remains in his position, appearing stunned as his hands continue to press against his uninjured throat. He staggers, and Elias moves forward to steady him before answering the question in his eyes.
“The sensation feels real. The pain registers, but as I said, no physical damage occurs.” He focuses fully on Vito. “What did you miss?”
“I…” The recruit’s voice is hoarse, as if he still feels the phantom wound, before his throat clears. “I didn’t consider the hostages might be plants.”
“Exactly. You made assumptions based on appearances. The woman in the blue dress showed multiple indicators—her positioning, the way she tracked your movements with her eyes, her controlled breathing pattern. All signs she wasn’t the frightened hostage she appeared to be.”
I can’t help but scoff at the irony. A woman deceiving a man by exploiting his assumptions about female inadequacy.
The similarity to my situation is too close for comfort.
But I’m also disturbed by the portrayal; the deceptive, murderous woman as the ultimate villain in the scenario.
It cements the idea that women who don’t conform to expected roles are treacherous and dangerous.
Stars forbid a woman just wants to live in peace without the influence of a man by her side.
I pause. Would I be considered dangerous right now?
Vito’s shoulders quake, hands flexing as they press against a wound that isn’t there.
The sound of his shaky breaths grates at the inside of my skull, threatening to bury his panic in me the way fear sometimes does when I’m careless.
Without thinking, I brush the edge of his emotions, sending out a thread of calm.
His breathing evens, shoulders dropping a moment later.
Relief should follow, but it doesn’t. Instead I pause as my forehead creases.
Was that really for him…or for me? I didn’t want him to cry.
Didn’t want to feel the rough edge of his fear clawing at the barrier of my power.
Influencing him was easier, though now I’m questioning if it was the right choice.
What gives me the power to manipulate others’ emotions just because the urge strikes me? The thought curdles in my stomach.
Malcom steps into the cube next, facing a completely different scenario—an ambush in a narrow alley.
Unlike Vito, he reacts with instant violence, firing at anyone who moves.
He survives but fails the mission by killing several civilians in his indiscriminate attack.
Elias is calm but firm in his critique, emphasizing precision over brute force.
Pax follows with a hostage exchange gone wrong. He manages better than the first two, using his telepathic abilities to communicate silently with one of the civilians and coordinate an escape. Still, he misses a hidden attacker and takes a bullet to the spine before the simulation ends.
Brenner’s turn involves a complex betrayal scenario where someone posing as an informant leads him into a trap.
He responds with calculated violence, using his Charger abilities to electrocute multiple attackers at once.
It’s effective but lacks finesse, and Elias notes several moments where de-escalation might have been possible.
Then it’s my turn.
Deep breath.
My mouth dries as I step forward to accept the metal band from my leader. Our fingers brush briefly, and his green eyes flick to mine. I ignore him, positioning the band carefully at the base of my skull, making sure my hair remains tucked securely under my mask.
It wouldn’t be the end of me if I let it down, being the same length as Lachlan’s, but I’d rather not have something else to explain. I procure too many questioning glances as is.
“Center of the room, Ashford,” Elias directs, drifting back to his spot against the wall.
I walk to the indicated spot, my heart hammering. Is it normal to taste the blood beating rapidly through my body?
Focus, Cas.
This simulation is different from the tests we endured yesterday. Those were straightforward while this requires swift thinking, decision-making, and potentially speaking to people who won’t hesitate to kill me. What would Lachlan do if he were here?
I chuckle to myself; he wouldn’t have come in the first place.
Before I can spiral further, the world shifts.
Gray walls fade, replaced by the interior of an opulent building unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Marble floors stretch beneath my feet, polished to a mirror shine.
Pillars of some dark stone rise to support a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes.
Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls, shading the area in prismatic light.
And to fuck with my head all the more, I even smell traces of perfume and warm food.
I’m in the entrance hall of what must be an important government building or wealthy private residence.
The space is crowded with people in formal attire.
Men in dark suits mingle with one another while women in flowing dresses hang on their arms. Others circulate with trays of drinks while music plays softly from an unseen source.
I have no instructions beyond what Elias gave the others: identify threats, protect civilians, and neutralize hostiles if necessary.
But how do I identify threats in this sea of unfamiliar faces? I’ve only ever interacted with three people who weren’t wearing masks, and now I’m supposed to read dozens of strangers?
I should be grateful for the opportunity to learn such a skill, but it’s nauseating.
The crowd shifts as I move cautiously, studying faces and postures. My limited knowledge of psychology and body language becomes my only guide. I watch for micro-expressions, for anomalies in movement patterns, or hands that hover too close to potential weapons.
Everyone looks suspicious to me. That woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes; that man keeps glancing at his timepiece. There is a server who avoids a particular section of the room.
Paralysis by analysis. If everyone is suspicious, then I have no useful information.
I need something. What is the purpose of this gathering? What am I supposedly doing here?
Glancing down, I’m wearing an Enforcer uniform, but more formal than the standard issue. A ceremonial guard, perhaps? In a nearby reflection, a mask confirms my disguise remains intact.
The conversations grow increasingly tense, voices rising at a steady pace as the thrill of alcohol and dancing take effect. Something is happening. But what?
Irritated, I push through the crowd toward a source of disturbance. Near a large set of double doors at the far end of the hall, several men argue. Their gestures become more agitated as I approach. I can’t make out what they’re saying at first, but as I draw closer, the words form.
“...cannot allow this to continue,” one man insists, his face flushed with anger. “The Syndicate has gone too far.”
“Lower your fucking voice. We’re surrounded by loyalists.” The three peer around nervously before one notices my approach and falls silent, nudging his companions. All eyes turn to me.
The situation crystallizes in my mind. These men are planning something against the Syndicate…and I’m meant to be a loyal Enforcer.
They are the threat. I am the law.
Or are they? What if this is a test of my loyalty rather than my threat assessment? What if the real danger is elsewhere, and these men are a distraction. Will I fail if I leave them, or must they be held accountable either way?
No, I will be expected to neutralize any perceived issue arising outside the Syndicate’s rule.
And I don’t have time to analyze further, or ask questions about what they’re planning, in hopes I could use the same tactics.
Elias’ eyes burn through my uniform, watching every small movement and hesitation I make.