Live and Let Die
Delores
The entire lecture hall is designed to remind you that you’re not in charge in the slightest. The tiers of curved desks are arranged in a neat semicircle, three deep, all facing a single table at the bottom where the professor sits—so when you’re looking down from row three, the whole thing forms a sort of open-jawed maw, which is hilarious or calculated, depending on whether you think the architects here had a sense of humor.
The east wall is entirely windows, flooding the room with enough morning light to bleach the faces of anyone who forgot their SPF or their willingness to be seen.
As much as I like it better than fluorescents, it’s a lot at this time of day and it makes it hot as fuck if the sun is shining.
In the center, of course, are Barrington and Erickson wearing two pale-blue twin blouses pressed into extremely sharp lines that are probably intended to cut someone.
The only way I can tell them apart without hearing a voice is by their hair—Pink always has a slicked-back style while Gold tucks loose strands behind her ears in perfect curves.
Today, there’s a third in their little pod, and I have no idea if she’s their token nerd to do their work or someone who is auditioning to join them.
I ignore the matching death stares and head for the farthest corner from the center as before.
Slipping my backpack off, I open my notebook and tablet, and uncap my pen.
I have a set of varied highlighters, uncapped and ready to note whatever the professor says that seems pertinent.
My phone is face down, exactly two inches from my right hand, just in case I need to tap out an SOS to the family.
I find comfort in consistency, and being prepared is one way I wrangle all the stupid anxiety this world has floating around in me.
Halfway through doodling a spiral of kill me now phrases in the notebook margin, the door slams open so hard the metal handle bites into the drywall.
Professor Sterling enters, but he doesn’t glide in the way older, tenure-immune predators do.
No, this man stalks into the room as if he’s looking for a snack.
Everything about him is sharp and deliberate—black slacks with a crease so crisp you could use it for ritual bloodletting and a black button-down with the cuffs tailored so the fabric stretches when he flexes his wrists.
There’s no mistaking that this pred is not to be trifled with, despite being a professor who’s clearly been exiled to teach at one of the schools.
It makes me even more curious about who and what he comes from, as most of the professors have an air of resignation about them when they arrive, and he definitely does not.
Sterling drops his bag onto the front table. It makes a noise like someone nailing a coffin shut.. He takes a second to scan the room—not a cursory roll call, but a flat-eyed sweep that clocks every face, every posture, every outfit, and even me in my distant corner.
“Let’s begin,” he says, with a voice so low it feels like a micro-tremor. “Barrington. You will go first.”
Pink doesn’t flinch, but I know she’s unhappy.
I learned to read her micro-expressions when we were ‘friends’ and this one is displeased.
She stands, her shoulders pulled back so hard I wonder if the stitching in her blouse will hold, and addresses the room instead of the professor.
It’s a pageant-queen move, and I give her credit for selling it, but this isn’t the time or place.
It’s going to piss that fucker off, and I’m a little gleeful as I wait for it to blow up in her face.
“My family’s historic strength is media stewardship.
We control information flow, so the ability to direct narrative is our advantage,” she says.
Her voice is crisp—no accent, no stutter, like she’s been training for this since conception.
“Our historic weakness is overreach. When we try to manage narratives outside of our designated influence areas, we incur the risk of losing viewership over conflicting belief structures.” She throws the last few words like a dart, then goes on, “This is also evident when pressures from governmental agencies or individuals force a specific narrative that is not crafted to sell successfully within the major focus demographics.”
Yikes—did she just say that when the Society makes them push stupid shit, their business fails in the mission?
Sterling’s mouth doesn’t move, but his eyes pin her. “And what is your present strategy to mitigate this flaw when you take over as CEO in the future?”
“Diversification, collaboration, and expansion,” Pink says, and I catch the faint tremor at the edge of her lips.
“We are forming strategic alliances with other lines, particularly those who have strengths where we do not. In the last decade, four marriages have been arranged to cement ties with security, technology, and finance families. We are also expanding into emerging markets and testing what strategies work best within those communities before launching public access.” She sits, and for the first time, I see her exhale.
The professor shifts his gaze to Erickson. “You next,” he says, not bothering with her name. “What can you add to this discussion?”
Gold rises slowly, her movements measured.
“Our strength is technological dominance. Erickson Electronics runs every notable brand-name tech platform and controls secure communications for all the council branches. Our weakness is hubris—we have failed to anticipate threats outside our own vertical, especially in human-adjacent markets.” She scans the front row as if she’s expecting applause.
“Last year’s South African server breach cost us a two percent global market share and nearly exposed the Council’s communications pipeline. ”
Sterling doesn’t blink as he waits for her to continue, and I write this shit down, but I’m just not sure why he wants us to say it.
Hell, I’m not sure what this has to do with diplomacy at all yet.
But it must have a purpose, even if it’s to help my guys and me figure out how to hit the Society—or what the Fae will hit next.
“We are currently rebuilding our risk assessment team with outside talent. Management is headhunting directly from our rivals, and it’s working.” She sits, and the silence afterward is so total I can hear a single paper rustle in the row above.
Given how easily Fitz gets into all the Erikson tech, I’m not sure that’s true in the slightest.
Sterling doesn’t acknowledge either report with praise or criticism. The mysterious professor just nods when he agrees they are done and moves on. He points directly at a spot in row two.
“Gaines,” he says. “You’re not nearly as high in the pecking order, but you’re next, regardless.”
The jaguar shifter—I think, based on the ears and the subtle dotting along his jawline—nearly tips his chair scrambling to stand.
His family is in security, and the high falutin families that use them are basically an open secret.
He clears his throat, looking like he wants to flee rather than do this.
“Um, security contracts,” he says. “We get muscle work, bodyguard stuff, and also sometimes clean up. Our advantage is that we’re loyal, but our mercenaries are also very…
” he glances at the Heathers, “expendable, if they mess up. Our flaw is that we don’t diversify enough to control all the variables sometimes.
The old guard is reluctant to use methods and species that would significantly increase our ability to provide new, elite services.
They refuse out of old grudges and myths. ”
“How would you address this when it is your turn in the big chair?” Sterling says, his voice so flat it could be concrete.
“Uh, well, until that happens, the last part is untenable. They will not budge. But for now, we’re trying to get our claws into finance.
My dad is making me get a double major to—” He clamps his mouth shut when Sterling’s eyebrow ticks up.
“We’re, um, using legacy placement to get our people into new industries.
Infiltration is one of the new markets we’re testing. ”
Sterling moves on before the kid can sit down, pointing at the next student, a fox-shifter girl with an undercut dyed blue on the left side. “Lynton.”
She’s more prepared, I’ll give her that.
“My family trades in intelligence brokering. Our advantage is plausible deniability. No one knows which side we’re actually on, which lets us survive regime changes or purges.
” She pauses for effect. “Our flaw is the same—we have no allies. If someone uncovers a double-deal, we’re at risk for permanent cancellation. ”
Sterling’s mouth almost curves into a smile, but it’s more a muscle twitch than anything resembling joy. “How would you correct this, Lynton?”
“We sell only to the highest bidder, and we always have a secondary blackmail dossier to keep buyers honest.” She pauses and tilts her head.
“That’s the current solution, but I believe it is not a problem that can be solved given the nature of our business.
It is a risk inherent in the sector, and all we can do is mitigate it, not fix it. ”
Sterling nods, just once, but I can tell this time he’s somewhat pleased. “Good.”
I’m not sure if I should laugh or send a sympathy fruit basket for getting his permanent attention, but I keep my eyes on the notebook, adding a margin note.
“Lynton: hedges bets; probably has something on everyone, including me.”
A wolf-shifter stands when Sterling points again. This one’s surname is Sandoval, and he’s the classic ‘my dad’s an important ___, so I don’t have to try’ type. He’s big, not just in build, but in the way he claims the air around his seat. He starts, “My family—”
Sterling interrupts, “We know your family and what they do. Skip to the flaw.”
I don’t, and that’s annoying as hell for my notes, but whatever.