The Devil and the Data Chart
The Devil and the Data Chart takes place in Samantha Grey's home timeline of Dimension Delta Zeta 17-46.
In the neon-lit shadows of 1957, the North American Federal Republic stands as a bastion of industrial might and paranoia, its factories roaring amidst a cold war with an Imperial foe. *The Devil and the Data Chart* thrusts us into the covert machinations of Internal Security Bureau's Counterintelligence, where secrets are weapons and loyalty is a chain. As global powers vie for dominance in a race to conquer the stars, a stolen technological marvel threatens to tip the balance, forcing the nation’s guardians to confront forces beyond mortal ken.
At the heart of this crucible, Agent Lila Carver, a woman scarred by past obedience, navigates a world where duty clashes with conscience. Under the iron gaze of Director Harlan Voss, she leads a team tasked with safeguarding the Republic’s ambitions. They are the sentinels who know of powers long thought banished—energies that pulse in the dark, wielded by allies and enemies alike. In a nation where progress demands sacrifice, Carver and her superiors grapple with choices that could forge empires or unleash catastrophe, where the greatest peril lies not in the rival beyond, but in the haunted depths of their own resolve.
The Story
Act 1: Echoes of Duty
Steel and Secrets
Detroit-Windsor, 1957. CI, Counter-Intel, agent Lila Carver strode through the glass-and-steel atrium of NAFR Internal Security Bureau's Counterintelligence Command, her boots echoing beneath Detroit-Windsor’s neon-lit skyline. The capital pulsed with ambition, its factories churning machine parts, chemicals, chips, aerospace assemblies, and even space systems. The Great Lakes region was heavily industrialized, and even though new factories in the Mexican States might soon surpass it, it was the heart of NAFR industrial might today. A theft at the Stellar Dynamics Institute had raised alarms in Counterintelligence, and Lila’s comms buzzed with orders: report to the bunker for a priority briefing. After her misstep in the Navajo Roundup—the NAFR’s forced relocation of the few hundred remaining Navajo people, her people, where faulty intel cost her squad—she couldn’t afford to fail.
In a sterile war room, Director Harlan Voss stood beside Dr. Clara Henshaw, a physicist with tired eyes. A projector displayed a rocket engine, its nozzle annotated with cryptic equations and bold “Top Secret” markings. Voss’s voice was steel: “Four days ago, a data chart was stolen from our Great Lakes facility. It’s the key to Project Ascension’s next phase. The thief, for now codenamed Cipher, appears to have been an Imperial sleeper agent deep inside the R&D establishment.”
Henshaw cleared her throat, projecting confidence. “The NAFR and Imperials have satellites in orbit, but our engines limit scale—small payloads, infrequent launches. The chart details performance envelope data, produced at incalculable expense from months of classified experiments, for a new Collapsium coating. This super-dense material, applied in nanometer layers to engine components, withstands 5,500 Kelvin and extreme pressures, boosting thrust efficiency tenfold. With it, we can put warships in orbit, not just stations. If the Imperials get it, their greater industrial potential will outpace us in space. This is our chance to catch up to the Imperial bastards and dominate the new frontier.”
Lila leaned forward, studying the schematic. “No way to trace the chart?”
Henshaw shook her head. “It’s just microfilm—clean, no trackers, no traces. But the Institute’s records—access logs, personnel files—are intact.”
Voss jabbed a finger. “Carver, you’re lead. Narrow the suspect pool, identify Cipher, recover the chart. Take Agents Ruiz and Kessler for support.”
Lila nodded, her mind racing. Hunting down her people's separatists had taught her trust was a luxury, but success was survival.
Threads of Treason
At Counterintelligence Command’s data vault, Lila sifted through Stellar Dynamics’ records with Agents Marco Ruiz, a wiry codebreaker, and Hannah Kessler, a surveillance expert. The files listed forty-seven scientists with chart access. Lila cross-referenced entry logs against personnel histories, flagging anomalies: one older scientist, Dr. Elena Korsakov, had inconsistent travel records and a suspiciously sparse pre-NAFR background. A 1954 family leave in Belize, a hellhole south of the border. No one named Korsakov visits family there, and ever since it was taken from Imperials in the Honduran wars, it's been rife with enemy stay-behinds. “Korsakov’s our thief,” Lila said, her gut certain.
Ruiz cracked his knuckles. “Let’s pay her a visit.”
Shadows of Flight
Korsakov’s apartment, a sleek high-rise in Detroit-Windsor’s academic district, was dark when Lila, Ruiz, and Kessler arrived. The door was ajar, the lock forced. Inside, papers littered the floor—hastily packed, a coffee cup still warm. Kessler swept for bugs, finding none, while Ruiz checked a desk. “Got something,” he said, holding a torn map fragment marked with coordinates in the Allegheny Mountains.
Lila checked the site coordinates using her comm: a defunct NAFR listening post—abandoned and empty. A burner comms device, half-destroyed, held a partial message: “… renew contact … Volya … Allegheny …”
Lila’s jaw tightened. “She’s moving fast, likely to hand off the chart.”
Kessler frowned. “That facility’s bound to be a maze filled with trouble—wrecked buildings, traps, and fifty ways to be ambushed. We’ll need backup.”
Lila shook her head. “No, not yet. We three move now, catch her before she slips.”
Into the Mist
Voss’s orders echoed in her mind: recover the chart, no excuses. Arizona’s ghosts—her squad’s screams—pushed her forward. She holstered her pistol, Ruiz and Kessler falling in step.
As their skimmer hummed toward the Alleghenies, the city’s glow faded behind them. The listening post loomed ahead, a concrete husk in the misty peaks. Lila gripped the chart’s stakes: a tenfold leap for NAFR’s space program, or an Imperial victory. “Let’s bring Cipher, no—Korsakov, down,” she said, her voice steady, ready for the hunt.
Act 2: Chains of Command
Den of Vipers
The Allegheny Mountains loomed, their fog-choked peaks hiding the abandoned NAFR listening post. Lila crouched in the skimmer’s shadow, her civilian leather jacket blending with the dusk. Beside her, Ruiz and Kessler adjusted their own nondescript gear—jeans, flannel, no NAFR insignia. The coordinates from Korsakov’s apartment led here, to a supposedly abandoned post which, it turned out, wasn’t empty at all. It was alive with activity, a black-market flea market none of them knew existed. They had to be clever; jammers? Daylight and thermal camo? The thought of crime on this scale sickened her; you knew it was there, but it was quite another thing to see it—a constant drain, holding the country back. Today wasn’t the day to deal with it. Lila’s pulse quickened; the Roundup had taught her, bitterly, to expect the unexpected, and the stakes of this mission demanded immediate action.
The listening post’s concrete husk buzzed with illicit life. Rusted antennae towers framed a courtyard packed with stalls, lit by flickering sodium lamps and jury-rigged generators. And there was the jury-rigged scintillator array—that was what kept them secret here. Smugglers hawked NAFR tech—cracked encryption chips, prototype plasma coils, even a dented drone chassis labeled “Stellar Dynamics surplus.” The air reeked of ozone and stale liquor. Shady figures bartered in hushed tones, their eyes darting to avoid NAFR patrols that never came. A tattooed vendor offered Lila a “decommissioned” hypervelocity rifle; she feigned interest, but then passed by, mouth shut.
Ruiz, posing as a tech scavenger, chatted up a stall owner about microdrone guidance systems, while Kessler scanned the crowd with a hidden pin-camera. Lila’s CI training kicked in—blend, observe, strike. She muttered into her concealed comms, “Anything?”
Ruiz’s voice crackled back, “Nada. This place is a smuggler’s paradise.”
Kessler’s whisper followed, “Wait—northeast corner. Looks like our girl, with hostile operatives.”
Words of Warning
Lila’s gaze snapped to Dr. Elena Korsakov, her briefcase clutched tightly, arguing with three figures in dark overcoats. Their postures screamed military, not criminal. Korsakov’s voice rose, “—not what we agreed!”
A gaunt man with sunken eyes stepped forward, his voice low but commanding, tinged with a Slavic accent. Lila’s gut screamed Imperial—probably a Janissary. She signaled Ruiz and Kessler, “Move in, now. Arrest on my mark.” Silent hand signals quickly coordinated their approaches.
The agents closed in, weaving through increasingly agitated vendors. Lila drew her silenced pistol, barking, “Federal Counterintelligence! Korsakov, hands up!”
Cinders and Chaos
The gaunt man’s eyes locked on her, his voice slithering, “Drop your weapons.”
Lila heard a strange echo of his voice in her mind—her arms betrayed her, obeying that voice, pistol clattering to the dirt. Ruiz and Kessler froze as well, their guns falling to the ground. The man—Volya, codenamed Illustrious—smirked, his mind-control implants pulsing faintly at his temples.
Chaos erupted. The Imperial team, six heavily armed operatives, opened fire with compact automatic carbines. Arms limp, the three of them dived toward cover. Civilians screamed, fleeing as stalls splintered. A smuggler caught a stray round, collapsing in a heap. Lila dove behind a crate, Volya’s command fading after barely half a minute. Her hands still felt numb, but they obeyed her. She grabbed her pistol, returned fire, but the Imperials’ concealed body armor shrugged off her rounds.
Ruiz shouted, “Flank left!” but a carbine burst cut him down, his body crumpling. Kessler sprinted for cover, only to take a shot to the chest, her camera skittering across the dirt.
Lila’s heart pounded, Arizona’s ghosts screaming in her mind. The Imperials formed a protective cordon around Korsakov, Volya urging her toward the woods. They ignored Lila, their focus on escape. She fired a desperate shot, grazing an Imperial’s arm, then bolted through a collapsing stall, dodging debris. The market emptied, survivors vanishing into the fog. Lila stumbled into the woods, her comms crackling as she gasped for breath.
Huddled behind a pine, Lila activated her secure line to Counterintelligence Command. “Voss, it’s Carver. Ruiz and Kessler are down. Korsakov’s with an Imperial tactical team—professionals, armed to the teeth. Their leader … he did something; I can’t explain it, my arms and hands just quit working. We were outclassed.”
Voss’s reply was curt, “Hold position, Carver. Patching you through.”
A new voice, smooth and unfamiliar, cut in. “Agent Carver, this is Senior Special Agent Marcus Vell, Federal Security Bureau, seconded to CI. You’re being read into an Above Top-Secret classified program: Sector-14. You will be held to the highest secrecy standard on this. We handle … extraordinary threats. Your Imperial opponent, the name you found in the apartment, Volya, is likely Illustrious, a metahuman asset known to Sector-14. He has what you can think of as superpowers. You’re not equipped for this alone.”
Lila’s jaw tightened—FSB? Sector-14? Superpowers? Vell continued, “We’re sending you aid: Special Tasking Group 9; two operatives. Stay put until they arrive.”
Embers of Aid
Lila crouched in the Alleghenies’ chill, the market’s distant fires glowing. Hours later, a sleek military skimmer landed silently. A man in black tactical gear stepped out, and then a woman followed, her red eyes glinting, bat wings folded under a cloak, horns peeking through dark hair, and Lila felt a hot, unnatural breeze flow through her, bringing a hint of brimstone.
Samantha Grey, Sector-14’s half-infernal asset, sized Lila up. “Agent Carver? I'm Agent Grey, this is Agent Kane, my field support speciliast. We’re the cavalry. You’re still in field command, but I recommend we move out in pursuit. I’m Sector-14’s infernal asset—flames and kinetic force are my strengths. I can fly a bit, and I can teleport—instantly appear in other places if I can see them. I can … amplify allies in a pinch, too, but it’s taxing. I’ll brief you on my full capabilities and Illustrious’ threat level en route.”
Beside her, a wiry man in tactical gear—Samantha’s support specialist, Agent Theo Kane—grinned ear to ear, his delight obvious. “First time seeing one of them, huh? Gets better; the words don’t do it justice, trust me.”
Lila stared, her CI instincts warring with shock. A demon? But Illustrious’s powers flashed in her mind, and Grey's supernatural aura promised a counter. She fought down a near-instinctive revulsion of that aura; the data chart’s trail was fading, Korsakov slipping away. Lila’s grip on her pistol tightened, the word “teleportation” sparking unease. It was a lot, and heavily magical. They’d cleansed all of that last century, hadn’t they? She nodded curtly. “Brief me en route, Grey. Let’s move.”
Act 3: Burden of Choices
Trails in the Fog
Agent Lila Carver boarded the Special Tasking Group 9 skimmer alongside the two operatives, its engines roaring in the Alleghenies’ fog-shrouded dusk as it lifted to hover, scanning for Imperial tracks. The Sector-14 skimmer had advanced sensors—ground multilateration radar, magnetometers, lidars, the works. Below them, the black market’s wreckage—shattered stalls, scorched NAFR tech—smoldered, a tomb for Ruiz and Kessler. Her hand rested on her pistol, heavy in its holster, her CI instincts clashing with the shock of Volya’s mind-control and the unnatural aura of Samantha Grey, Sector-14’s half-infernal operative. Her nose twitched at the hint of brimstone in the cabin’s air. Samantha’s red eyes scanned a map, her bat wings tucked under a cloak, horns barely visible. Theo Kane, the team’s tactical specialist, spoke into the cockpit comm as he piloted the skimmer, his grin incongruous amid the tension. The microfilm data chart, encoding a Collapsium coating to revolutionize NAFR’s space program, was slipping away with Korsakov and her Imperial handlers.
Lila’s comm unit map flickered, the Alleghenies’ peaks scrambling signals. “No ground tracks, no beacons,” she said, voice taut. “We know they didn’t hike out—they’re airborne. Skimmer, VTOL, low-altitude to dodge radar.”
Theo nodded, working flight controls and flipping switches on the skimmer’s main comm unit. “Smart call, boss. And there, see it? Scorch marks where a skimmer took off on high power—only way to vanish this fast. I’m tapping air traffic nets—civilian towers, military radar. We’ll find that skimmer … I’m getting system delays and security challenges.”
Samantha, her tail curling slightly, added, “They’ll try to stick to valleys, avoid air defense command patrols and search radars, but they can’t get far that way. Theo will find them anyway.”
Lila shot her a look. “They’ve a two-hour head start, and you’re that sure of Kane?”
Samantha’s gaze held steady, unyielding. “Agent Kane will get it done. Trust him. I do.”
Lila retorted without thinking, “You trust him, but I don’t trust you.”
Samantha half-smiled, a gentle smirk and a glint in her eyes. “You should.”
That was unsettling. Theo linked to Great Lakes Air Control Command, pulling feeds from air traffic control radars. The search was grueling—civilian controllers stalled, muttering about “system glitches,” while military channels demanded layered clearance codes. Theo was good at his job; he’d supported metahumans in Sector-14 Special Tasking Groups for years, and was steadily talking through the traffic control bureaucracy. Sitting in the cabin of the skimmer, doing nothing while they searched, Lila felt useless. Her patience frayed, the Navajo Roundup’s ghosts rising: orders to uproot families, dissidents and separatists, yes, but they were still people. Her people. People she had trusted. And then betrayed. Faulty intel, her squad’s screams in an Arizona canyon.
“The Roundup wasn’t just a failure,” she confessed, voice low, gripping the steady-bar and turning to face Samantha in the other seat. Samantha turned to her—everyone knew about the Roundup. “It was wrong—breaking people for ‘security.’ I’m chasing this chart for the same damn machine, and it’s eating me.”
Samantha’s wings shifted, her expression softening. “We all do things we don’t like, follow orders we can’t stand. I do it because I’m loyalty-bound to the Republic by magic. Why do you?”
Lila’s jaw tightened, eyes distant. She hadn’t expected that. “The Nation’s needs come before any individual’s; any groups'. But it still hurts.”
Questioningly, she stared at Samantha’s red eyes. Why was she being so open to an operative she had only met hours ago? The demoness had a raw charisma, that was obvious, but also, she had a weary age to her, and a glint of wisdom in her eyes, perhaps hard-earned. Samantha nodded gravely, her voice a whisper. “I have my faith in my secret heart. Without it, I would have been lost ages ago. You need something to hold to, or it’ll burn you up inside.”
Theo’s holo-display pinged, breaking the moment. “Got it—unregistered skimmer, popped up twenty miles east, no flight plan. It’s hugging the valleys, dodging radar sweeps, but not all of them.”
Lila traced the path, her pulse quickening. “Northeast, Gulf of St. Lawrence. Where’s it headed?”
Theo cross-checked NAFR archives, his grin fading. “They're on a beeline towards an old shipyard, shuttered after a ’52 nuclear accident—atomic sub construction went haywire, melted a reactor. Place is a toxic pit now, perfect for Imp cutouts.”
Lila’s mind flashed to the black market’s scintillator array, another NAFR relic turned against them. Theo got the skimmer’s engines up to full power, and it roared out over the treetops, accelerating fast enough to push Lila back in her seat.
Her comms crackled with Director Voss’s voice. “Carver, Command’s tearing me apart over that market disaster. Dead agents, dead smugglers—recover the chart at any cost!”
Lila’s grip on her pistol tightened, the Roundup’s Navajo faces merging with the market’s chaos. “We’ve got a lead, sir—shipyard, Gulf of St. Lawrence. Imperials are moving fast, and we’re on their trail.”
Voss growled, “No excuses, Carver; your rear is on the line.”
The comm cut, leaving her resolve hardened but her doubts raw. Samantha pulled off her cloak, flexed her wings, and adjusted the webbing on her tactical harness. “Illustrious—Volya—his mind-control’s short, thirty seconds at best. Implants overheat, cause migraines. We push him, he cracks. Then we can roll over his conventional troops.”
Lila met her gaze, grudging respect battling revulsion. “And your limits? That … magic?”
Samantha’s tail stilled, her voice firm. “A Geas, a spell. It chains me to our Nation, I'm yours to command. But my faith keeps my soul free. Doubt’s your chain—don’t let it break you. You’ll want to gear up—body armor and heavy weapons in that locker.”
Theo, packing the relay, smirked. “She’s the real deal, boss. You’ll see. Let’s bag some Imps.”
Rust and Ruin
Gulf of St. Lawrence. The Special Tasking Group 9 skimmer settled silently on a rocky outcrop overlooking the derelict shipyard, its engines cooling in the fog-choked night. Rusted cranes loomed like skeletal giants, their silhouettes framing a maze of abandoned freighters, chemical barrels, and crumbling piers. The air stung with acrid fumes, remnants of a 1952 nuclear meltdown that had irradiated the site during atomic submarine construction. Lila Carver, clad in Sector-14 body armor, adjusted her gas mask, the brimstone scent of Samantha Grey and the shipyard’s toxic haze filtered to distant hints. Samantha, wings folded under her tactical harness and form-fitting light body armor, scanned the perimeter with red eyes, her tail twitching. Theo Kane, securing the skimmer’s sensors, swapped his grin for a focused nod, his holo-display mapping the shipyard’s layout.
Lila whispered into her comms, “This place is a death trap—radiation, fumes, unstable structures. We move fast, quiet, find Korsakov before they extract.”
Her mind flashed to the Roundup’s cost—families broken, her squad lost—doubting the NAFR’s orders even as she led.
Samantha’s voice was low, “I see movement near the central dock. Imperials, armed, maybe eight. Volya’s with them.”
Lila tensed, her distrust flaring. “You … see that, through this fog? Are you certain?”
Samantha’s horns glinted, her tone sharp but calm. “Faith may guide me, Carver, but my eyes work fine. Trust the intel, not the source.”
Theo cut in, “She’s right, boss. I have them on remote thermal scan now—heat signatures, dock area, submersible prepped. They’re gearing for a handoff and exfil.”
Before descending, Lila eyed Samantha’s heeled boots. “Those won’t trip you in this maze? And no mask?”
Samantha smirked, “Boots are boots, Carver, and the rads and chems don't affect me much. I’m not human anymore, leave it at that.”
The team descended into the shipyard, navigating a labyrinth of corroded hulls and leaking barrels, the ground slick with oily residue. Lila led, the assault rifle she’d traded her pistol for slung ready, her gas mask fogging with each breath. Theo’s portable scanner pinged softly, detecting Imperial tripwires—laser grids hidden in the fog. “Clever bastards,” he muttered, rigging a bypass with a micro-EMP pulse, his fingers steady from years with Sector-14. Samantha moved like a cat, her infernal agility dodging unstable beams. She carefully stepped over a pipe, brushing it with a high wedge heel, but it made no sound.
At a rusted freighter’s edge, they spotted the central dock: Korsakov, briefcase clutched, stood beside a sleek Imperial submersible, its hull glinting in the sodium lamps. Volya, implants pulsing at his temples, directed six operatives in lightweight armor, carbines slung. Two additional sentries patrolled the pier, their visors scanning the fog. Lila’s heart raced—eight enemies, plus Volya’s mind-control, in a toxic maze. She signaled a plan: Theo would disable the submersible’s systems remotely, Samantha would flank to disrupt Volya and then overpower his troops, and Lila would close on Korsakov. “No heroics,” Lila ordered. “Chart first.”
Theo crouched behind a barrel, syncing his scanner to the submersible’s frequency. “Give me ninety seconds to fry their nav,” he said, fingers flying.
Samantha nodded, slipping into the shadows, ready to throw fire, teleport onto Volya’s position, and pulse her kinetic field to shatter Volya’s focus. Lila noticed a shimmer of flames surround Samantha as the half-devil summoned her full powers to readiness and edged forward, but a toxic fume breached her mask’s filter, burning her throat. She coughed, vision blurring, the Roundup’s Navajo faces flashing—orders followed, lives lost. Samantha’s hand steadied her, her infernal warmth cutting the chill. “Breathe, Carver. Doubt’s heavy, but you’re not alone.”
Lila pulled away, grudgingly grateful, her resolve hardening. Theo’s EMP pulse sparked, killing the submersible’s lights. Imperial sentries fired suppresive bursts out into the fog, pinning Lila behind a hull. Korsakov flinched, clutching the briefcase, retreating toward the submersible’s hatch. Samantha’s fireball lit the dock, scattering two operatives. Volya’s hand brushed his temple, implants pulsing, before his command, “Stand down!”
Lila froze, limbs locked, until Samantha teleported atop Volya, wings flaring, her kinetic pulses slamming him to his knees, implants sparking. Her infernal aura surged; a gesture from Samantha boosted Lila and Theo’s reflexes, making Lila feel energized, fast, powerful. Samantha’s eyes flickered, her breath labored from the aura’s surge, her demonic energy taxed in the irradiated air. Lila’s boosted reflexes steadied her assault rifle, her shots pinning an operative. No pity for these foreign bastards—not like the Navajo, Americans broken by her own guilty hands. Theo’s scanner recalibrated despite radiation, guiding their path.
“Nav’s down! Move!” Theo shouted, the team advancing, Korsakov’s briefcase just out of reach.
Fire and Doubt
The shipyard’s toxic fog churned, sodium lamps casting jagged shadows across rusted cranes and chemical barrels. The submersible’s hull loomed at the central dock, its lights dead from Theo's EMP. Lila crouched behind a corroded hull, her assault rifle steady, boosted reflexes humming from Samantha Grey’s infernal magic. She fired at an Imperial operative, her rounds sparking; then, a head shot, and he went down. Dr. Elena Korsakov clutched the microfilm briefcase, inches from the submersible’s hatch. Volya, codenamed Illustrious, staggered to his feet, implants sparking from Samantha’s kinetic pulse, barking orders to the remaining operatives, their carbines sweeping the fog. The man’s resilience was unreal, but Grey was on him, buffeting him with force and fire, interrupting his every attempt. More sentries lay dead, scorched, limbs twisted, blood spilled and boiling from her fires. Samantha, bat wings twitching, flitted about and around Illustrious with infernal speed, throwing fire out towards the other operatives at every opportnity. Her red eyes flickered with strain from her aura’s toll. Theo, scanner flickering from radiation, synced to the submersible’s systems, fingers racing to hack its defenses.
Lila yelled into comms, “Korsakov’s mine. Grey, keep Volya pinned. Kane, take out their heavy weapons.”
Her Navajo ghosts—uprooted families, lost squad—urged her forward, but doubt gnawed: was the chart worth this carnage? Samantha, bound by her Geas to obey Lila’s orders, crackled back, “Volya’s almost broken—he's in agony. I’ll scatter their other troops.”
Theo grunted urgently, “Sub’s got a 7.62mm turret, automated. Hacking its fire control—thirty seconds!”
Toxic fumes stung Lila’s throat, her gas mask fogging, the Roundup’s screams echoing. The submersible’s turret whirred, locking onto Samantha’s heat signature. Theo’s scanner pinged, overriding its targeting. “Turret’s mine!” he hissed.
Samantha’s fireball erupted, searing an operative’s armor, his body crumpling. Her kinetic pulse shoved Volya back, his temple clutched in agony, mind-control faltering. “You’re done,” he snarled, implants buzzing.
Lila sprinted through oily residue, her boosted speed closing on Korsakov, assault rifle ready. An Imperial operative lobbed a concussion grenade, its blast catching Samantha mid-pulse. She crashed into a barrel, wings flaring, her infernal aura dimming, fiery aura taxed by the shock, as she gasped, “Carver, now!”
Lila’s amplified reflexes surged, her rifle barking precise bursts. Two operatives dropped, armor pierced, blood staining the dock. Lila’s shots pinned a third, her CI training cutting through the fog, the Roundup’s weight fueling her focus. No mercy for Imps.
Theo’s hack froze the turret mid-swing, his fingers sealing the submersible’s hatches. “Got it! Turret’s down! Escape route locked!” he shouted.
Korsakov stumbled, briefcase slipping as Lila tackled her, pinning her against the hull. “Hand it over!” Lila growled, wrenching the case free.
Korsakov’s eyes pleaded, “Collapsium—it’s unstable! Its coating process releases isotopes, toxic like this shipyard’s meltdown. One misstep in production, and you’re poisoning millions—air, water, soil, gone for centuries. I’ve seen the data; it’s why I took the chart. We can’t control it! It’s a death sentence for both our nations!”
Lila’s grip tightened, Navajo faces flashing. “That’s not your call, Korsakov. National leadership weighs risks like these—our scientists, our generals, not you, traitor. You’d say anything to escape with the chart. Your word’s worth nothing; you’ve been lying since before Belize—probably lying all your life.”
Yet doubt gnawed, heavy as the Roundup’s ghosts. Korsakov might be genuine, but duty demanded obedience. The NAFR accepted risks—obedience, crushed spirits, social coercion, polluted rivers, endless wars—all hard choices made necessary to resist the Imperials and the slavery they’d bring. If Collapsium’s cost was millions poisoned to keep them free, so be it. Following orders always hurt, but she’d do it—for the Republic.
Samantha recovered, her Geas compelling her to finish Lila’s orders despite fatigue. She darted over Volya with infernal speed, a kinetic pulse slamming him face-first into the dock, his implants shorting as he went limp—unconscious, captured for Sector-14 interrogation. “Volya's down and out.” The remaining operatives, cornered by Theo’s sealed hatches and Lila’s gunfire, fell to Samantha’s final fireballs, their bodies charred—more casualties to weigh, in turn, on Samantha’s soul.
The dock fell silent, fumes curling, Korsakov trembling under Lila’s grip. Lila secured the briefcase, her boosted strength fading, Korsakov’s warning echoing. Samantha’s breath was labored, her infernal aura spent, eyes dim, wings trembling from the grenade’s toll. Theo packed his scanner, nodding. “We're in the clear. Sub’s locked.”
The shipyard’s toxic haze pressed in, the chart recovered, but Lila’s doubts grew.
Ashes of Resolve
The shipyard’s toxic fog lingered, its rusted cranes and chemical barrels silent under flickering sodium lamps. The submersible’s hull, locked by Theo Kane’s hack, loomed as a tomb for the Imperial casualties. Lila stood on the central dock, the microfilm filled briefcase secured, her assault rifle slung, gas mask dangling. Her quarry, Dr. Korsakov, knelt, wrists bound, her face pale under Lila’s shadow. Volya, unconscious and restrained, lay nearby, his implants dark, ready for Sector-14 interrogation. Lila knew security protocol—combatant prisoners like Volya rarely survived it. Samantha Grey leaned against a crate, wings folded, breath still labored from her infernal aura’s toll. Her red eyes dim, yet vigilant, Lila realized the strain it put on her—not just from her powers, but from that tight leash of obedience—she had obeyed in every way. Theo, scanner packed, monitored the submersible’s systems, his tech expertise guarding against surprises. The air reeked of ozone and blood, the shipyard’s irradiated haze a mirror to Korsakov’s warning: Could Collapsium’s instability poison millions more?
Lila’s comms crackled with Director Voss’s voice: “Carver, status. Command’s breathing down my neck—chart secured?”
Lila reported, voice steady but strained, “Chart’s ours again, sir. Korsakov’s in custody, Illustrious neutralized. Heavy enemy losses—seven Imps down.”
Voss growled, “Good. You’ll be debriefed at a covert facility near Detroit-Windsor. Your tactical team knows the location; I’ll be there personally to take the chart and Korsakov into custody. Sector-14 will take the enemy meta. No delays.”
The line cut, leaving Lila staring at Korsakov, her Navajo guilt rising—families uprooted, Arizona’s screams. Korsakov’s plea echoed: Collapsium’s isotopes, toxic like this shipyard, could kill millions. Lila’s ingrained loyalty—no pity for foreign bastards—wavered, the republic's painful costs flooding her mind: authoritarianism, conscription, social coercion, racial marriages, polluted rivers, endless wars. The Nation accepted those to survive the Imperials. Collapsium’s risks were no different, were they?
Korsakov, sensing Lila’s hesitation, spoke, her voice low but urgent: “Agent, you heard me. Collapsium’s not just a weapon—it’s a catastrophe. The coating’s atomic bindings decay unpredictably, releasing wild isotopes, poisoning soil, water, people for centuries. I stole the chart to stop it, not for the Imperials. You saw this shipyard’s scars—multiply that across your Great Lakes. You can still act. Destroy the chart, or let me comm a copy to the other side. More scientists studying it could find a safer way!”
Lila’s jaw tightened, her CI training kicking in. “You don’t get to lecture me, Korsakov. The NAFR’s leadership—scientists, generals, President Patton—they decide what risks we take. They already have the chart’s data; this is about denying it to your side. You’re an enemy agent, a sleeper, lying since Belize, lying all your life! You’d spin any story to save your skin.”
But inside, doubt gnawed. What if she’s right? Navajo faces flashed—people broken by orders she followed. She’d been conscripted at twenty, guarding Navajo detainees for the ISB, ones who only wanted to marry within their own people, their screams haunting her. The NAFR’s machine demanded obedience, just like Samantha’s Geas. It accepted pollution for industrial strength, demanded cross-race marriages for unity, conscripted soldiers to fight wars to keep the Republic free. If Collapsium meant victory, or even just survival, the cost was justified. Yet the guilt burned, heavier than ever. Did the Republic have copies of this data, as she assumed, or was the chart in this case the only copy in existence?
Samantha, Geas-bound to the Republic and Lila’s command, stepped closer, her tail twitching with fatigue. “Orders, Carver? She’s a traitor—hand her to Sector-14 with Volya.”
Her voice was firm, but her dim eyes softened, a flicker of faith mirroring Lila’s struggle. Lila hesitated, fingers brushing Korsakov’s comms device, still active in her coat. Destroying it would silence Korsakov, ensuring Federal control. But what if the warning was true? Lila thought of the Roundup, her squad’s blood, the NAFR’s polluted skies—costs she accepted for duty. Even just leaving the comm unit be could let Korsakov’s allies ping it, get copies of the chart if she’d made them—a chance to expose Collapsium’s flaws, get more scientists on the problem. A small rebellion against the machine, like sparing a Navajo dissident she never could.
Lila dropped Korsakov’s comm to the ground, crushing it under her boot, destroying any chance the Imps would get more data. Her voice lowered. “You’re going to Sector-14, Korsakov. They’ll prosecute you with whatever evidence we already have.”
Korsakov’s eyes widened, a mix of relief and fear. Samantha’s wings shifted, a subtle nod—she couldn’t disobey Lila’s choice, Geas or not, but her faith cried silently in empathy; Lila was as much a prisoner of her loyalty as she was of her Geas. Theo, checking the submersible, glanced over. “Risky, boss. Command won’t like it. Intel off that could have been valuable.”
Lila’s gaze hardened. “We can’t risk that she’s made copies off the microfilm.”
All pretense of moral superiority drained from Korsakov’s face. “You fool. I’ve already radioed the gist of it ahead. The Empire will have Collapsium too! Long live Her Majesty—”
A heavy thunk as Lila’s rifle butt slammed into Korsakov’s gut, knocking the wind, and words, out of her. “Shut up, traitor.”
The team prepared to extract, Lila securing the briefcase, Samantha and Theo stowing their prisoners. The shipyard’s haze pressed in. As their skimmer powered up, Korsakov’s ruined comm unit hummed faintly, a partial signal escaping before dying in the bloody mud.
Walls of Faith
Lake Huron, Sector-14’s covert bunker, buried beneath the lake’s frigid depths, hummed with sterile efficiency—concrete walls, sodium lights, the faint vibration of turbines. Agent Lila Carver, conscripted into the ISB at twenty and now a CI Field Investigator, stood in a debriefing chamber, the microfilm briefcase on a steel table, its Collapsium secrets secured but possibly compromised by Korsakov’s betrayal. Director Voss, the ISB’s iron hand, loomed opposite, flanked by Sector-14 operatives in black fatigues. Samantha Grey, her bat wings tucked, stood at attention, her Geas masking lingering fatigue from the intense firefight. Theo Kane lingered near the chamber’s edge, his tech expertise and witness to events on standby. The air was heavy with antiseptic and dread.
Voss opened the debrief, his voice cutting: “Carver, your team recovered the chart, neutralized Illustrious, and detained Korsakov. Seven Imps dead—clean work. But her claim to have made transmissions implies the Imperials have partial Collapsium data. Explain.”
Lila, her CI training steady, recounted the shipyard: Korsakov’s lies about Collapsium’s dangers, her Imperial loyalty, the crushed comms. “I stopped her, sir, but not before she could have sent something. I prioritized the chart, like I did in ’54. Duty first.”
Voss’s eyes narrowed, ISB suspicion sharp. “You assumed the NAFR had copies. Sloppy, Carver. That chart was our only hard data. Now we must assume the Imperials are closer to their own Collapsium—they could be mass producing it within months. Korsakov's tightened the noose on us all.”
Lila’s stomach twisted. She’d crushed the comms, but the Republic was doomed to a tighter arms race anyway. Another Roundup, another failure. The wails of Navajo children she’d guarded in ’54 screamed louder.
Voss slid a document across the table: a Sector-14 non-disclosure agreement, its terms brutal. “Sign this, Carver. You’re read into Sector-14’s existence—metahumans, magic, superpowers, the real war. That knowledge makes you too valuable to release from service. Your CI stint has just turned into a career stepping stone; expect Sector-14 assignments now, not civilian life.”
Lila’s breath caught, her dreams of a family, a life beyond the ISB’s grip, shattering. Conscripted at twenty, breaking her own people, the Navajo, for the ISB, tracking down security leaks, now trapped forever. The NAFR’s machine—authoritarianism, coercion born of dire national need—claimed her again, just as it bound Samantha’s Geas. She signed, her hand steady but soul burning, the wails of the Roundup’s children louder than ever.
Voss nodded, dismissing her. “Korsakov’s in interrogation; Volya’s yielding Imperial plans. I’ve already signed your transfer, and Sector-14 has you on standby for their next op. It was good to have you on my team, but you’re now in FSB's hands.”
Lila, dismissed, sought Samantha, her only anchor in this sterile hell. A Sector-14 operative pointed her to the bunker’s chapel, a spartan room of concrete and pews, lit by a single sodium lamp. Samantha knelt in quiet prayer, a rosary in her clawed hands, her red eyes soft with faith. Lila sat beside her, the silence heavy.
“You ever wonder, Grey, if it’s worth it?” Lila’s voice cracked.
Samantha’s wings shifted, her Geas a mirror to Lila’s entrapment. “Every day, Lila. My Geas chains me, but faith … it’s my choice. You made yours—duty over doubt. Doesn’t mean it’s right; it just means you carry it. I heard you're moving over to join us. You can call me Sam.”
Lila gripped the pew, her guilt raw. “I wanted out; my term was almost up, Samantha.” *Sam felt too close, a name for a life she’d never have.* “These choices aren’t choices. They’re eating me up inside. I see the same thing in you. How can you stand it?”
Samantha’s eyes met hers, weary but steady. “What choice have we but to go on?”
Lila continued, “Even before I was conscripted, I wanted a family, a life. I broke Navajo songs, families, in ’54. I want to create, not destroy. And now … so much violence, so much death. I’m not made for it. I wanted children. Now …”
Her eyes watered, and she choked up. Samantha’s taloned hand settled on Lila’s forearm, strangely reassuring. “I wanted children once, too. I did duty in Poland, back in the Great War, in ’09. I loved a man there and … carried his child, for a while. Stillborn. Sector-14’s tests confirmed it—my infernal blood deforms and stills any child I might bear. Fate does unkind things to us all—brutal, cruel, hateful things. It tests us, sternly, severely. But I keep my faith. It can corrupt my body, it may steal your future, but it cannot take our souls unless we surrender to despair. Better times may come, and even if they don’t in this life, there is the next. Will you join me in a prayer?”
Lila assented and bowed her head as Samantha whispered, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …”
Lila joined, voice breaking, “Courage to change the things I can …”
Their voices merged, “And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will; that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next. Amen.”