Mercer
I don't believe in the concept of coincidence.
In my experience, a coincidence is merely a data point that hasn't yet been properly indexed into a pattern.
Patterns are stable; patterns are predictable.
Patterns are what keep the city of Redbrook from sliding into the abyss of its own energetic rot.
And after finding out that the key to Jorak’s stability lies in the hands of a fucking F-Class Guide… I’m wondering if something is breaking.
On my desk, three separate reports sit in high-resolution clarity, their digital light casting a pale, clinical blue across my hands. To anyone else, they're isolated events. To me, they're the first three notes of a funeral march for my career if I don't act with immediate, surgical precision.
The first report is the Vesper House intake summary.
An unidentified S-Class Alpha—Jorak—matched with an anonymous Omega during a breakthrough rut.
The Omega walked out under their own power.
No internal hemorrhaging. No energetic scarring.
No burnout. In the history of S-Class Enigma stabilization, that's a statistical impossibility.
The second report is the university security log.
Jorak Thorn, my most volatile and valuable asset, was observed shielding a civilian professor from facility extraction officers.
The aggression levels recorded by Jorak’s internal biometrics spiked into the red zone, not because of the corruption in the air, but because of a proximity reflex. He was guarding the man.
The third report is the name that links them both: Asa Renwick.
Nearly an hour ago, Miller dropped the name of the adorable Omega professor who smelled like he’d been coated in Jorak’s scent. And now, Jorak is back in his room, pissed off but here while I try to make sense of all of this.
Dr. Elian Rue knocks on the door and I wait for him to enter, for the door to seal, and for the silence to settle between us. “You’ve seen the decryption,” Rue says. His voice is thinner than usual, pinched by the weight of what he’s carrying.
“I've seen a name, Elian,” I say, finally leaning back. “And I know what Miller told me. I'm waiting for you to tell me why that name is attached to an F-Class classification. Either the system is broken, or your department has committed a gross oversight in its initial screening.”
Rue swallows. I watch the movement of his throat. “Asa Renwick was screened ten years ago. His energetic output was negligible. He barely registered on the resonance scale. He was categorized as a surplus Omega with no practical Guide application. He’s a mathematician, Mercer. A civilian.”
“And yet, this mathematician survived a direct knotting with an Enigma in active rut,” I counter.
I slide the tablet toward the edge of the desk.
“He didn't just survive it. According to the biometric sensors Jorak was wearing before he crushed them, his core temperature and heart rate stabilized within minutes of contact with this ‘civilian.’ He’s escaped more than once only to come back smelling like vanilla. And based on whatever happened today, I’m pretty sure Jorak knotted this ‘civilian’ again.
Explain that to me in a way that doesn't involve incompetence.”
Rue steps forward, finally taking the seat.
He looks exhausted. The shadows under his eyes are a testament to the fact that he’s been chasing this ghost as long as I have.
He taps the tablet, bringing up a graph of Renwick’s old screening data alongside the new Vesper House compatibility markers.
“It doesn't make sense,” Rue admits. “If Renwick is an F-Class, he should have burned out the moment Jorak touched him. The power gap alone should have caused a catastrophic energetic shock. But the Vesper House records show a ninety-nine point eight percent synchronization. It’s the highest match we’ve seen in the history of the Stabilization Center. ”
“Ninety-nine point eight,” I repeat the number. It feels like a threat. “And you’re telling me he’s just a professor. A man who spends his days drawing equations on whiteboards while my best assets are being hauled off on gurneys because they can’t handle five minutes in Jorak’s presence.”
“I’m telling you that whatever he is, he isn't a standard Guide,” Rue says.
“There is no evidence of energy siphoning. No drainage. If he were a high-class Guide, we’d see the consumption of Jorak’s Black Current in his system.
But from what Miller described… he didn't take the power; he just... held it.”
I stand and walk to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside, Redbrook is a grid of flickering lights and rising steam.
The city is dying. Every day, the suppression nodes groan under the pressure of buried energy that should’ve been cleansed decades ago.
We’re holding back a flood with a handful of thinning sand.
“The university incident confirms it,” I say, watching the reflection of the room in the glass.
“Jorak didn't just stumble upon him. He’s bonded.
Or the bond is in the process of setting.
He went feral when Miller tried to approach Renwick.
He didn't see them as facility staff; he saw them as predators.”
“If a bond is forming, pulling Renwick in now could be dangerous,” Rue warns.
He stands as well, his posture rigid. “I know that look on your face and I’m sure you want to test him but Asa Renwick is a civilian, Mercer.
He has rights. He has a tenure track. If we bring him in for forced compatibility testing and he’s truly an F-Class, the distance sickness or the stress could kill him.
And if he dies, we lose Jorak permanently. He’ll collapse.”
“We’re already losing Jorak!” I snap, turning to face him.
“He fried two B-Class Guides in Redbrook yesterday. He’s an S-Class weapon that's currently pointing at the heart of this city, and I have exactly one man who can apparently act as a safety catch. You tell me about rights; I’ll tell you about the three million people in this district who’ll be vaporized if Jorak loses containment. ”
A sharp, persistent chime cuts through the tension.
My tablet vibrates on the desk, a Class-B alert.
I move back to it, tapping the screen. A map of the university district blooms in red.
A suppression node near the campus has reached its saturation point.
Stray power is leaking into the residential streets.
“Another flare,” Rue whispers, looking over my shoulder. “Sector Seven. That’s less than two miles from Renwick’s condo.”
“And it’s right next to the university,” I add. I feel the cold clarity of a decision taking shape. “The timing is perfect. We deploy Jorak to contain the flare. We’ll see how he reacts when his Guide is in the fallout zone.”
Rue shakes his head. “You’re using a civilian as bait. If the Unbound get wind of this, or if Silas sees what you’re doing, the backlash will be uncontrollable. People are already protesting the node failures. If they think we’re weaponizing professors, the city will burn.”
“The city is already burning, Elian. I'm simply deciding which fires to prioritize.”
I pull up a second feed, a localized broadcast that's currently circumventing our firewalls. It’s Silas.
The former researcher’s face is grainy, filtered through a dozen proxy servers, but his voice is clear.
He’s standing in front of a charred storefront, his eyes burning with a dangerous, righteous zeal.
“Look at your streets,” Silas says to the camera.
His voice is a low, rhythmic growl. “Look at the Guides they’ve sent to protect you.
They aren't protectors; they're sacrifices. The ESA is forcing them to plug the holes in a rotten system until they burn to ash. They’re dying so Mercer Holt can keep his secrets buried. How many more will you watch fall before you realize the system was never meant to hold?”
I cut the feed with a sharp swipe. Silas is a nuisance, a ghost of an old failure that refuses to stay dead. He’s right about the nodes, of course, but his solution is chaos. Chaos doesn't provide stability. Chaos doesn't keep the lights on.
“He’s gaining traction,” Rue says softly. “The burnout rates for the lower-class Guides are up twenty percent this quarter. They’re scared, Mercer. They know they can’t handle the flares anymore.”
“Which is exactly why Asa Renwick is no longer a civilian,” I say. I pick up my comms unit, keyed directly to the tactical extraction team. “He’s a strategic resource. If he can stabilize an S-Class Enigma without burning out, then he’s the most important man in Redbrook.”
“Mercer, wait,” Rue steps into my path. “The medical implications of a Guide like him are undocumented. If we treat him like facility equipment, like we treated Jorak, we might break the very thing that makes him useful. You’ve seen what happens when we push too hard.”
I look at Rue. He’s a good man, which is why he’s a mediocre leader. He sees the individual; he sees the risk to the person. I see the survival of the collective. I see the city as a body, and sometimes, a limb must be sacrificed to save the heart.
“I’m not going to break him, Elian,” I say, my voice dropping to a level of absolute, flat certainty.
“I'm going to pair him. Under the Public Safety Authority Act, I'm authorizing the emergency acquisition of Asa Renwick for compatibility testing.
I want him brought in. Now. Before Silas finds him, and before Jorak decides he doesn't need our permission to keep him.”
“And if he refuses?” Rue asks. “If he refuses to sign the pairing paperwork?”
“He’s an Omega,” I say, already typing the order into the terminal. “He’s biologically predisposed to seek stability. And once he’s in the facility, once he feels the full weight of Jorak’s need, he won’t have to be forced. His own body will make the choice for him.”