Maisie sat on the edge of Gene's couch, one leg tucked beneath her. The tablet on her lap glowed, but she hadn't scrolled in minutes. Her eyes were fixed on nothing, listening to the breeze through the curtains. The suburb outside was quiet.
Gene stood at the window, arms loosely folded, gaze locked on the manicured lawns and still cars lining the cul-de-sac. Her posture was casual, but her jaw was closed tight.
"So," Maisie said softly, breaking the silence. "What do you think this is about?"
Gene didn't look back. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the street like she was expecting headlights. "Hard to say," she murmured. "The White Angels don't call casual meetings. Something's happening."
Maisie leaned deeper into the cushions. "You've been acting weird since I got here."
Gene laughed dryly. "That's just how I act when I'm lucid."
"You're hiding something."
Gene turned, expression neutral. "I know more than you, sure. That doesn't mean I know everything."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting." She crossed the room and dropped into the armchair across from Maisie. Legs to the side, posture relaxed, eyes tired.
Maisie studied her. "Since when did you start playing cryptic?"
Gene smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Since I realized people ask fewer questions when you don't hand them easy truths."
They let the silence settle again. Outside, a drone buzzed overhead, then vanished into the distance.
Maisie leaned forward. "You've been with them longer. Jack trusts you. So tell me, do you think we're doing the right thing?"
Gene's expression faltered briefly. "What I think won't change anything. You'll figure it out on your own soon enough."
A knock at the door interrupted them.
Gene hesitated, then slowly went to open the door.
A man stood on the porch: plain clothes, plain face, but with a tightly-wound stillness that screamed control. He looked like someone who never had to raise his voice.
"Genevieve," he said, with a small nod. A British accent. Then his eyes shifted. "Maisie Lennox." Josh.
Maisie nodded back politely, her mouth curving into a neutral half-smile. She'd met enough White Angels to know warmth wasn't part of the job description.
"We've been asked to speak with both of you," the man said evenly. "Not urgent. But it's time to align."
Gene stepped aside. "That's our cue."
Maisie rose and followed him to the kitchen table. The man stepped inside like he owned the place. He pulled out a chair and sat, legs stretching out comfortably.
Maisie knew the type. Older than her, senior in rank. His features were forgettable by design: mousy hair, soft brown eyes, freckled nose. The kind of man who could slip in and out of crowds like vapor.
He'd once been a Dark Angel, part of the British offshoot that made the White Angels look tame. When that group crumbled under its violence, Josh defected. He claimed the same goal, to expose corruption, dismantle the elite, but in public, he smiled more. In private, he didn't need to.
Maisie leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded. "Hey. I came to talk about the rally in Seattle."
Josh exhaled, half laugh, half sigh. "Yeah, well. Here's the gist. We need five thousand more bodies on the ground by next week. Confirmed."
Maisie blinked. "Five thousand? In a week?"
"Yep."
"What kind of people?"
Josh didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a slim black drive, and slid it toward Gene. She plugged it into her datapad and began scrolling without a word.
"You want warm bodies or recruits?" Maisie asked.
Josh's mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "A bit of both. Noise-makers, but also names. Some fresh data wouldn't hurt."
Gene stayed focused on the screen. She didn't offer commentary. Maisie watched her, trying to guess what she already knew.
Josh leaned back, fingers laced across his stomach. "You're sharp, Maisie. That's why we're bringing you in deeper. But keep an eye on Gene. She's got a few strings to pull you haven't seen yet."
Gene didn't look up.
Maisie ignored the tension crackling between them. "You mentioned recruits. What about Alucards? Are you hoping they'll show?"
Josh's eyes gleamed. "If we can get them."
Maisie stared. "You know that's nearly impossible. They're terrified. If they show up in public, they're signing their death warrants."
Josh shrugged. "Fear only works until someone pushes through it. One shows up, then another. They're still human at the core: pack creatures."
"What's going to convince them?"
Josh smiled slyly. "The Director recorded a holographic message. Tailored for them. It'll stir something deep. Guilt. Anger. Hope. Whatever works."
Maisie tapped the table. "That… might work."
Josh leaned in. "It will. I trust the Director."
Maisie hesitated. "But if we're trying to look legit, why bring Alucards at all? Wouldn't that... undercut the message?"
Josh's smile darkened. "Not if we control the narrative."
Her stomach dropped. "You're trying to start something."
"Not start. Stoke. The right spark, the right crowd—chaos breeds clarity. People don't change because of facts. They change when they're afraid."
Maisie recoiled slightly. "You'd risk people getting hurt?"
Josh's face went cold. "Do you think the people running this city give a damn about clean hands as long as the floor looks polished? This rally—it's a test. For us. For the public. For what comes next."
Maisie said nothing.
Maisie nothing. She didn't have to.
Josh's voice softened, almost conversational. "Right footage goes viral. Right panic spreads. Suddenly, lawmakers fast-track that bill to restrict Alucard's movement. No one asks questions. They just feel safer."
She swallowed. "Is that what the Director told you?"
He didn't meet her eyes. "Not in those words."
Maisie clenched her fists under the table.
This wasn't a protest.
It was a trap.
"A trigger," she whispered.
Josh smiled faintly, like a teacher pleased that a student was catching up.
Maisie's voice was low. "What can they even do?"
"Exactly what we need them to," he said.
Maisie stared. "You're not just exposing corruption. You're replacing it."
Josh tilted his head. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
She didn't answer.
He sat back, stretching again. "I didn't always roll with this lot, you know. Back in Britain, I worked with the Dark Angels."
Maisie raised an eyebrow. "I thought they were enemies."
Maisie's skin prickled. Common ground between reformers and extremists. She was caught in it, neither leading nor following.
"Alright, we have the plan down?" Josh asked, his tone clipped, confident. Like this was the kind of thing he did every day, plan revolutions over cheap coffee and adrenaline.
Maisie gave a tight nod. "Yeah. We gather as many Alucards as we can for the rally." She hesitated, eyes narrowing. "And you want me to take Igor too?"
Josh's smirk was razor-thin. "Of course. A smart Alucard like him would be an asset to our plans."
Maisie sucked in a breath through her nose and let it out slowly. Igor. Just the sound of his name made her jaw tighten.
"That might make things... complicated if something goes wrong," she said, a warning buried under layers of decorum.
Josh shrugged, careless. "Only if you treat him like a liability instead of a tool."
That word: tool, landed hard. She didn't correct him. Couldn't. Because wasn't that exactly what Igor was?
To her, he was as exciting as a doorknob: stoic, unyielding, and maddeningly blank. Always responding with the same monotone, the same damnable calm. She had spent years trying to get a rise out of him. A glare. A crack. Anything.
But he had never flinched. Not once. Not when she insulted him. Not when she joked about the collar laws. Not even when she told him once, half drunk, half daring, that he looked more human than most people she knew.
Her eyes flicked back to Josh, who was already distracted by the next message buzzing on his pager. This whole plan needed precision. It needed loyalty. And Igor had plenty of that. But it also needed heart. And Igor? He didn't even have a pulse.
Maisie shook herself out of the spiral and straightened her spine.
She pulled open her pager. [IGOR, BRING THE CAR AROUND. IMMEDIATELY.]
"Igor, bring the car around," she said aloud.
In the car, Igor didn't miss a beat.
He marked his place in the worn paperback he had read more times than he could count,1984, and slid it into a hidden compartment beneath the dashboard of the transport vehicle.A place he'd hollowed out himself. Somewhere no one else ever seemed to look.
Maisie descended the steps two at a time, purposeful. The engine purred, warmed, ready.
Maisie didn't glance his way as she descended the steps two at a time, her strides purposeful, clipped. Her ponytail bounced behind her like a metronome set to emergency. Her father used to say she had a gift for urgency. But today, it felt less like a gift and more like a clock ticking down.
As the door slammed behind her, the only sound left was the soft purr of the car engine, already warmed, already waiting.
Igor's eyes stayed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Ready to go.