The Conference, OSPREY

CHAPTER 19:

The Conference, OSPREY

Arrival of the Elite

A crisp wind cut through the Alrian highlands, carrying the scent of polished steel and the faint hum of high-powered engines. General Xerox, a man of meticulous precision, adjusted his navy-blue tie, the fabric smooth under his calloused fingers. His piercing gray eyes scanned the compound—left, right, then a full 360-degree sweep—analyzing every movement with the discipline of a man who had survived a thousand betrayals.

The OSPREY Conference Center stood like a monolithic fortress atop the city’s pinnacle, its towering structure casting a long shadow over the marble landing ports. Black motorcades rolled in seamlessly, their bulletproof glass gleaming under the early afternoon sun. Military-grade ERVs lined the tarmac as private jets descended onto high-level marking grounds, their turbines roaring before silencing into sleek whispers.

Diplomats, ministers, and royal envoys emerged, some adjusting their suits, others glancing warily at the hovering Predator Drones patrolling the sky. Security forces in black exoskeleton armor stood like statues, their helmets scanning faces through biometric lenses.

At the base of the grand staircase, Scott Steward Belvedere, the General’s personal aide, fumbled with a thick stack of classified documents. A gust of wind caught them, sending the pages fluttering like lost birds.

"Don't shame my figure, and dim my light today, Scott... Not today, not here," Xerox muttered, irritation curling his lip. He buttoned his coat with slow deliberation, then adjusted the platinum-plated opal ring on his pinky—a Dragonstone Gem split in two by an unknown mineral, fused together like an omen.

"Sorry, sir! It’s the wind, not me!" Scott stammered, chasing after the rebellious pages. His hands darted left and right, finally snatching the last one just before it escaped into the abyss. He let out a relieved sigh.

The General extended his hand, palm up.

"Gotcha!" He says, grabbing the last paper before it flew off.

Scott hesitated, swallowing hard before placing the final sheet—the General’s speech—into his waiting fingers. Without it, this entire summit would be pointless.

Xerox smoothed the creases, his face unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and ascended the steps toward destiny.

The Infiltrator

Beyond the security gates, a figure moved with controlled elegance. Nova Sykes—a woman whose presence could both enchant and unsettle—walked toward the checkpoint, her expression crafted into effortless sincerity.

The guard, a broad-shouldered brute with a laser-sighted rifle strapped to his chest, squinted at her. "Conference tag and ID card, please."

Nova gave him a soft, apologetic smile. "Ah… I must’ve left it on my desk this morning. I’m on the list, though. Nova Sykes. You can check."

The guard eyed her, skeptical. His visor glowed blue as he scanned the digital registry.

"Sykes… Miss Nova Sykes?"

"That’s right," she said smoothly, holding his gaze.

"Actually, make it Nova...You can call me Nova..." She replied, trying to be polite.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, ma’am. First turn on your right. Scientists and medical attendees are stationed in that section."

Nova exhaled, a subtle relief washing over her. She adjusted her coat and strode forward, disappearing into the compound’s grand halls.

This was, very well-established building situated high in the mountain peaks of Alria, right at the pinnacle of the city. This was the ultimate statute of the city, and the headquarters of the city's main discussions and board meetings.

Minister Simon Baldwin

The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of rotor blades echoed across the courtyard as another VIP helicopter touched down. From its sleek interior stepped a man dressed in a crisp gray suit, a black leather briefcase clutched in one gloved hand.

He moved with measured purpose, each step calculated, each breath measured. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his lips curled ever so slightly as he approached the security checkpoint.

A guard stepped forward, scanning him with a thermal-laser device. "Name and profession, sir?"

The man straightened his tie. "Simon… ZZZzzzz!"

His voice fractured—splitting into three overlapping tones at once.

The guard frowned. "Excuse me, sir? I didn’t quite catch that."

The man coughed abruptly, clearing his throat as if fighting a minor glitch. "Apologies, my friend. Simon Baldwin, Minister of Science and Technology." He dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief, concealing the momentary lapse.

The guard hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Right. You’re on the list. Go ahead."

As "Simon Baldwin" stepped forward, the briefest flicker of a smile danced across his lips. He strolled along the crowd of VIP personnel. As he disappeared in a zig zag movement, blending in as if he was one of them, a moral glitch to the event.

The disguise had worked.

The guards had not noticed the subharmonic frequencies embedded in his voice. They had not heard the quiet resonance of a cybernetic core hiding beneath layers of synthetic flesh. They had not seen the slight shimmer of the 4th Rite’s cloned bio-tech skin, recalibrating in real time.

And now, the enemy was inside.

The crowd swallowed him whole, oblivious to the predator in their midst.

A Glitch in the System

Far above the grand hall, in The OSPREY Surveillance Room, a security officer monitoring the feeds tilted his head. His screens displayed multiple angles of the arriving guests, facial recognition algorithms running constant checks.

A small red warning flickered at the bottom of the screen.

—DATA MISMATCH DETECTED—

The officer leaned closer, eyes narrowing. The timestamp showed Simon Baldwin’s entrance, yet for a single frame—just before he spoke—the system had detected three facial overlays in one.

The footage glitched—for less than half a second.

The officer frowned, fingers hovering over the manual verification command.

Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the warning disappeared.

His screen flickered once. Then again.

And then… everything seemed fine.

He hesitated. Had he imagined it?

His hand hovered over the security alert button.

Then, shaking his head, he let it go.

"Must be a bug in the system."

He exhaled and took a sip of coffee.

Below, in the grand chamber, the 4th Rite infiltrator walked toward the conference hall, his synthetic mind already calculating the next phase of the operation.

The stage was set.

And soon, OSPREY would burn.

The Seat of Shadows

The air inside The OSPREY Conference Hall was thick with an unspoken tension. The room’s grandeur—chandeliers hanging like suspended galaxies, the long, polished obsidian table stretching beneath them—was nothing more than an elaborate stage for unseen forces at play.

Nova Sykes sat in the third row; her presence more significant than it should have been for a mere scientist.

A widow of war.

The mother of a fallen hero.

A woman who carried the weight of sacrifice in her bones.

She was supposed to be grieving. She was supposed to be sitting at the back, a figure of quiet mourning. But instead, she was here, closer than expected—closer than safe.

She folded her hands gently over her lap, her fingers absently tracing the gold insignia on her wrist cuff—a relic of her late husband, Captain Nexara Voss. The light from the overhead fixtures glinted off her sharp cheekbones, making her face look almost sculpted from stone.

She was watching. Listening. Calculating.

Her gaze flicked sideways, then three rows back—to where Simon Baldwin sat.

Or rather… what wore Simon Baldwin’s face.

Minister Simon Baldwin,

The Clone

Simon Baldwin sat closer to the shadows, a seat strategically chosen—not too hidden, but not too conspicuous either. His hands rested on his lap, fingers interlocked in a way that was too symmetrical, too still.

A perfect replica.

He wasn’t here to cause a scene.

Or was he?

The camera lens in the hall zoomed in. The feed flickered, tilting just slightly—enough to catch the shimmer that rippled across his suit fabric, a minute disturbance like light passing through a film of water.

Then, the lens tilted further, closing in on the small metallic orb behind his ear.

The screen glitched.

A flashback ruptured through the surveillance system.

**FLASHBACK**

The Last Night

Of The Real Simon Baldwin

A cold night in Alria, weeks before the OSPREY Conference.

Simon Baldwin stepped into his house, still slick with sweat from an evening at the gym. The weight of The Baltimore Deal sat on his shoulders; heavier than the iron plates he had just lifted.

He hurled his briefcase aside as his wife, Marella Baldwin, greeted him with a soft, wet kiss on the mouth.

"Ooooohhhhh! Honey, now we get to visit Hong Kong!" she beamed, her voice lilting with excitement. "And see the famous monuments! That’s great."

Simon chuckled, loosening his tie. "Yeah, I know, my love. But this time, we’ll do it together. The deal comes with an irrefutable package."

Marella raised a brow, already slipping into her kitchen gown, moving fluidly between the stove and the dining table.

"Okay, I’m listening..." she teased, placing a steaming pot of lasagna in the center of the table.

Simon inhaled deeply, the rich aroma wafting through the air. "Wooow! That’s amazing, munchkin. Now, where was I?"

"HONG! KONG!" she called out from the kitchen, laughter in her voice.

He grinned. "Right. That part."

He unbuttoned his shirt, muscles flexing under the dim light. "Well… The package is different this time, firmer and more stable than what the Germans offered me last summer."

Marella reappeared, holding a spatula in one hand. "You know, you should’ve taken that deal, honey."

Simon scoffed, reaching for the jar of pickles, carefully placing them in a bowl and drizzling broth over them.

"The Germans were well aware of Radon’s suit and its ability to withstand immense damage." He spoke between bites, chewing thoughtfully. "The tactical brilliance of the design was manufactured right here, in our headquarters. Of course, with a German construct under the blueprints of General Xerox’s guidelines."

Marella smirked, sliding into the seat across from him. "Oh really? And where does Xerox fit in on all of this?"

Simon stabbed his fork into the lasagna, rich cheese stretching as he lifted a bite to his mouth. "Captain Xerox is the mastermind behind the entire operation."

He leaned back, grinning. "Actually, the Chinese say they’ll double my salary. And the sweetest part of the proposal was written in bold at the bottom."

Marella sipped her wine, eyes twinkling. "Oh? And what’s that?"

Simon coughed, smirking. "A full-bill-paid, five-year period stay, and—"

!!!CRASHHHHH!!!

Glass shattered.

The explosion came like a whisper of doom—quick, precise, and merciless.

A gas grenade sailed through the broken window, hitting the floor with a metallic clank before releasing a thick, black mist that devoured the air.

Simon’s instincts screamed at him. He lunged for Marella, knocking over the lasagna as he pulled her down—

Too late.

They were already inside.

Six figures—black-clad, silent, inhumanly fast.

The Eidolon Rite.

The first agent grabbed their house security by the throat, twisting with a sickening crack before tossing the body aside. The second team sliced the power, plunging the house into darkness—except for the eerie glow of the intruders' augmented eyes.

"We want them alive."

The voice was flat, mechanical, devoid of feeling.

A second infiltrator stepped forward, a clone. His voice glitched—a distortion, as if multiple frequencies fought for dominance.

"No tomato sauce this time. Thank you."

Simon fought, but he was no soldier.

His last memory was Marella screaming, her voice breaking as she reached for him—

Then—

Nothing.

**BACK TO THE PRESENT**

OSPREY Conference

The camera feed snapped back to reality.

Simon Baldwin—or what had replaced him—sat still, hands folded neatly, expressionless.

Nova Sykes inhaled slowly.

She knew.

This thing sitting in Baldwin’s seat… it wasn’t human. It wasn’t him.

And yet, nobody else in the hall suspected a thing.

Nova's fingers curled into her lap, the insignia on her wrist pulsing faintly with stored energy.

She wasn’t just here as a scientist.

She wasn’t just a widow.

She had her own mission.

Her own reasons.

And if The Eidolon Rite thought they could walk unseen in this conference—

They were about to learn just how wrong they were.

The Conference:

A Toast to Power

The ballroom shimmered with a golden glow, chandeliers casting intricate patterns against the marbled floors. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine and freshly polished silver. Ministers, high-ranking officials, and the elite of Alria raised their glasses, their polished smiles barely concealing the weight of the past years.

A woman in an elegant navy-blue gown stood at the podium, her voice honeyed but firm.

"Everyone, please raise a toast to our Prime Minister. A man of great standards, a man of true sportsmanship. A leader who has ensured that this venture—this protection—became a reality."

Glasses clinked. A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The MC lifted her hand, commanding the room’s attention.

"Prime Minister Charles Stevenson."

A round of applause followed as Stevenson stepped forward, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, his expression measured yet proud. He scanned the room with the practiced gaze of a man who knew the weight of every decision.

"Thank you. Thank you all." His voice was rich, steady. "But tonight, is not about me. It is about the men and women who sacrificed everything for the shield over Alria. For our safety. And above all, for our future."**

A hush settled over the room. Even the sound of clinking glasses stilled.

"General Lloyd Xerox," the MC announced, voice carrying a reverence laced with awe. "The man who led the charge to fortify our defenses. A warrior, a tactician, and a patriot."

A slow, deliberate applause followed as General Lloyd Xerox took the stage. His towering presence demanded silence before he even spoke.

He adjusted his tie, scanning the crowd. His eyes lingered—just for a second—on Nova Sykes, seated three rows from the front. Closer than she should be.

The General’s Speech:

A War That Never Ends

Xerox exhaled sharply before speaking.

"These machines…" he started, voice measured, low. "These machines are here. Permanent. Like a stain that refuses to fade."

His words hung in the air. He pulled the speech paper from his pocket, barely glancing at it before crumpling it and slipping it back inside his coat.

"We have spent years—countless battles, sleepless nights—trying to wash away this stain. And yet, it remains, clouding our legacy, carving itself into the land we once called ours." He said, grabbing his speech and fixes it neatly, before clearing his throat.

“Still, this permanent mark refuses to come off of our flag as it continues to cloud our legacy and carve itself a ditch of monumental decree within our soil."

A murmur swept through the room. Some nodded solemnly; others adjusted in their seats, unsettled. Mr. Scott, Xerox’s advisor, stiffened. This was not the prepared speech.

"We lost men," Xerox continued, his gaze hardening. "And in losing them, we gained something else. Strength. Vigilance."

He scoffed...Briefly glancing back at Mr. Scott as he fixed his glasses. The crowd started following along with the words of speech, as if what they were hearing was a prophecy being foretold. Groans and mourning came from the latter and half of the crowd were trying to adjust to the tone of General Xerox’s demeanor.

Nova shifted in her seat, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. She had heard this rhetoric before. But tonight, there was something different—something personal in his voice.

He continued. "Today I stand here to give tribute to the late Captain Voss, Commander of the Nexus fleet. The man who was the main campus that led The Valor, the very same ship that carried his mighty hand across the Seven Seas as he pushed back the forces that chose to become our enemies." fixing his speech, he crumbled the paper and put it into his pocket before coughing a little and looking forward. "I stand here, to honor our fallen Squadron, the Chief of Squadrons who went out intimately into the fields of Solara Prime to die for our country."

Mr. Scott looks at The General as he realizes that he is speaking off script.

"Tonight, we honor the late Captain Nexara Voss." His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "The commander who led the Nexus Fleet and drove the Eidolon Rite back into the abyss."

Nova stood abruptly. Eyes turned toward her, but she ignored them.

She turned to the nearest guard, fixing her glasses in place.

"Excuse me, sir?" Her voice was crisp, polite. "Where's the ladies' room?"

The guard blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the directness in her gaze.

"Oh! Uh, second floor. Second door on your right. The elevator’s the quickest way up."

Nova smiled, "Thank you, dear." As she carried on.

"Please take the Elevator ma'am, the stairs are for military personnel only" The Guard quickly rephrased his statement.

"ALRIGHT!" Nova waved her hand, as she continued walking down the aisle, but it didn’t quite reach her ears.

She turned, walking toward the foyer. But she never took the elevator. Instead, she intentionally slipped down the stairwell—headed not up, but down.

The Infiltration:

Shadows in the Control Room

A pair of disguised guards entered the control room, their posture rigid but unassuming. One—a broad-shouldered African male clad in dark military Pasttech armor. The other—a Latino woman, slender, eyes sharp like a blade.

The officers inside barely had time to react.

In a blink, chrome-colored appendages shot from the imposters’ backs, slicing effortlessly through reinforced armor, severing spines before blood had a chance to spill. The mineral-coated blades suspended organic fluid flow, ensuring no mess, no trace.

Bodies slumped silently to the floor. The chrome appendages retracted, folding back into the infiltrators' spines. They stepped over the corpses, unfazed, and tapped into the mainframe.

Somewhere above, the conference continued.

Nova’s True Face

Nova Sykes went down to the Janitor’s floor section area while avoiding attention. She slipped into a closed door before adjusting her lab coat and accidentally dropped her visitor’s card. As it fell to the floor, it shimmered, the Identification Card changing, as the cloak wore off, revealing the fake credentials of a cleaner and an unrecognized portrait. Entirely replacing her own identity as it separated from her suit, losing substance and credibility.

Deep within the Janitor’s section, Nova Sykes moved with precision. She reached a locked door, glanced left and right, then slid inside before adjusting her posture.

With a swift motion, she shrugged off her lab coat, revealing the black latex suit underneath. Pulsing lines of violet and green polygons flickered to life along its surface, shifting, adjusting—until the suit faded into the dimness of the room, matching its surroundings.

She lifted a wrist, activating a holographic interface. A flick of her fingers, and her hair darkened to an obsidian-black fringe. Another tap, and her suit morphed into an elegant business ensemble—pristine, calculated, deceptive.

She applied a luminescent coat of lipstick. A final touch.

The woman who exited that room was not Nova Sykes. At least, not the Nova Sykes the conference had invited.

The Confrontation:

The Clone’s Trick

A security officer, Lieutenant Kieran Ross, had been watching Minister Baldwin since his arrival. Something felt… off.

Approaching the Minister in the hallway, Ross adjusted his grip on his rifle.

"Excuse me, sir. May I check your identification?"

Simon Baldwin—or the thing wearing his face—smiled, adjusting his briefcase.

"Of course." He opened it, revealing neatly stacked documents. He reached into the pocket flap. "Let me check over here" he said. Sifting through some ID Cards from the briefcase pockets.

Suddenly—

A faint, almost imperceptible prick in Ross’s shoulder.

A micro-needle, barely larger than a splinter, had sprung out and launched from behind Baldwin’s ear and burrowed into the Lieutenant’s bloodstream.

A trickle of blood came out, too faint and too little to be noticed, as the guard slapped his arm as if swatting a mosquito.

Ross barely reacted. He scratched his arm feverishly, like he was suffering from a bad rash.

Then—

His vision blurred.

The world shifted, contorted. Minister Baldwin's face… changed. It became someone else. Someone familiar. Someone Ross recognized and trusted.

Ross frowned. He stepped back.

All of a sudden, he turned to face the Minister and excused himself for being too rude.

"Apologies, sir," he said, straightening his uniform. "I mistook you for someone else."

The clone smiled.

"No harm done, Lieutenant."

The neuro toxins injected into his system was quick enough to immediately make him hallucinate and see a required face by the clone. A face different from what he saw then, and a different face to what he saw now.

Ross turned away, heading toward his post. He didn’t notice the veins in his arms darkening, nor the slight irregularity in his heartbeat.

The Lieutenant didn’t die though, in fact, his DNA started replicating itself while sitting in his quarters watching the conference pass by. He wasn't aware of the change within him, a substance was now crawling inside of his bloodstream and making a circuitry circulation around his heart area.

Deep inside his bloodstream, something was replicating.

Something growing.

Something… awakening.

Nova’s Speech:

A Calculated Disruption

Nova Sykes appears from the stairs.

She's now heading to podium, disguised as a speaker, but still as herself though, nothing much changed.

She just wanted to make sure that everything goes according to plan.

"Give a round of applause for the world's number one Scientist. A hero of Alria, and a protector of hearts. Everyone, please Miss Archabbey Nova Sykes..." The MC shouted, clapping her hands and cheering on.

Nova stepped forward.

Looking more presentable than ever.

Unlike how she was earlier, nothing was out of the ordinary. Her main target was not the conference, as she was more committed to ensuring the safety of everyone.

No-

She knew that something was off but she had a task today, she needed to speak, and honor her loved ones.

"Please...Take the Stand… Miss Sykes" The MC exclaimed, raising her hand as she guided Nova, a Scientist in the day, and an Agent in the night.

A polite applause followed Nova’s introduction, a sea of dignitaries watching her every move. She adjusted the microphone, her figure poised yet relaxed. The setting sun bathed the conference hall in amber hues, contrasting against the cold steel interior of Alria’s most secure government facility.

"GOOD EVENING!" Nova’s voice carried weight, slicing through the air like a scalpel. She readjusted the mic, her gaze unwavering.

"I'm only here as a scientist... and as a widow. So please, don’t mind my tone."

A ripple of laughter spread across the room. The kind that put people at ease, the kind that made them drop their guard.

"Human beings have emotions and feelings. That’s what makes us slow."

The laughter died down. Eyebrows furrowed. The soft hum of murmurs filled the space.

“THAT IS WHY, they are too slow... And it is this, that we are what we are, imperfect beings that can never seem to control life, nor adjust it to our taste."

Nova took a sip of water before continuing, letting the silence settle like dust on a battlefield.

"That critical human factor—that spine we claim keeps us upright—makes us ineligible to move forward. It is why we are what we are. Imperfect beings, trapped in a cycle we cannot decode nor adjust to our taste."

A shift in the audience. A subtle unease creeping through the hall.

General Xerox folded his arms, his jaw tightening. Mr. Scott, standing beside him, felt the sharp pain of Xerox’s elbow nudging his ribs—a silent warning.

Nova continued.

"But that doesn’t justify anything. It doesn’t make things right. It only nullifies them."

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around the podium’s edge.

"You see, the day I lost my son, I never thought I’d have the lasting courage to stand before you. To find the strength to speak my sense into this microphone. And yet, here I am."

Another sip of water. Another pause.

"Human beings are fragile creations. Imperfect and feeble, that is why soldiers never fully recover from war, nor from the psychological turmoil it can cause. That is why they hesitate before taking a shot, never being capable of making the split-second decision before THEY TAKE A SHOT in the first 5 seconds, of a critical moment. That is why we build relationships before learning how to swim… only to abandon the ship when it starts taking on water."

The hall was silent. Every word she spoke was a needle puncturing their carefully crafted illusions.

"Relationships set sail before the heart learns how to swim, AND THEN, when the boat gets leakages, people abandon the ship instead of fixing the holes inside the ship's haul.”

Nova makes an impact on the crumbling mood as she continues.

"That is why, when given the choice between a life and a bag of cash, we hesitate. Not because we don’t know what’s right, but because we are incapable of immediate action when it truly matters."

She let the words hang in the air. Let them fester. Before continuing.

"That is what happens in an accident, PEOPLE FREEZE in times of critical consequence that needs actions and not behavior, and end up dead or the ERV losing control. Not because of lack of knowledge, not because of inability to think, but because of Human Error. Because we have emotions, because we feel, because of lack of decisiveness”

Somewhere near the front, Minister Simon Baldwin remained still. His face unreadable, his hands resting on the armrests of his chair. Unbothered. But beneath the surface, something flickered. Something sharp. Something digital.

Simon Baldwin:

The Unraveling

Simon Baldwin wasn’t listening anymore.

Not to Nova. Not to the scattered applause. Not to the whispers circulating the room.

A faint pulse throbbed beneath his collarbone—a subtle, rhythmic signal. Unseen. Unnoticed. But very, very present.

Inside his bloodstream, nano-particles had activated. Their purpose? Unknown to anyone in the room. Not even to Baldwin himself.

The security officers watching him from afar saw nothing. They noticed no movement, no sudden change in behavior.

But something was shifting.

Something was awakening.

Nova’s Final Words

Nova inhaled deeply, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"I came here today on behalf of my son and my late husband. But I am speaking for more than just them."

Her voice sharpened.

"I am speaking for every human being who has been cast aside. Every Sophont Scavenger forced to live in the shadows. Every Biomeka trapped behind enemy lines. I am speaking for Alria—before The Eidolon Rite twisted its bones and claimed its blood."

Her hands clenched into fists.

"Human beings will forever remain human beings. That is why we vote for the same corrupt parties during every recession. That is why we vaccinate to depopulate, escalate to de-escalate, and force our children to pass exams only to repopulate the very same classrooms they struggled to leave."

The room was no longer filled with idle chatter.

General Xerox’s patience had worn thin. He turned to Scott, his voice a low growl.

"Who the hell cleared her for this speech?"

Scott swallowed hard. He had no answer.

Nova stepped back from the podium, but before leaving, she turned once more.

Her final words landed like a dagger in the heart of the room.

"We simply do not think."

"Because it is in our nature to act this way."

"And that is why we will lose."

The Aftermath:

Tensions Boil Over

A chill settled over the conference hall. Not from the ventilation system, but from the collective unrest rippling through the audience like an undercurrent of static electricity.

Nova’s words lingered in the air, heavy and unforgiving. The once-regal crowd of dignitaries and officials no longer basked in their self-importance. Some sat stiffly, eyes darting between their peers. Others whispered behind clasped hands, stealing wary glances toward the podium Nova had just vacated.

Only the scientists and doctors seated along the left rows remained composed, nodding in agreement. They understood. Nova had only spoken the truth.

But truth had consequences.

It is was never joyful to hear, not in a time like this, a time of power, the gathering of giants, and the engagement with royalty.

Afterall, in times like, The Truth, is what gets you demoted, it is what removes your status as one of the High-Ranking personnel on the list, and cast aside to be like the peasants that do the general work. The truth is what sets people apart, the truth is what makes people and situations differ, ultimately, its what gets you killed.

A five-minute recess was announced—a necessary breather before tensions erupted into something more physical.

Nova descended the steps with measured grace, weaving through the murmuring crowd. She knew what was coming.

As she passed by General Xerox, his hand shot out, gripping her arm like a vice.

His fingers dug into her sleeve, pulling her toward him as he leaned in, his voice a low, venomous whisper.

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady? I’ll end you. I’ll crush the entire Zell Company if you continue this little rant of yours… I SWEAR IT.”

Nova met his glare with unshaken defiance, her lips curling into a smirk.

“You don’t scare me, Xerox.”

With a swift motion, she yanked her arm free, smoothing out her sleeve.

“And I don’t think you’re ready for what’s about to unfold, General.” She stepped closer, just enough to let him hear the knife-edge in her voice. “Not when my son isn’t here to cover for your troubles.”

Before he could react, she blew him a mock kiss and strode away.

The General’s face twisted into pure rage. His composure cracked.

"I’LL END YOU, GOD DAMN IT!" he bellowed, his voice shattering the uneasy quiet.

Heads turned. Gasps echoed through the hall.

From a few seats away, Mr. Scott chuckled, shaking his head.

"Keep quiet, sir. You forgot your pills today, remember that?" His tone dripped with amusement.

Xerox’s blood boiled, but Scott wasn’t finished.

“And it seems like your beating is just about here…”

The General blinked, his gaze snapping to Scott, suspicion in his eyes.

“What?”

Scott nodded toward the northwest side of the dining hall, his grin widening.

“Eleven o’clock.”

Xerox turned, his stomach dropping.

A group of four individuals sat together at a round table. Their jumpsuits bore the unmistakable Pasttech Industries insignia, glimmering under the chandelier’s glow.

They were no ordinary engineers.

They were the architects of war.

The very same manufacturers who had:

✔ Engineered the combat suits that powered Alria’s elite soldiers.

✔ Rebuilt Radon, piecing his broken body together after he was shredded on the battlefield.

✔ Sheltered Karys, taking her in after her father was brutally executed by the Sophonts.

And now, they were here. Laughing, sipping champagne, waiting for the evening to pass before the second phase of the three-day conference.

Among them, two figures wore bright orange jumpsuits—the signature uniform of Pasttech’s German division. The others, dressed in green and economic gray, hailed from Great China.

A waiter approached their table, setting down a tray of sparkling wine and a selection of appetizers—delicate fish biscuits, ginger-infused gourmet cheese, buttered pepper rolls.

One of the Chinese representatives, a man with sharp eyes and a disarming smile, turned to the server.

“What do you have for the night, my lady?”

The waiter hesitated before replying.

"Ehhhhhh! I'm sorry, sir. The night is young, and I’m ambitious to say that we will have everything you desire… after the hour."

The table laughed, clinking glasses.

But General Xerox wasn’t laughing.

His face paled as realization hit him.

This wasn’t just a casual gathering.

It was a reckoning.

A hammer of lawsuits. A wave of investigations. A tightening noose.

The General’s collar suddenly felt too tight. He loosened his tie, exhaling sharply.

And for the first time that evening, he looked down.

Not out of arrogance.

Not out of defiance.

But out of fear.

The Monument of Power:

OSPREY Conference Hall

Outside, the OSPREY Conference Hall stood as a testament to Alria’s supremacy.

The infrastructure of was very neat and elegant. Massive, monolithic pillars stretched toward the sky, like they were built by, and for Giants. Their smooth surfaces catching the moonlight. It was governed with superiority and all high-tech buildings like those in Alria, were the products of Pasttech Industries, either from the west or by the team in the east.

Sometimes, both these companies worked together, just like they did side by side, to produce a masterpiece of engineering in the makings of Radon Sykes when he was rescued from the battlefield. Reconstructing his body and frame, and grafting his skin with synthetic symbiosis. They also worked together to assemble the Nexus Units and to develop other tech for the military subdivision.

Architecture like that of the OSPREY Conference Hall and center are extraordinary. It was a monumental cavern of dreams. Built by the mountainside as it dwelt within the escarpment of a booming lake. The entire structure felt as if it had been built by giants, for giants.

It was more than just an architectural marvel—it was a statement.

A symbol of control.

And yet, for all its imposing grandeur, even OSPREY had its cracks.

It was governed by Pasttech Industries, the very same entity that had divided its resources between the West and the East. A collaboration of opposing forces—sometimes allies, sometimes rivals—who had forged power together when it suited them.

And as Nova’s speech continued to ripple through the veins of the elite, the cracks were beginning to show.

Because tonight, power was shifting.

And no one—not General Xerox, not Simon Baldwin, not The Eidolon Rite—was ready for what came next.

Outside OSPREY Gardens:

The Infiltration Begins

A ripple of movement disturbed the serene night air as a team of black-clad operatives descended from the mountainside, their figures barely visible against the darkened skyline. They moved with calculated precision, dropping onto the botanical gardens below, their landing barely disturbing the delicate flora beneath their feet.

"You cafeteria, You three courtyard, you must make sure you secure the parking lot, and the rest of you, come with me." A team of Black shadows straddled along the mountainside dropping down in wires onto the botanical Gardens sealing off the passageways for ongoing and incoming traffic.

"Nova....Come in...over?"

Agent Rizwan hesitated, before reaching out again.

"Nova, are you secured, OVER?" He drops off the line coming from the top of the mountain, making sure that it's not accessible on the way back. A signal of no retreat.

Within seconds, they were sealing off the passageways—cutting off both ongoing and incoming traffic.

No retreat. No surrender.

Agent Rizwan’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Nova… come in. Over?”

A pause. Then, her voice—steady but laced with an unmistakable bitterness.

“Rizwan, I’m here. It’s like Easter month, the situation going around over here, OVER!”

Nova’s gaze swept across the illuminated courtyard, where high-ranking officials and corporate moguls laughed over glasses of champagne—completely indifferent to the chaos unraveling around them.

Her fingers tightened around the radio.

“These people…” she exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re laughing in a time of sorrow.”

A single tear traced its way down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.

“They’ve forgotten my family. All of them. To them, it’s just business. Nothing but business.”

Rizwan’s response was sharp. Unforgiving.

“QUIT IT, NOVA!”

Nova flinched, his voice cutting through her like a blade.

“I’m not here for that. And you know that.”

She swallowed hard, regaining composure.

“We’re on a mission here. Stop looking for a shoulder to lean on.”

A heavy silence stretched between them before Rizwan spoke again, his tone firm.

“Remember your speech. Remember your words. REMEMBER YOUR WORTH....Agent Sykes!"

Then, with a swift motion, Rizwan unhooked a zip line and swung down toward the cafeteria.

“I’m on your mark. BEEP ME when you get the clearance.” He paused, then added, “By the way, I brought Clarence along with me.”

He nodded, signaling a dormant sign at Clarence to stay vigilant as the night may approach with higher stakes than presidential.

Nova stiffened.

Her grip on the comm tightened.

“Why the hell did you bring Clarence, Riz? You know it’s too dangerous for him. Not now. Not today.”

Rizwan didn’t falter.

“He needs his chance, Agent Sykes. And this is it.”

Nova’s breath hitched, losing her temper. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

“He’s mute, goddammit. What do you expect?”

She was losing her patience.

Her free hand trembled as it hovered over a champagne glass, gripping it too tightly. The stem snapped, and the sharp edge rested between her fingers.

"He's not ready God damn it "

She said breaking off another piece of the glass top and holding the end on her two fingers, as she calculated her steps before mapping out the troops who were peeking through upstairs, surveying the conference in the control room.

She exhaled sharply.

Her eyes flicked again, toward the control room upstairs. This time she was ready for attack, closing in on the shadows moving behind a tinted glass.

They were being watched.

Her voice dropped into a whisper.

“I need to go. We have company.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Two on top. One inside.”

She cut the transmission, cutting off all communication before leaving the cafeteria. As she stepped out, into the alleyway, full of botanicals and glamorous landscaping, her silhouette disappeared into the sea of unsuspecting guests.

Hallway Security:

Something Is Wrong

*CLINK* *CLINK*

A toasting of glasses continues in the background, as waiters spin around the crowd of formal personnel. Presenting food and drinks. Trays of entrée could be seen, gliding in the air as the Ministers picked their favorites, as the laughter carried on.

The Lieutenant was getting cold, his collar getting sweaty, and this wasn't the normal sweat you could get from a hot busy day. It was a bit slimy and darker in contrast than what is usually accustomed to.

Lieutenant Kieran Ross wiped a trembling hand across his damp forehead.

A cold sweat clung to his skin—not the kind from heat, but something far worse.

Something unnatural.

His collar felt too tight, his chest constricted, and beneath his uniform, a strange sensation crawled beneath his flesh like a thousand insects gnawing at his insides.

“Hey, man… mind if I sit down for a moment?” Ross muttered, reaching for a glass of ice water. “I think I’m catching a fever.” Lieutenant Kieran Ross said, taking a glass of cold water and filling it up with extra ice.

Lieutenant Clive arched an eyebrow.

“YO! Ross… you good, man?”

Ross’s vision blurred slightly.

His heartbeat was racing, and he was faintly losing sight of what was happening inside of him, as he sat down. Meters away from where he confronted Minister Simon Baldwin, The Clone.

He could barely make out the concerned look on Clive’s face.

His breathing grew shallow. Too shallow.

Something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

“I don’t know man, it all… I think it had started the moment I left the Minister’s sight. He Said, taking another sip of ice water.

His heartbeat pounded erratically, as if something was forcing his body into overdrive.

“Are you sure, you don’t need, to maybe lay down a bit, My Guy? I’m sure I can handle this crowd for ya” Lieutenant Clive, insisted on giving him a hand for the remainder of the evening.

"I don't know man; it just feels hot in here. I went to see the Minister and before I know it, my body was aching." Ross murmured, peeling off his sleeves as he sat down a little further away from the corridors.

He didn't want to alarm the crowd, as a matter of fact, he was not allowed to appear nearby the alley in his condition and he knew it. Protocol suggested that if a man isn't feeling well or is affected in a situation that might jeopardize the Royal House, he must be excused immediately. But he wasn't following Protocol.

Or was he?

Slowly, he rolled up his sleeve— and froze.

**THE CAMERA SLITHERED UP HIS SLEEVES**

Revealing a view of maze, blackened veins and shedding skin, before sinking into his flesh and showing how rapidly the organisms were spreading throughout his bloodstream.

Beneath the dim hallway lights, his skin was shedding in uneven patches, revealing a network of blackened veins twisting like roots beneath the surface.

It looked wrong—inhuman.

Something was crawling inside him. Spreading.

Faster. And faster.

His heartbeat spiked past 98 bps.

Passing the normal beat rate, and way beyond what was deemed possible in minute. As everything dimmed out, the Lieutenant passed out on his way to the toilet. At least, out of view from the royal house, and not causing any panic around the VIP Section.

As the world tilted, the walls distorted, into what seemed like an illusion. The walls were falling in on each other, as if he just entered another dimension. But he wasn’t. No, this was the same dimension he has been this entire time, but it was his own sight that was contoured and deceiving him.

He was really sick.

He was dizzy, and needed help.

His body lurched forward, and the last thing he saw before darkness took him was the faint glow of the bathroom sign.

At least he had collapsed out of view—away from the Royal House.

Away from the panic that was about to erupt.

Hallway Security:

The Infection Spreads

Lieutenant Clive noticed how Ross's trembling figure was earlier on, and it started disturbing his patience each time the seconds passed. His concern deepening with every passing moment.

"Ross? Hey, buddy, you good?"

No response.

Ross had staggered away toward the restroom, barely holding himself upright. His breathing had turned ragged, his steps unsteady.

Clive hesitated. A sick feeling curled in his gut.

This wasn’t just exhaustion. Something was wrong.

Ignoring protocol, he followed after Ross.

Restroom:

Descent Into Madness

The restroom door swung open, the dim fluorescent lights flickering as Ross stumbled inside.

His body convulsed.

His hands trembled violently as he gripped the sink, trying to steady himself. He blinked rapidly, his vision warping, as if the world around him had begun to melt.

*THUD*

He slammed a hand against the mirror.

His reflection stared back— but it wasn’t his face.

The veins had darkened further, spreading in jagged lines up his neck, pulsating as though they had a life of their own. His irises were changing, shifting from their usual brown to a sickly, unnatural shade of gold.

Then— movement beneath his skin.

His breath hitched.

Something was inside him.

Something that wasn’t him.

"No… no, no, no…"

He clawed at his arms, desperate to rid himself of the corruption taking root in his body. But it was too late.

His fingers twitched involuntarily, his limbs jerking as if unseen hands were pulling at his tendons.

A sharp, white-hot pain shot through his spine. His body arched backward in agony.

Then—

A voice.

Not his own.

A guttural, distorted whisper, crawling from the back of his mind.

"Let… me… out…"

Ross's mouth opened in a silent scream.

His entire body convulsed, and for a fleeting second—

He wasn’t himself anymore.

Outside the Restroom:

Clive's Suspicion

Lieutenant Clive stood just outside the restroom, hand hovering over his holster.

Something was off.

Ross had been inside too long.

A bead of sweat rolled down Clive’s temple. His instincts screamed at him.

Go in.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open—

And froze.

The lights flickered.

The air felt heavy. Wrong.

Then—he saw it.

Lieutenant Ross stood in front of the mirror, completely still.

Too still.

His posture unnatural, his breathing eerily slow.

Clive took a cautious step forward.

"Ross…?"

No response.

Another step.

Ross’s fingers twitched.

Slowly, he turned his head— just enough for Clive to see his face.

Clive's stomach dropped.

Ross’s eyes were blackened at the edges, the pupils dilated unnaturally.

His lips curled into a slow, unnerving smile.

Something wasn't right.

Something wasn't human.

Then—Ross moved.

Too fast.

Too unnatural.

Clive barely had time to react before a hand shot toward his throat.

A vice-like grip.

Then—darkness.

The last thing Clive saw before losing consciousness was the faint golden glow pulsing from beneath Ross’s skin.

And a voice— deep, distorted, and wrong.

"The gates… are open."

[THE CAMERA FADES TO BLACK]