Wolves of the new dawn

The NEO’s plan

*Freesia*

The weight of Torren’s words crushes me. One hundred and fifty people. Children. A hidden world thriving beyond the city’s lies. It’s a revelation that upends everything. Two days have passed – a blur of conflicting emotions, the silence about his ability to speak a heavy, suffocating burden. The antiseptic scent of my untouched medkit is lost in the turmoil; my thoughts race, a chaotic symphony of disbelief and fear. His plea echoes: "It's a matter of life and death."

The sharp blare of my comm-unit cuts through the quiet. It's not the internal system; this is a direct, external call. A summons. From Cormac Peterson. NEO. The name itself triggers a wave of nausea. I despise him; his cold ambition, his ruthless pragmatism, his callous disregard for human life… all surge back with sickening clarity.

"Doctor Freesia," a clipped voice cuts through the comm-unit, "Be at the designated pickup point in ten minutes. Do not be late." The line cuts dead.

No pleasantries, no explanation. Just a stark command. A cold wave of dread washes over me. This isn’t an invitation; it’s a summons.

Ten minutes later, I find myself standing on the deserted street corner, the city lights a blurry halo around me. A sleek, black Directorate vehicle, more like a heavily armored personnel carrier, pulls up silently, its headlights briefly blinding. The tinted windows offer no glimpse of the driver within.

The heavy side door hisses open. A figure emerges, tall and imposing in a black uniform, their face obscured by shadow. They don't speak, don't make eye contact, simply gesture toward the vehicle with a gloved hand.

"NEO's orders," is all they say, their voice flat and emotionless, "Get in."

The air inside is cold and sterile, smelling faintly of ozone and something metallic. I take the offered seat, the leather cold beneath my fingers. As the vehicle accelerates, the city blurs into a streak of neon and shadow. I glance at the driver, catching a flicker of something that might be disdain or pity in their eyes before they return their gaze to the road ahead.

Silence descends, a heavy, suffocating blanket. The hum of the engine is the only sound. My thoughts are a maelstrom. I have to see Cormac; I have to navigate his interrogation. But I will not betray Torren. I will not reveal his secret. Not yet. The price of silence might be steep, but the cost of betrayal would be far higher.

*****

The heavy door to Cormac Peterson’s office hisses open, revealing a space that’s less an office and more a gaudy throne room. Gold leaf gleams everywhere, clashing violently with the sterile white of the walls. Peterson himself, a caricature of ruthless power in a too-tight suit, sits behind a desk that looks like it’s made of solid gold. He gestures with a hand dripping with rings, a tiny, almost comical American flag pinned to his lapel.

“Doctor Freesia, my dear!” he booms, his voice a gravelly roar. “So good of you to grace me with your presence. Right on time, although a little less punctuality would have certainly added to the suspense, wouldn’t you say? Let’s talk about the Breeder.” He pronounces the word with a sneer, as if the very term is distasteful.

My stomach churns. I try to keep my expression neutral, but the sheer vulgarity of his demeanor is unsettling.

“Director Peterson,” I begin, my voice carefully even, “I’m not sure I understand why we’re discussing this...”

He cuts me off, waving a hand dismissively. “Understand? My dear girl, you don't need to understand. You need to deliver. We’ve established he is fertile and that large tool of his is in working order? Surprisingly well build for someone we plucked from the wasteland, wouldn't you agree? A real prize. A real...stud.” He lets the word hang in the air, heavy with implication.

I simply nod, not really knowing what to say or where he is going with this.

“We would like to see the breeding… Live,” he grins, kinda wiggling his eyebrows. “If you catch what I mean.”

A wave of nausea washes over me. "Director Peterson," I begin again, choosing my words carefully, "The subject’s… capabilities are still largely unknown. There are significant risks involved in any kind of… interaction involving him."

He laughs, a harsh, booming sound that echoes off the gold-plated walls. “Risks? My dear, life is risk! That’s what makes it exciting, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? We’re talking about some poor, desperate woman willing to do anything for money. A bit of… rough handling? Won't be the first, and it certainly won't be the last. It's barely even a blip on the radar, isn't it?” He shrugs as if it's a minor inconvenience, then leans forward conspiratorially. “We need to find out if this... breeding… could work as a… show. Imagine, Freesia, a shortcut to our infertility problem! Think of the headlines! Think of the power! Think of the crowds” He smiles, a chillingly self-satisfied expression spreading across his face.

The casual cruelty, the absolute disregard for basic human decency, makes my blood run cold. His words hang in the air, a suffocating miasma of greed and disregard, leaving me feeling physically sick. The sickening sweet scent of his expensive cologne suddenly feels acrid, sharp, and suffocating.

This is the moment I decide I have to help Torren get away. I can’t stand by and let this happen, but all I can say is; “I would not advice you to try, it is too risky.”

“No real risk, not to anyone that matter,” he winks at me and I want to puke.