Hours
later Gaston woke
to a room filled with muted
afternoon light filtering through the grimy window. He
found
himself covered by the
blanket. A dull ache sits behind his
eyes—the price of adrenaline and poor sleep.
Dashiel
is still in the chair. A half-eaten ration bar sits on the small
table beside her. She's studying a complex holographic schematic that
rotates slowly above her slate—it looks like a multi-level building
layout with security nodes marked in red.
She
senses Gaston is
awake and glances over without turning her head fully.
"Good
afternoon. You've been out for approximately five and a half hours.
Your vital signs stabilized about two hours ago." A pause. "The
invitations?"
Gaston
stood and stretched, the movement pulling his shirt tight across his
chest. The lingering adrenaline in his body left him restless, keyed
up in ways that had little to do with sleep.
“Always straight to business?” Something
behind his ribs yearned to be flexed—its power waiting to be
unleashed.
Dashiel’s
eyes track his
stretch with the same clinical detachment as before. The display of
physicality—the toned muscle, the obvious arousal—doesn't fluster
her. If anything, her gaze sharpens, becoming more analytical.
"Business
is why we're both still breathing," she says, her voice even.
She gestures with her stylus toward the holographic schematic.
"Crimson Sigil doesn't take breaks for naps or... other
distractions. Their scanners are likely still sweeping grid sectors
for the signature that wiped out their field team."
She
finally turns in her chair to face Gaston
fully. Her expression is one of focused intensity, not seduction.
"You asked about my 'sight.' I see signatures. Yours is flaring
right now. Not fully active, but... agitated. Reactive. It's
responding to something—ambition, intent, a goal being within
reach." She tilts her head slightly. "It's also
broadcasting a low-level empathic pulse focused on dominance and
allure. You're doing it unconsciously."
She
stands up, walks to the small washbasin, wets a cloth, and tosses it
to him.
"Cool
off. Mentally and physically. Then tell me about the invitations. We
have four days to plan an infiltration that will determine if we live
or become lab subjects." She returns to her chair and waits, all
business.
Gaston
catches
the rag and sets it
down on the floor, pulling on trousers that he
purposely leaves
unfastened and his
undershirt. He
gives her a quick overview of ‘Ashton Plowfield’ and the plus one
invitation, access to the Gala and the VIP tour of the new wing.
Dashiel
listens intently, her fingers flying over her data-slate,
cross-referencing the information with her
stolen schematics.
"House
Salem. The Arcane Sciences Conservatory. It lines up," she
mutters. "The 'new wing' on the donor tour maps directly onto
the high-security containment block in my files. They're arrogant.
Showing off their prize specimens to their financial backers."
She
looks up, a grim satisfaction in her eyes. "It's a good play.
Better than I hoped for. The tour will get us past the outer layers
of security. But once we're in the containment block, we'll be on our
own. The tour group will be escorted out; we'll need to break away."
She
zooms in on a section of the hologram—a junction between the public
galleries and a corridor marked with heavy shielding symbols."This
is our best divergence point. During the transition. It'll be
chaotic, crowded with dignitaries." She sets the slate down and
fixes you with a serious look.
"Now,
the hard part. Objectives. We can't just wander around looking for
your 'proof.' We need specific targets to make this worth the risk."
She brings up two lists side-by-side.
"One:
.
Located in the sub-level below containment. That's where they keep
experiment logs, subject profiles, financial trails—everything
you'd need to expose them and link it to House Salem and their other
backers."
"Two:
.
Where they keep their most valuable 'assets'—high-potential
Sleepers like you, and active Ascendants they're trying to control or
dissect. Freeing them would cripple their current research cycle
potentially give us allies."
"Three:
.
A massive arcane generator that powers all the security wards, energy
cuffs, and suppression fields in the facility. Destroy it, and the
entire place goes dark and unlocked for a short window."
She
leans back.
"We
likely only have time for one, maybe two of these before their
response teams lock the place down and hunt us room-by-room. What's
our priority? Proof for your reputation? A chaotic jailbreak? Or
crippling their operations?"
“We
find proof. I have a device that can attach to any terminal access
point and wirelessly send me the data. Then we can work on a
jailbreak. Something that will look like it was internal.” Gaston
scaned
the blueprints. “We need a clean way to break off.” A
smile filled his
face, both devilish and charming, he
had notice something. “I
have a way, but you’re not going to like it.”
Dashiel
nods slowly, her expression unreadable. "Proof first. I agree.
Exposing them publicly is the most lasting damage we can do. A
jailbreak will only buy us time. And yes, I'm very aware there is a
distinct possibility that House Salem’s other backers may silence
them for good, in which case there will be no more operations."
She
taps a few commands into her slate, highlighting the route to the
Central Data Core on the holographic map. "The data core is our
primary target. If we can get a clean data extraction, we can leak it
to every news feed and regulatory body in Veridia before they even
realize it's gone."
She
fixes him
with an intense stare. "A 'clean break.' I'm listening. Lay it
on me. What do you have in mind that I'm not going to like?"
“To
break from the tour group, you’re going to have to act all hot and
bothered. Like all the power there has turned you on to a point where
you need to find immediate gratification. The security detail will
mostly take us to this room.” He
motioned
to a secondary room close to the main observation room. “There
we’ll have to continue the act until the guard, who would be
outside the door, leaves. Then I can access the data cables and
insert my node that will give us the proof and where I can remotely
release the prisoners, even access the back door to let them out, the
one that exits directly outside the compound.”
Dashiel
stares at Gaston.
For the first time since he’s
met her, her perfectly controlled, analytical mask slips. Her
eyebrows rise. Her lips part slightly. She looks from him,
to the schematic, and back to him.
"You
want me," she says slowly, as if tasting the words and finding
them absurd, "to pretend to be so sexually overwhelmed by the
ambient magical energy of a
that I need to be escorted to a private room to... continue
the act... so we can hack their
mainframe."
She
doesn't sound angry. She sounds genuinely incredulous.
She
stands up and begins pacing the short length of the room, one hand
pressed to her forehead. "That is… arguably the most brazenly
stupid, high-risk, low-probability plan I have ever heard." She
stops and looks at him.
"And it might just work."
She
lets out a short, sharp laugh that holds no humor. "The
arrogance of it. It's perfect for a Gala full of nobles who think
with their egos and their glands. A guard would absolutely believe
some 'provincial aide' couldn't handle the psychic feedback from the
containment wards."
She
walks back to the schematic, zooming in on the secondary room you
indicated—a small monitoring anteroom with direct data-line access
to the core.
"The
logic is sound. The room is isolated but has the physical connection
we need. A guard posted outside would likely give us a few minutes of
'privacy' out of sheer professional disgust."
She
turns to face you, her expression now one of grim resolve.
"Alright.
I'll do it. But we drill this. Every detail. What I say, how I act,
how we sell it. And we have a silent abort signal—if I tap my wrist
twice, we fall back to a secondary plan."
She
crosses her arms. "Now. Tell me exactly what this 'act' entails.
And what's role
in this little performance?"
“You
would act as the power hungry, highly sexually aroused personal aide.
I would act as the provincial noble who’s equally turned on but
tries to hide it. You need to be quiet at first then more blatantly
obvious. We will have to get physical and intimate in order to sell
it. Can’t be faked or acted, that would be seen right through by
the nobles. And there will be guards patrolling even after the one
that escorted us to the room moves away. So it would need to be
authentic.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Dashiel's
gaze is like a scalpel. She dissects your words, your logic, your
unspoken implications.
"Authentic,"
she repeats flatly. "You're proposing we engage in authentic
sexual activity as a tactical diversion. In the middle of a
high-security enemy facility. While a guard is posted outside the
door and patrols are moving past."
She
doesn't blush. She doesn't get flustered. She simply assesses.
"You
understand the immense risk of distraction? The loss of situational
awareness? The time constraint? We would have minutes, at most, to
both sell the cover
execute the hack before a patrol does a check-in or the guard gets
suspicious about the lack of... audible evidence."
She
leans forward, planting her hands on the table.
"Let
me be perfectly clear, Gaston. My body is not a ritual component to
be used at your convenience. We have a contract. I agreed to consider
participation in an awakening under specific, mutual conditions. This
is not that. This is a battlefield improvisation with a high
probability of getting us both killed or captured."
She
straightens up.
"Here
is my counter-proposal: I will sell the prelude. The overwhelming
arousal, the inability to control myself. I will cling to you,
whisper inappropriate things loud enough for the guard to hear, let
my hands wander. We get into that room. The moment the door shuts and
the guard steps away, we stop. You plant your device. I monitor the
door and patrol patterns. We are professionals executing an
infiltration, not actors in a cheap stim-drama."
Her
tone leaves no room for negotiation on this point.
"If
you require 'authentic' physical stimulation to maintain your cover
performance once we're alone... you'll have to manage that yourself.
My focus will be on keeping us alive."
“Won’t
work. The guards will know by sound when something is authentic.
They’re used to nobles finding or being escorted to rooms to get
desires filled. There would be no time constraints, and the guards
would view any pause in sound as a break or a moments rest in
activity, they won’t come in or check. I know how these events go
like the back of my hand, having been to several myself and seen what
goes on when I was in my teens, just before manhood, as the heir to
the family.” He
paused. “Im not thinking of this as a ritual component. I’m
considering it a mutually agreed upon joint to achieve the same end
goal. If it’s as you said and
whatever is inside me requires
a blatant display of getting my social power back, then this would do
nothing.”
Dashiel
listens, her expression unreadable. Gaston
lays
out his
reasoning, painting a picture of nobles steeped in decadence,
desensitized guards, and a something
that craves dominance expressed through submission
in any of its forms. When he
finishes,
she remains silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on a point
somewhere beyond him.
"You're
convinced the risk of detection is lower with sustained, authentic
engagement than with a short, faked performance," she says
finally, as if confirming her understanding. "You believe the
guards will be less suspicious of continued sounds of... activity...
than of silence."
She
pinches the bridge of her nose. "Fine. I still don't like it.
But I see your logic. The more I argue against it, the more I agree
that such brazenness might be exactly what those around us would
expect."
She
drops her hand and meets your gaze, her eyes sharp. "Then we set
rules. Hard limits. We control the variables we can control. I
dictate the pace. I dictate the intensity. And the moment I give the
signal, we stop. No exceptions. Are we clear?"
She
takes a step closer, her presence challenging, unwavering.
"And
one more thing, Gaston," she says, her voice low and intense.
"If you use this situation as an excuse to indulge
whatever it is I’m seeing in you,
if you let this become about anything other than achieving our
objective... I will ensure you regret it. I have ways of making
myself extremely unpleasant to be around, even if I'm bound and
gagged and covered in honey.”
She
takes another step back.
"Now.
Let's talk safe words, and silent signals."
Gaston
studied her for a moment. Dashiel approached the plan like a surgeon
approaching an incision—precise, controlled, and already
anticipating the complications.
Good.
Because the gala was going to require exactly that.
“If the idea of participating
directly bothers you, then there’s another option. A scandal in the
right corridor could distract half their security team. While
attention is elsewhere, you access the main line. The distraction and
objective would be done at the same time. Just a thought. If this
idea doesn’t sit well, then we go back to my original plan. You
willing to lend me your body to sell the distraction for a bit? If
so, then let’s discuss the safe words and signals.”
Something beneath Gaston’s calm stirred, an ancient hunger
pressing outward through his voice and posture.
The temperature in the small room seemed to drop
several degrees. Dashiel’s eyes narrowed, her face
hardening into an expression of cold, controlled fury.
“Are you testing me, Gaston?” she asked, her voice dangerously
quiet. “Or are you simply incapable of processing the word ‘no’?”
She took a deliberate step back, putting more space between them.
“Let me clarify. My willingness to engage in a limited,
controlled charade for tactical purposes does not extend to
facilitating your personal fantasies or objectifying anyone else in
the process. The thought of involving another person in this
insanity—especially someone who would be unaware of the true
stakes—is repulsive.”
She folded her arms, her posture rigid.
“I made my position clear. A controlled diversion. A means to an
end. If you cannot respect that, if you insist on turning this into
some kind of twisted power play… then this alliance is over. I will
take my data, disappear back into the Sprawl, and let you deal with
Crimson Sigil on your own. Are we clear?”
Her gaze was unwavering. Whatever presence Gaston carried seemed
to slide off her without effect. She was a wall of resistance.
“Fine. Then I’ll just break into the area alone. You’re not
trusting me—my knowledge of how these events work, or what needs to
happen to make a plan like this succeed.”
Gaston grabbed his shirt, pulled it on, and tucked it in before
fastening the buttons of his trousers and belt. He headed for the
door with his coat in hand.
“Stay here. I’ll get the data for you.”
“You’ll do what?”
Dashiel’s voice stopped him cold. It wasn’t a shout, but it
carried the sharp crack of a whip.
“You will walk into a Crimson Sigil stronghold alone—with no
inside knowledge of their security protocols, no one to watch your
back, and no plan beyond ‘I know how parties work’?”
She let out a short, derisive laugh.
“That’s not ambition. That’s suicide. And it would get me
killed too when they trace the invitation back to your alias… and
then to this room.”
She moved to block the door, not touching him but standing
squarely in his path. Her expression shifted from anger to
calculation.
“Your pride is wounded because I won’t let you turn our
infiltration into your personal harem audition. Fine. But right now
you’re not dominating the situation—you’re throwing a tantrum.”
She raised a hand before Gaston could respond.
“I do trust your knowledge of noble events. That’s
why I agreed to the initial premise of the distraction. What I don’t
trust is your ability to separate tactical necessity from personal
gratification in the heat of the moment. You’ve given me zero
reason to believe you can make that distinction.”
She stepped aside from the door.
“So go. If you’re determined to die a pointless death and take
me down with you out of spite, I can’t stop you. But if you want to
actually win, then put your ego away for five minutes and
talk like a partner.”
She gestured back to the chair.
“Let’s discuss the safe words and signals for the controlled
diversion we agreed on. Or leave and accept the
consequences.”
“I know the distinction.”
Gaston’s voice was cold and controlled, though rage simmered
beneath the surface.
“I’ve planned business takeovers while balls deep in one of
the CEO’s daughters. I’ve planned assassinations while fucking
the contact who secured the invitations. All executed with
exceptional results.”
Heat rolled off him like boiling water.
“I can get into that building with or without the gala invite
just as easily as I got into the warehouse where I saved you.”
Dashiel didn’t flinch from his anger. She absorbed it, analyzed
it.
“I have no doubt you can infiltrate a building,” she said
evenly. “You proved that at the warehouse. But this isn’t a
warehouse with three operatives and a field commander.”
She gestured to the holographic schematic glowing on the table.
“This is the heart of their operations. It will be crawling with
specialized security—psychic dampeners, reality anchors, biometric
scanners tuned to detect signatures like yours.”
“The gala isn’t just an invitation. It’s a shield.
It gets you past the first layers of security without tripping every
alarm. Going in alone through a secondary route means you’ll be
fighting the entire security apparatus from minute one.”
She paused.
“You might get in. You will not get out with the data.”
Her gaze held his.
“You saved my life in that warehouse. I acknowledge that debt.
That’s why I’m still here trying to talk sense into you instead
of packing my things.”
She folded her arms again.
“So here is my final offer. We proceed with the original
distraction plan—the controlled version I agreed to. We
establish clear signals and rules of engagement. You get your proof.
I get my data and a shot at their facility.”
Her tone softened slightly, though the steel remained.
“Or you walk out that door right now. And I consider our
contract dissolved—and my debt to you paid in full by the warning I
just gave you.”
“Move. I need a drink from somewhere
better than this place. I’ll be back when I get back. If you’re
gone, then you’re gone. I won’t lose any sleep. You’ll lose the
only thing protecting you from them.”
Dashiel held his gaze for a long, silent moment. She saw the fury,
the pride, the absolute refusal to bend. A flicker of something
passed behind her eyes—not fear, but a cold assessment of risk and
probability.
She stepped aside from the door without another word.
As Gaston pulled it open, her voice stopped him one last time,
calm and final.
“Understood. Contract dissolved. Debt paid. Good luck, Gaston
Rudrick. You're going to need it.”
She didn’t watch him leave.
Instead, she turned back to her data-slate, her posture rigid. The
holographic schematic of the Conservatory continued to rotate
silently in the dim room.
Later, Gaston found himself at a polished chrome-and-mahogany bar
in a much nicer part of the Mid-Spire. The air smelled of expensive
synth-whiskey and ozone cleaners. The clientele was well dressed and
discreet.
He had been nursing a drink for over an hour, the ice long since
melted.
His anger had cooled to a simmering frustration.
Dashiel’s words echoed in his mind:
You might get in. You will not get out with the data.
A sleek wrist-comm on the patron next to him lit up with a news
alert headline:
INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT INCIDENT: Authorities report a
“contained arcane anomaly” at a derelict warehouse in the
Ironworks. No casualties reported. Clean-up ongoing.
Crimson Sigil was already covering their tracks.
Four days remained until the Gala.
He had an invitation under an alias.
He had no ally.
And somewhere beneath his ribs, the shadow stirred—restless,
patient, and eager for the game to begin.
