Page 64 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
Known activities: Negotiating covert mutual defense pacts with Ataxian Coalition proxies.
Directive: Neutralize target.
I scroll. Briefing packets. Aerials. Internal chatter. Movement projections. The whole thing stinks of rush—scrubbed headers, soft timestamping, thin source validation.No behavioral recon. No lifestyle patterning. No usual coldwalk preambles.
And something’s off in the way the report is written—like someone built it to be read fast, skimmed for justification, not dissected for truth.
I cross-reference the packet metadata. At least two sigchain tags are missing, and a third redacted beyond protocol. No tactical backup assets listed. No second-tier analysis.
This isn’t standard.
I open a secure channel, audio-only, tightbeam routed through three bouncing relays to a ghost node in the outer shelf.
“Command, this is Operative Kalev. Confirming receipt of Talvek directive. I’m requesting clarification on validation—sigchains are incomplete, and the intelligence sourcing lacks standard cross-check parameters.”
There’s a pause. Then static. Then a voice, female, crisp and flat.
“Directive stands. Do not delay. Strategic implications require immediate resolution. You are cleared for action.”
And just like that, the line goes dead.
I stare at the console a long moment, fists curling slow in my lap.
They’re pushing this. Hard. And they don’t want questions.
Not unusual. Not for black work.
But it’s been a long time since I got one this messy.
I log the file, encrypt it twice, and sit in the dark.
This isn’t just about intel anymore.
This is about who benefits.
And who’s expendable.
By the timeI find Leah, morning’s cracked open like a fault line across the sky.
She’s tucked into the alcove beside the uplink terminal, legs folded, half-asleep in the low light of a flickering overhead, datapad cradled in her palm like a lifeline. Her hair’s pulled into a knot that’s barely holding together. There’s a smudge of grease along her jaw, probably from a conduit patch job.
I stand there for a second, watching the rise and fall of her breathing.
Then I clear my throat.
“You got the update?”
She blinks awake, tension rising fast through her shoulders. “What update?”
The notification pings as I say it, vibrating against the concrete with the quiet insistence of something irreversible.
I see her thumb flick across the screen.
Her face goes still.
Then: “You’re leading?”
I nod.
