THE COUNCIL
Inside, the air was thick with polished control. The walls, lined with sound-dampening panels, ensured no outside ears could penetrate. The table at the center, sleek and polished to an unnatural sheen, stretched long enough to remind everyone exactly where authority sat.
There were no curtains here. There was no need to block out the world when the world was already forced to look up.
At its head, Governor Tate leaned back, fingers steepled, watching the discussion unfold with the easy patience of a man who already knew the outcome. The steady thrum of helicopters outside underscored his quiet confidence—the weight of authority humming in the air, just beyond the glass.
Beside him, Selene sat in silence, her posture composed yet coiled, the sharpness in her expression betraying the inevitability of what was to come.
They had been at this for over four hours.
“The process to dissolve marriages is pretty streamlined,” one of the legal advisors said, skimming the info in front of him. “The system auto-files the dissolutions: no hearings, no paperwork. Just a notification, and then the marriage records are wiped within seventy-two hours.”
“Cold,” someone muttered with a soft chuckle.
“Efficient,” Tate corrected smoothly.
Another advisor nodded. “We position it as a necessary correction, nothing punitive. A realignment with traditional values, just as the public wanted.”
Selene finally spoke, her voice even. “And what happens after the dissolution?”
A silence stretched.
“Eventually, we’ll undo the rest, too,” the advisor said. “Joint accounts will automatically split; the state decides who gets what. Health benefits get dropped unless they sign up on their own.” He shrugged. “If they try to fight it, we just drag it out. They’ll give up before we do.”
“You’re moving too fast. Why not just repeal marriage?” Selene asked, arching a brow. “Are existing dissolutions really necessary? Massachusetts, Michigan, California, they all left existing marriages intact.”
“It’s already decided, sweetie.” Tate’s tone was edged with condescension, the kind usually reserved for a misbehaving child—sharp, dismissive, a reminder of exactly who held the power.
The room absorbed that.
Selene sank back into her chair, exhausted by the theatrics.
A room full of men with grand ideas and not a shred of foresight, playing at power without considering the weight of consequence.
But history had a way of humbling men who mistook control for invincibility—who ignored desperation until it turned into a problem.
The tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t just the logistics of dissolving marriages that brought them here. The conversation also circled something else, someone else.
One of the council members leaned forward, tapping a tablet against the table.
“There’s been some notable pushback in the Warehouse District.
Protests and increased network activity.
It’s still contained, but certain names keep surfacing.
” He flicked his fingers across the display, scanning. “Most notably, Eden Embry.”
Selene tilted her head slightly, interest flickering across her face. She knew that name.
Tate exhaled, exasperated. “Eden Embry.” He let the name settle like an unpleasant aftertaste. “Again?”
“She’s persistent,” the advisor admitted. “And reckless. She’s been leading protests for years, but we’ve never classified her as a direct threat. Mostly noise, no real traction.”
Selene hummed lightly. “Yet here we are. Discussing her.”
The advisor hesitated before nodding.
“Her groups meet regularly at a bar called Birkenbrew,” he continued. “We’ve flagged it for some time. It’s an independent brewery, not officially tied to any organized resistance, but a known hub for anti-administration elements.”
Selene drummed her fingers against the table. “What do we know about her?”
A tablet slid down the table, stopping neatly in front of her. She swiped it open and scanned its contents.
“Young. Mid-twenties,” the intelligence officer summarized. “No family in-state. Chicago native. Black father, white mother. One brother. Blue-collar upbringing. Brilliant student, but dropped out of college before finishing her degree.”
That caught Selene’s attention. It was rare for kids from working-class families to attend university unless something unusual made it possible.
The advisor continued before she could question it. “And she’s an unconfirmed hacker.”
“How credible?”
The officer shrugged. “Hard to say. There is no direct evidence of cyber intrusions, but strong associations exist. We’ve seen suspected breaches and anonymous leaks. The timing is convenient and aligns with her movements. She could turn into a threat.”
Tate snorted. “Great. Another little woman with a god complex.”
The light from the screen flickered through the room, catching on the diamond iris at Selene’s throat as she moved. The gem shifted with the glow, deep amber one moment, to shades of pink and yellow the next.
She ignored the comment, her fingers gliding smoothly across the screen as she swiped to another section of the file.
Birkenbrew.
A gathering place for people who thought they were special.
“She’s got a wide network,” the officer continued. “She’s been vocal about restoring old activist movements, rallying people. But that won’t be an issue for long. We can have her digital presence wiped within the hour.”
Selene gently pushed the tablet away, glancing up. “And then what?”
The advisor hesitated, glancing around like the answer should be obvious. “Then she’s out of the conversation. Publicly, at least.”
Selene set her hands neatly in her lap. “Do you think that’s enough?”
A silence stretched.
Everyone in the room knew that online control wasn’t what it used to be.
The government tried relentlessly to tighten its grip on digital platforms. Algorithms ensured certain narratives didn’t gain traction. Flagged content was removed before it reached critical mass. Yet, somehow, people still found ways to circumvent it.
For every deleted account, three more emerged. Communication was always one step ahead, whether through encrypted forums, off-grid networks, or underground signal hubs. It was a game of cat and mouse that the administration would never stop playing.
Selene leaned forward slightly, tapping a single finger against the table. “She’s survived this long because she adapts. She’s an engineer and a strategist. Removing her presence slows her down, but it won’t neutralize her.”
Tate’s smirk returned. “Then we hit her harder.”
The intelligence officer nodded. “We can disrupt her network. Detain a few of her key players and apply pressure. Let them turn on each other. She’s not untouchable. She’s just loud.”
Selene considered that.
“She’s emotionally driven,” she murmured. “That makes her volatile. Predictable. We can use that.”
Tate gestured loosely. “You have a recommendation?”
“Let me dig deeper.” She lifted her glass, watching the deep red swirl in the light before taking a slow sip. “There’s always something.”
She leaned back, one leg crossing over the other, the diamond iris now catching the flicker of a helicopter spotlight outside.
The room stilled. Waiting.
Selene sipped her wine, a trace of amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. “The best collapses don’t come from outside pressure.” Her gaze flicked toward Tate. “They come from within.”
Tate chuckled, slow and knowing. “Nothing like watching them light the match themselves.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the table.
Tate leaned back, pleased. Outside, the city pulsed, unaware.
“Let’s get to work.”
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