246 Eloquent Performance
246 Eloquent Performance
Two things had always been true in my experience. It sucked being the boss, and I hated anything built on supremacy ideals. Unfortunately, I was currently stuck negotiating with the National Supremacy Directorate, which meant both truths were punching me in the face at the same time.
My office was still a wreck from the earlier attack. The door had been blown clean off its hinges, and a portion of the wall remained torn open, exposing twisted steel supports and cracked concrete. Dust lingered in the air despite the cleanup crew’s rushed efforts. It had not even been a full day since the assault, and yet here I was, conducting high-stakes diplomacy in what looked like a construction site.
“Like I said, the moon is not yours!” I snapped, my patience thinning by the second.
The man across from me stroked his ridiculous mustache as if he were auditioning for a historical drama. I had no idea why the NSD had sent him instead of a competent diplomat. They were perfectly capable of elegance when they wanted to be. Sending this caricature had to be intentional.
“Ja, it vas my understanding, yah,” he said, leaning back with infuriating calm, “zat ze leader of zis planet—how you say—he vas selling ze moon to us, nein? Und now suddenly you are telling me about not owning? Vat is zis talk, hmm? Tell me somesing. Vould you feel happy, ja, if you buy a game for your PC, you pay good money, und zen—poof!—you cannot even own it? Ach, come on. Vat kind of nonsense is zat?”
I stared at him.
What did this have to do with PC games? And what was that accent? It sounded like someone had mashed together three Monarchy stereotypes and called it a day. I was half convinced he was exaggerating it on purpose to needle me.
Normally, I would have relied on my psychic senses to smooth over linguistic gaps and read intent directly. Unfortunately, the thick null barrier humming around him rendered that impossible. The NSD’s null-field technology was the single advantage they held over the SRC in direct negotiations. With it, they could shut down telepathy, precognition, even subtle empathic nudges.
Receiving official NSD favor would grant us access to that technology.
I was not desperate enough to beg for it.
Our preferred strategy had always been acquisition through less diplomatic means. Steal it, reverse-engineer it, or improve it. By principle alone, we disliked the NSD, and Nick’s sentiments likely mirrored mine. However, the current situation demanded pragmatism. Aligning temporarily with them would give us leverage against the SRC and, more importantly, against the Entity. Recent evidence suggested that if the Entity decided to knock on our world’s door, it would not be a polite visit.
My phone rang, slicing through the tension.
The NSD representative frowned immediately, his fingers tapping the armrest. He did not like interruptions.
“It’s Eclipse,” I lied smoothly.
The effect was immediate. His face lost a shade of color. Good.
I answered the call and put it on speaker.
“What is it?” I asked.
Guesswork’s voice came through, casual as ever. “Just checking up on you. How did the damage control regarding the multiverse reveal go? My superiors are hounding me, and the lower rubberneckers deployed in your world would love nothing more than to take a shot at it. I believe a few assassination attempts were made on Tempest. Just so you know, those attempts are not green-flagged on my side, so do not blame my organization for it.”
That was an impressively lazy disclaimer.
Of course it was their responsibility if operatives under their banner were pulling triggers. The SRC was more fragmented than I had initially estimated. Either that, or Guesswork enjoyed plausible deniability far too much.
“Is that all?”
Since Guesswork didn’t ‘ complain’ about it being on speaker, I just left it be. I hoped his presence would change the stalemate against this particular brand of idiot.
“The GDF will handle the fallout,” I replied evenly. “Though they are already stretched thin. The Company has more flexibility when it comes to mundane manpower, so I will assist. As for Tempest, do not worry about him. He reaped what he sowed. We did evacuate his family, though.”
The NSD representative’s mustache twitched at the mention of GDF and Company in the same breath. He was listening very carefully now. The information revealed wouldn’t be harmful to us, so I just left it be.
I leaned back slightly and added, “Just a quick question. How much consequence would I suffer if I killed the NSD representative currently sitting in front of me?”
There was a brief pause on the line before Guesswork laughed.
“A good guess is… they would want an apology.”
I grinned slowly.
“Deal with him.”
Two-D, who had been standing quietly at my side, moved without hesitation. She drew her revolver in one smooth motion, the metal glinting under the broken office lights. The NSD representative barely had time to register the weapon before she fired.
The shot rang out sharply.
The bullet did not behave like a normal projectile. Upon contact with his sleeve, it flattened unnaturally, collapsing into a razor-thin two-dimensional plane. It slid along the surface of his arm like a paper cut drifting across skin, frictionless and precise.
Then Two-D released the phase.
The projectile snapped back into three dimensions inside his flesh.
Blood burst from his arm in a violent spray.
The man screamed, and the ridiculous accent evaporated instantly. “F-Fuck, shit! Do you know what this means!?”
So the accent had been fake.
He clutched his arm and bolted for the shattered doorway.
“I changed my mind,” I said calmly. “Don’t kill him.”
Phasecrash vanished in a spatial ripple and reappeared directly in his path. She seized him mid-stride and warped again, slamming him face-first onto the conference table. The reinforced wood cracked under the impact, papers scattering.
He groaned, pinned under her knee.
Two-D lowered her revolver and dipped her head slightly. “I am sorry, boss. I’ve been training my external intangibility. It’s still tough to apply it on a secondary object attached to an initial object. I keep messing up the timing.”
“It’s fine,” I replied evenly. “You did well.”
I stepped forward and adjusted the stack of documents that had been knocked aside.
“Now, Mr. Representative,” I continued, voice steady, “let’s try this again. This is the fee for the territorial lease per square meter.”
I slid the paper toward him, the same one he had theatrically ignored earlier.
Phasecrash eased the pressure just enough for him to lift his head. He scanned the document, jaw tightening as he processed the numbers. The bleeding from his arm slowed; he must have activated some internal enhancer to stabilize himself.
“You got a deal,” he muttered, frustration bleeding into every syllable.
I scoffed softly. “You didn’t have to make it difficult for yourself.”
He clearly had an agenda beyond lunar real estate. The exaggerated accent, the deliberate misunderstanding, the insistence on meeting Eclipse personally. He had been probing, testing reactions, and measuring us.
My phone was still on the table.
Guesswork’s voice came through again, thoughtful. “Hm. I looked into it. Interesting. It seems they sent you an NSD officer with a highly advanced Enhancer rating. His specialization enhances cognitive function, particularly deductive reasoning. He can discern truth from microscopic details. It’s almost like my power, except less bullshit and more Sherlock.”
That explained the theatrics.
I exhaled through my nose. “I appreciate the trivia. If that’s all, we should end this.”
“Yeah,” Guesswork replied lightly. “See you when I see you.”
The call disconnected.
The NSD officer slowly pushed himself upright, wincing as he retrieved a ballpen from his inner pocket. He scribbled figures onto the contract with swift, efficient strokes despite the blood staining his cuff. When he finished, he slid the document back to me.
“That’s how much land we want,” he said flatly. “For a desolate place like the moon, it is certainly overpriced.”
I skimmed the numbers. Ambitious, but within the margins I had anticipated.
The real issue was not the price.
I could already imagine what information he had gathered in this brief exchange. My tone shifts. Two-D’s micro-adjustments. Phasecrash’s warp intervals. The structural weaknesses of my office. Even my offhand comment about killing him.
By letting him walk out alive, the NSD would gain a frightening amount of insight into me, Phasecrash, Two-D, and potentially anyone else he observed.
I frowned faintly.
Killing him now might be the cleaner solution.
As if reading the calculation behind my eyes, he spoke calmly despite the blood drying on his sleeve. “It would be wise for you to leave me untouched. The NSD would demand an enormous amount of compensation as an apology if you kill me now.”
I suppressed a sigh as the NSD officer limped toward the exit.
The reason he had played the fool was obvious in hindsight. He wanted to stall the negotiation, gather behavioral data, return home with his intel, and recalibrate the deal to better suit their interests. The exaggerated accent, the ridiculous PC game analogy, and the feigned incompetence had all been misdirection.
Clever bastard.
I had only gained the upper hand because of Guesswork’s timely call. His power must have brushed against the officer’s cognitive enhancer, disrupting whatever subtle deductions he had been stacking in his mind. For a brief window, the advantage had shifted to me.
“Go,” I said at last.
Phasecrash released him.
He straightened slowly, meeting my gaze with something that was not quite resentment and not quite respect. Then he nodded once and walked out, one hand pressing firmly against the bullet wound to slow the bleeding.
The rest of the day did not slow down.
I met with a GDF representative who insisted on revising joint patrol zones. A media consultant presented projected sentiment graphs tracking public opinion about the multiverse reveal. Tempest himself arrived in person, his presence drawing subtle tension in the room. Spoiler reported incremental progress on tracking Sequence and Paleman, though both remained elusive.
Between meetings, I visited my son.
Ron floated inside a cylindrical glass tube in the secured medical wing, suspended in nutrient-rich solution. Monitors flickered around him, displaying stable readings in soft green light. He looked peaceful, almost as if he were simply asleep.
I rested my palm against the glass.
Watching him breathe, however artificially assisted, gave me strength. It anchored me. Every negotiation, every manipulation, every risk I took was measured against the simple desire to secure a future where he could live freely.
Other times, I went out into the field myself. There were operations too critical to delegate, and variables too volatile to trust entirely to subordinates. Being the boss meant involvement at every level.
By evening, I found myself seated just behind the cameraman in a broadcast studio we effectively controlled. I joined the rest of the crew, who were not truly a crew in the traditional sense. They were my people to begin with.
The red recording light blinked on.
The news anchor began smoothly, voice polished and calm. “Good evening. Recent events surrounding the invasion have left the world rattled. The city of Markend continues to grapple with the aftermath of what authorities believe to be a coordinated threat originating from a parallel world governed by the National Supreme Directorate. Tonight, we bring you special coverage of a historic and highly anticipated debate between GDF representative Amelia Morose—also known as Griffin—and the supreme leader of the NSD, referred to as the Führer. This broadcast aims to provide clarity, context, and direct insight into the escalating tensions that have captured global attention.”
The debate had been requested by the NSD. They likely hoped to regain narrative control and gather sympathy from a perceived position of weakness.
That was precisely why I had chosen the topic.
The monitor wall displayed the bold banner: [Sovereignty vs. Supremacy: Does a Parallel Power Have the Right to Claim and Govern Another World?]
The Führer appeared on screen, posture rigid, eyes sharp with irritation. “I came here to debate, not to be debased,” he said, voice laced with hostility. “I requested a discussion about dimensional borders—whether they exist and who enforces them. I am not here to argue about sovereignty and supremacy.”
This was technically live.
That did not stop us from cheating.
To my left, our technopath worked silently, fingers flying over her laptop. She manipulated the live feed at the signal level, trimming sentences in real time, inserting fractional delays, adjusting audio priority. The Führer’s protest was subtly shortened on broadcast, his phrasing made more abrupt and defensive.
Everyone in the studio belonged to me.
The anchor delivering the lines was not the real anchor. A shapeshifter had borrowed his face flawlessly. The original man was on a generously funded “vacation,” compensated well enough to avoid inconvenient curiosity.
I allowed myself a small smirk.
On the monitor, the Führer’s gaze shifted slightly, focusing past Amelia and toward the cameras. Toward me. Though I sat just behind the cameraman, out of frame, his glare aligned perfectly with the lens.
He was probably receiving updates through his earpiece in real time. His advisors would be noticing the micro-delays, the tonal shifts, and the audience sentiment feed.
If I had my way, I would have jammed his earpiece the moment he stepped onto the stage.
Unfortunately, the NSD’s technical support staff were not amateurs. Every time our technopath attempted to inject interference into his communication channel, countermeasures flared up like defensive thorns. We were already leveraging the combined cyberwarfare resources of the GDF and the Company just to neutralize their quieter sabotage attempts on the broadcast infrastructure. It was a layered knife fight conducted in invisible bandwidths.
The anchor turned slightly toward Amelia.
“Let’s start with Ms. Morose. What do you think about the recent invasion of the NSD?”
The Führer immediately interjected. “This is a debate, not an interview. Fine, have it your way. Raise your points, Ms. Morose.”
We trimmed that interruption in real time. Not enough to make it suspicious, just enough to sand down the petulance. Our Researcher-class capes had designed latency-masking algorithms specifically for moments like this. The cut blended seamlessly into the feed.
Amelia exhaled softly before speaking.
“The National Supreme Directorate has no mandate, no lawful authority, and no moral claim to set foot upon our world as conquerors,” she began, voice steady and resonant. “To invade another sovereign people is not an act of governance, but subjugation, and we are not going to be subjugated.”
She leaned forward slightly, hands clasped.
“Let me be clear. Any such aggression is not merely a violation of borders, but a violation of principles. It is the trampling of the freedoms we cherish, the rights we defend, and the dignity of every citizen who calls this world home. We are not territory to be claimed. We are not subjects awaiting rule. We are a free people, and our liberty is not yours to seize.”
The delivery was strong.
She was likely thinking she would rather be anywhere else. Amelia had never enjoyed political theater. She preferred clean missions, direct action, and problems that could be solved with force or clarity.
However, we needed her here.
This would elevate her reputation globally. It also positioned her as the visible counterweight to the Führer. According to the SRC’s assessment, reinforced by Guesswork’s unsettling confidence, Griffin possessed enough raw power to stop him if violence erupted. Killing him was another matter entirely, and one we preferred not to test live.
The Führer waited a beat before responding, allowing silence to thicken.
“We did not come to your world to wage war,” he said at his own measured pace. “Conflict was not our design. It was cruel and inescapable coincidence that our circumstances collided with yours.”
His tone shifted from sharp to solemn with practiced precision.
“At this very moment, our homeland burns. We are beset by an invading force, xenoforms of arboreal origin. Sentient organisms that take the shape of towering tree-like entities. They uproot cities. They consume territory. They do not negotiate. They do not reason. They only advance.”
He paused, letting the imagery settle.
“Our arrival here was not conquest. It was desperation. A miscalculation amid crisis. A search for survival. And yet, despite this, we have been painted as aggressors beyond redemption.”
The technopath glanced at me briefly. I gave no signal. We let this portion run uncut.
“We have cooperated,” he continued. “We have paid reparations for damages we did not authorize. We have tolerated accusations while offering transparency. The soldiers who attacked Markend were not agents of state policy. They were deserters, rogue elements acting outside our command structure. They will answer for their actions.”
His eyes held steady, unwavering.
“If anything, we seek alliance, not annihilation. We seek cooperation between governments. A pact against forces that would extinguish humanity wherever it exists. We are not aliens to you. We are human, born of a parallel cradle, yes, but human nonetheless. The same blood. The same fears. The same will to survive.”
He leaned slightly toward the camera.
“In a cosmos filled with threats beyond imagination, shall humanity fracture itself over misunderstanding? Or shall we stand together? We extend our hand in unity. Not as conquerors, but as kin.”
The studio remained silent except for the faint hum of equipment.
It was a strong performance.
Motherfucker was the head of NSD for a reason.