Page 80 of Decimation

I can picture the smile spreading across my brother’s face. I’ve seen it a thousand times; the particular curve of his lips when someone presents him with an idea that appeals to his basest instincts.

“What are you proposing?” Konstantine asks.

“Something biblical.” Victor’s voice drops lower, and I have to strain to hear him. “Something that sends a message. Not just to them, but to everyone who might think to challenge us. The dissenters within our own ranks. Everyone.”

“A plague.”

The word lands in my gut like a fist. Not because it surprises me-- I’ve heard whispers of this before, rumours of certain Guardians pushing for more aggressive population control measures-- but because of the way Konstantine says it, like he’s tasting something delicious. Like the idea of mass death is a vintage wine he’s been waiting to uncork.

“A plague feels suitable,” he continues. “Something that spreads quickly. Something that creates fear before it creates corpses. Fear is the real goal, isn’t it? Dead bodies are just the proof that the fear was justified.”

“Precisely.” Victor’s approval is audible. “I’ve taken the liberty of consulting with certain... specialists. There are options. Engineered variants of existing pathogens. Something that targets specific demographics while leaving others relatively untouched. The optics would be…”

“Manageable,” Konstantine finishes. “The elderly, the compromised. The ones society already views as burdens. We’d be doing them a favour, really. Clearing out the dead weight.”

My blood runs cold. Not because I’m surprised by the cruelty, because of the casualness with which he discusses it.

“A plague?”

The new voice makes me stiffen. I know it immediately, though I can’t place why it’s here, in this room, in this conversation.

Jacob.

The owner of the Black Orchid. The man who runs one of the most exclusive clubs in the country, the place where Brethren elite can go to indulge their darker appetites. I’ve been there dozens of times. I’ve drunk his whiskey, smiled at his jokes, and never once suspected he was connected to my brother at this level.

“Too biblical for your tastes?” Konstantine asks, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Too messy.” Jacob’s tone is measured, careful in a way that suggests he’s used to navigating dangerous conversations. “Plagues have a way of spreading beyond their intended targets. You release something into the wild, and suddenly it’s not just the masses dying. It’s your servants. Your suppliers. Your whores. The people who make your life comfortable.”

“You have an alternative?”

“I have concerns. There’s a difference.”

“Then voice them.”

I hear the creak of leather as someone shifts in their chair. “The Brethren has survived for centuries because we’ve been subtle,” Jacob says. “We’ve pulled strings from the shadows, we’ve influenced rather than commanded. A plague is the opposite of subtle. It’s a declaration of war against the entire world, and wars have a tendency to create heroes. Martyrs. Resistance movements. You start killing people en masse, and eventually someone is going to start asking questions about who benefits.”

“Let them ask,” Konstantine says. “By the time they have answers, they’ll be too busy burying their dead to do anything about it.”

“And if the plague mutates? If it jumps species barriers? If it comes back to bite the hand that released it?”

“Then we’ll have contingencies. Vaccines. Treatments. The Brethren always has contingencies.”

“Does it?” Jacob’s voice is soft, almost pitying. “Because from where I’m standing, the Brethren is more fractured than it’s been in three hundred years. You have Guardians who don’t trust you. Chapter Lords who are openly questioning your leadership. The Esau nipping at your heels like wolves waiting for the stag to stumble. And now you want to unleash a plague that could very well spiral out of control before you’ve finished consolidating your power?”

The silence that follows is heavy. Dangerous. I have to admire Jacob for having the balls to say such things out loud.

“Careful,” Konstantine says, and his voice has lost all trace of amusement. “You’re speaking to your Grand Master.”

“I’m speaking to a man who needs to hear the truth,” Jacob replies. “That’s why you invited me here, isn’t it? Because I’m one of the few people who will give it to you straight instead of telling you what you want to hear?”

“I invited you here because you have resources I need. Don’t confuse utility with intimacy.”

“Then let me be useful. Let me tell you that a plague is a hammer when what you need is a scalpel. You want to reduce the population? Fine, but do it surgically. Do it in ways that can’t be traced back to us. Engineered famines. Economic collapses. Wars in regions no one cares about. You can kill just as many people without painting a target on your own back.”

I press myself harder against the wall. This is worse than I thought. Far worse. It’s not just Konstantine and a few rogue Guardians entertaining dark fantasies. It’s a coordinated effort. A conspiracy within a conspiracy.

“We’ll discuss this further,” Konstantine says finally. “Victor, I want projections. Mortality rates. Spread patterns. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with before I make any final decisions.”