Wherever I go, silence follows me.

It feels like an awaiting reckoning.

D. I.

• • •

THE PALACE, July 23rd 2263

Jackson steps into Harry's office. He's swapped the black uniform with a black suit, more appropriate for the refined elegance that characterises the upper floors of the Palace. Still, the badge next to his heart glints golden when it catches the lights overhead, baring his allegiance to anyone clever enough to know what it means. "You've requested me, sir?"

Harry's fingers tap on the armrest of his chair, faintly restless. "Are the main cameras in the archive still deactivated?"

Jackson frowns but nods. "Yes, sir."

Harry's gaze falls to the folder on the desk in front of him. He puts the contents back inside and closes it before standing. "I'm going to have to make an odd request of you, Jackson," he starts, walking towards the window. His eyes slide over the main gates, just barely visible from his floor. It's a long drop to the street.

Usually, he doesn't feel the need to explain himself. In his mind, it's easy: he only has to command, and people only have to obey. This time, though, he knows it won't be that simple. Jackson is smart, but his mind works differently than Harry's. It'll require some degree of information to make sure he does his part perfectly.

"It's about Bryce."

A hitch in Jackson's throat. "Bryce? What about him?" Worry is in his voice—it's well concealed, but Harry is apt at reading people. Nobody can keep secrets from him—though he takes great care in not making it obvious. It's easier to weave the threads of manipulation through people's minds when they aren't holding their cards so close to their chest. He knows a lot of things about everyone around him—not that they're aware of it. For instance, he knows Jackson cares deeply about the members of the personal guard that are entrusted to him. His coldness his nothing but a facade to hide the sensitive spots beneath—his weakness.

To some degree, Harry can understand his fear. Bryce, barely twenty, admitted to the personal guard because Harry was pleased with the way he shot strangers at his command, thrown in the archive on his first day—still there, awaiting a new order that isn't coming. The dangers of getting on Harry's bad side are endless. Usually, death doesn't follow far behind.

Still, this situation is different.

"Have the archivist speak ill of me," Harry states.

Jackson's frown deepens. This is the issue with people—no matter how smart they are, they require so many explanations, clarifications. Harry can hardly be bothered with giving any; his thoughts are always scattering in a thousand directions at a time. They call it unpredictability, he calls it, you just haven't seen the connection yet. His plans are a trap set weeks, months in advance, a cascade of dominoes intertwined with the days to come so tightly that a simple flick of his finger in the present will make cities fall in the future. It takes some talent to understand the instances moving people and take advantage of them, but it takes ruthlessness and a little thirst for danger to direct everyone around him all the way to a scripted future.

"I want the archivist to speak ill of me in front of Bryce," he repeats.

"But... no one can speak ill of you within the walls of the Palace, sir," Jackson replies, daunted. He must think he's losing his mind.

A faint smile curves Harry's lips. "That's exactly why." No one can badmouth him in the Palace. It's not a written rule, but his actions have made it clear: his employees are either on his side, or they simply aren't. Saying a word against him where the cameras can catch it is the quickest way to disappear. "Bryce needs to believe the cameras in the archive aren't active."

Shock washes over Jackson's face. It's a trap, he can undoubtedly see it now. What he doesn't know, though, is that Bryce isn't his victim. He has a more entertaining prey to catch—one that's driving him to his wits' end, in the most delicious way possible. Harry has always enjoyed a good game—after all, the higher the stakes, the more rewarding is his satisfaction when he wins. And he always wins—it's inevitable. He was created to win—it's threaded through the marrow in his bones. There's no alternate future of possibilities where he doesn't.

"But... but the secondary security cameras are on," Jackson lets out, near pleadingly, like he could convince him to let Bryce out of his claws unscathed.

"Yes, they are." The secondary security system is another one of his little inventions, just like the logs. The Palace is a system built to withstand betrayal. Every swipe of a card, every movement in front of a hidden system of cameras gets recorded and sent to a secondary information storage only Harry, Jackson and Evie know about and can access. A false sense of security is the perfect way to weed out the traitors in his organisation—if a chance is all they need to turn their back on them, he wants to get rid of them first.

The look on Jackson's face could shatter hearts, though he's doing his best to hide it. "But Bryce has done nothing wrong."

Harry turns towards the window. The display of feelings unsettles him—he doesn't like overly emotional people. He never knows quite how to act around them. He can't relate to them—his own emotions are a barren land plagued by rare, accidental explosions, tangles of sensation he struggles to name. "This isn't about Bryce."

"Then... why...?"

Harry dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. It would take too long to explain it in a way Jackson would understand, there's many variables he considers obvious that Jackson wouldn't.

Bryce's sociability.

His frequent meals with Lark.

His friendship with Lark.

His desperate need to share every single detail of his day.

It's quite simple, in fact. If Bryce believes his days in the archive aren't recorded, he'll grow comfortable. He'll underestimate their secrecy. After that, it's all a matter of likelihood. Harry can't know for sure the next step will happen, just like he couldn't know for sure the first tipped domino would tip the second if they were standing a little too far apart, just close enough to maybe catch.

He can't know for sure Bryce will tell Lark about the archive, though the likelihood is there. But that's the reason why Jackson wouldn't understand. This vision is too simplistic to figure out the reason behind Harry's actions.

There's always more than one variable in the world, and setting a trap makes it imperative to consider them all. Every person is tangled in a network of connections, each relationship mediated by a thousand thoughts and feelings.

He doesn't know for sure Bryce will tell Lark the cameras of the archive don't work.

What he does know, though, is that Lark sneaked into his library a few days ago—the secondary cameras recorded her, even though the main ones were unduly accessed and looped. That little trap was set well enough, too, though he'd done so more out of curiosity than anything else.

He'd been suspecting her for quite a while—the way she jolted at the mention of the Revolution months ago, when he took her to that meeting on her free day simply to see how she'd react, just because the degree in her profile didn't match her set of skills. It'd been nothing more than a hunch back then; an odd peculiarity, that paired with her location of origin—the old country—warranted some degree of suspicion.

And so he'd taken her to his meeting and watched her gasp in shock and try to cover it up. Still, that could've meant nothing—if it wasn't that she came onto him in the second they stepped outside. Now, Harry knows he's quite attractive. It's not exactly a red flag that someone may want to fuck him. He'd noticed her fear, though. That girl was terrified of him, and though danger can oftentimes be a quite potent aphrodisiac, she struck him as too careful a person to form an intimate relationship with someone she barely knew. Her coming onto him smelled like manipulation for a thousand miles away—how could she ever have hoped to trick him, of all people?

That was the moment he should've ideally killed her, or at the very least locked her up and questioned her. But she'd been just the right mixture of daring and seductive, and he's never been one to turn away from a challenge. He'd enjoyed the way she'd fidgeted at his words and the strength she'd spoken with to hide the effect he had on her. There's something of so intellectually pleasing in playing pretend with someone while knowing they're doing the exact same thing—like two actors on a stage, each of them working for the other's demise. It'd been the first time he felt unsettled in years.

Later, at the Palace, he'd asked Jackson to look into her privately. He'd come up with no new information but a single striking detail: her profile was fake. Someone had somehow accessed their system and inserted an account that had never been there—the lack of a Lark Ewings in the offline archives proved it.

From that moment, the game was on.

When he baited her with the code to his rooms a few days ago, he didn't mean anything with it. It was simply the thrill of handing her a knife and seeing what she'd do. It surprised him when Jackson ran into his office only a day later, telling him the library had been accessed without their permission. A quick look around had proved what he already suspected—Lark had snuck into his rooms, taken the key to the library and entered it in the same day.

That confused Harry, and Harry doesn't get confused easily. He spent the entire night checking every recording from the library in the secondary system, until he was able to determine what had struck her interest—the books. The same book he found in her hands several weeks ago, when they got stuck in the lift.

No matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn't figure out what she'd want with those books. The secrets inside them are unrelated to the fall of the Palace. And yet, he watched her frame skitter around the bookshelves in desperation—there was no denying there was something in them she wants, badly. Something she didn't find.

The next steps are quite natural, to him.

Variable number one: Lark and her desperation. She'll want to try again.

Variable number two: the person that helped her loop the cameras. They undoubtedly reside in the lower floors of the Palace, as the main cameras can only be accessed from the lower floors. This means they know the Palace well enough to know the archive is its second storage of information. They'll want to help her again.

And, variable number three: Bryce and his loneliness. He'll say more than he should if he thinks it's safe.

And Lark is clever. She'll want to get every information she can find about the archive, and Harry has made such a show of sending Bryce there.

Suddenly, the possibility connecting every step of his plan has turned into probability. In truth, it's nothing more than a well thought-out game of chess.

He has a bait. Now, all he needs is a hook.

It's time to find out where Lark's interests lie, once and for all. Whether she's Revolution, as he already suspects—her interest in that book proves it.

"Tonight, enter the archive and remove the contents of the folders under the names Daniel Ivenhart, Asher Markberg and Kiara Bryce. Add new empty folders under the names Ezra Larson..." His voice momentarily breaks. He clears his throat. "Brent Styles and Helena Styles," he finishes, quickly. The names tangle in his throat. It's the first time he says them in over fifteen years.

"Your parents, sir?" Jackson asks, somewhat shakily. He seems taken aback, to no surprise. Harry's life nowadays is dominated by the persistent strive to ignore the people that brought him into this world ever existed. But it's the only way to know if Lark is Revolution, or if her loyalties lie somewhere much deeper—much darker.

Who are you looking for, little lark?

"All empty folders," he says, ignoring Jackson's question.

The guard nods, though confusion is etched in his features and movements. "It will be done, sir." His willingness to do just about anything with minimal explanations is what Harry likes about him. He's a strict man with strong ideals and even stronger loyalty, and that makes him endlessly valuable. Still, his way of thinking is too pragmatic, and Harry's is too abstract for there to be any real dialogue between them.

He looks back out of the floor-to-ceiling window. The sun is setting, and the sky is of a particular lilac shade that mutes the lights of the city. Cars skitter down the streets that branch out of the Palace, far away into the distance. It's a sharp reminder of who he isn't—of what he is. The inner peculiarities of his soul can only defined by what he's lacking compared to everyone else—absence is a small price to pay for a country.

"But may I ask why, sir?" Jackson's voice comes from behind him. It doesn't surprise him—he knows he hasn't left, yet.

Yes, he isn't like Jackson. There can be no real conversation between them, just half-truths formatted in a way he could understand. He turns away from the window and walks to the other side of the room. He pulls a crystal glass out of the cabinet and fills it by one-third with bourbon. He takes a sip and leans against the cabinet, alcoholic sweetness on his tongue. The glass catches the lights coming from the window and refracts it like a diamond.

Harry's eyes shift to Jackson. He's still looking at him expectantly, like he believes he could reassure him of his motives with a word. As if. Harry's fingers tap on the glass; his rings clink against the silver. Then, a half-smile curves his mouth. "I'm trying to catch a little bird."

Understanding dawns on Jackson. His shoulders relax, and a faint relieved breath leaves his throat. He knows Bryce isn't the one in danger, now. "Very well, sir. I'll do as you asked." He seems happy to realise their little security problem will finally be handled. If only he knew.

He leaves the room.

Harry takes another sip and closes his eyes. He's spent so many hours checking the cameras that he can see Lark's form run around the library in his mind's eye. It thrills him to know she's been in his rooms. He wonders what else she'll do, if only he gives her the chance.

It makes him want to try just to find out.

•     •     •

It takes his little bird only a few days to get caught in his trap.

He's sitting at his desk, trying to pick up the pieces the day after the Revolution's attack on NorthFair Bank when Jackson rushes into his office.

"Ms. Ewing entered the archives yesterday afternoon, sir."

Harry's eyebrows rise. It took her longer than he expected. "Thank you for your report. You're dismissed."

Jackson leaves with a nod, and Harry connects to the system immediately, browsing through the recordings from yesterday until he spots Lark's figure. He pauses and marks the time—she entered the archives mere minutes after the bank was attacked, when the Palace was in shambles. Like she knew it was going to happen.

Harry's eyes narrow.

Is she Revolution, then?

Deep down, he already knows the answer. Still, he forces himself to keep watching the recordings.

What were you looking for, Lark?

His trap was set carefully—two different options, for two different sides. None of the names he placed in the archive has overlapping interest; he chose them on purpose.

Daniel Ivenhart, Asher Markberg and Ezra Larson for a member of the Revolution; his parents and Kiara for them. They aren't interested in the leaders of the Revolution, and the Revolution has no care for his parents or a woman they don't even know exists.

He took a risk in choosing these names—he might be off by a mile. Still, she went after the books, and that gives him a half-idea of what she's after, though he can't figure out why. The other two names are simply a formality, a just-because. He didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket and risk toppling it over.

He follows her through the archive, switching cameras when she turns corners. She starts checking section after section with quick but thorough movements. She looks relaxed enough that Harry would almost believe she fits in.

She abruptly stops. Harry chooses another camera, one close enough to read the name on the folder she picked.

Daniel Ivenhart.

A smile curves his lips. The Revolution has made their move—they sent him a spy. Maybe, an assassin.

It matters little. He already knows what to do with her.

He opens his drawer and stares at the folder hidden inside. He's not going to have her questioned, not when she's so willing to take advantage of him. He has a far better idea—a daring, dangerous one. One that might get him killed, if he's wrong. But it's not the first time he risks it all to get a far better prize in return, and if he moves just right, he'll be able to teach the Revolution why he should never be played with.

He slams the drawer closed. Unfortunately for the little bird with a big task, he's awfully bored and all too willing to exact his revenge. If she lets him, he'll take her to the end of the world.

You're mine, now.

Welcome to Insurgence. I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki