Bedlam, p.17
Bedlam, page 17
And Nouvel was unraveling.
She inhaled sharply. “I want reports. Where does everyone stand?”
* * *
Khalil ran a hand over his face, still covered in grime from the wreckage of the water grid.
“The damage to the West District’s pipelines was deliberate—whoever did it knew exactly where to hit.” He exhaled, his voice tight with frustration. “And we’re still struggling to contain the panic. People are starting to hoard supplies. Fights are breaking out at the water stations.”
Ezra, typing rapidly on his hacked surveillance terminal, didn’t look up. “And that’s exactly what they wanted.”
Amina narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”
Ezra’s fingers flicked across the screen, pulling up anonymous transmissions intercepted from within Nouvel’s network.
“The Veil has been spreading misinformation,” Ezra explained. “There are rumors circulating that the Council is hoarding resources, that we knew about the attack and let it happen.”
Jalen scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
Ezra’s gaze was sharp, cold. “Ridiculous doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what people believe.”
Silence.
Amina clenched her jaw. “What about security?”
* * *
Lyric stepped forward, voice measured but tense.
“We’ve been watching suspected members of the Veil, tracking movements, interactions, patterns.” He shook his head. “And I’m telling you—they’ve already prepared for our response.”
He tossed a collection of forged documents onto the table.
“These are fake ration books, fake ID papers, fake Council decrees. They’re planting operatives everywhere. We’ve been so focused on finding them that we didn’t see they were already integrated into our systems.”
Khalil swore under his breath.
Jalen clenched his fists.
Ezra’s jaw tightened.
Amina’s knuckles went white against the table.
They had been playing defense.
And the Veil had been playing them.
* * *
Jalen, normally the most composed voice in the room, was visibly agitated.
“People don’t just distrust us anymore,” he said. “They’re ready to rebel.”
He turned on the Council’s broadcast screen, playing a clip from the markets that morning.
A trader was shouting at a group of workers, slamming his fist into his stall.
“They act like we don’t see what’s happening! Water’s cut off, food’s disappearing, and what’s the Council doing? Nothing!”
Another voice.
“Jalen Creed talks a lot, but where’s his damn solutions?!”
Jalen shut off the screen, turning to Amina.
“I’m losing them.” His voice was quiet, tense, raw.
Amina held his gaze. “Then we get them back.”
But Jalen didn’t look convinced.
* * *
The night was humid, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
Jalen stood on the rooftop of the media center, staring at the flickering city lights, hands on his hips.
Lyric approached behind him, sighing. “You can’t let this shake you, J.”
Jalen let out a bitter laugh. “The people think I’m the problem. You saw the broadcast.”
Lyric crossed his arms. “That’s not what I saw.”
Jalen turned, frustration etched into every line of his face. “Then what the hell did you see, Lyric?”
Lyric stepped closer, voice low but fierce.
“I saw a man who thought he was the whole city, forgetting that this fight isn’t just his.”
Silence.
Jalen’s jaw clenched.
Lyric continued.
“You’re the voice of Nouvel, Jalen. But you’re not its only voice. And right now? You’re acting like you have to fix this alone.”
Jalen looked away, shoulders tight with frustration and doubt.
Lyric sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“We don’t need you to be a hero. We just need you to keep speaking.”
Jalen exhaled, nodding slowly.
But doubt still lingered in his eyes.
* * *
Inside the distillery, away from the noise of the Council, Khalil and Amina sat alone, reviewing maps of Nouvel’s weak points.
Khalil’s voice was tight. “You realize we’re sitting on a powder keg, right?”
Amina rubbed her temples. “Yes.”
He scoffed. “You don’t sound like it.”
Amina’s eyes flashed. “And what do you want me to do, Khalil? Lock the city down? Send troops into the streets?”
Khalil leaned forward, eyes dark with exhaustion. “I want you to acknowledge that what we’re doing isn’t working.”
Silence.
Amina’s gaze didn’t waver.
Finally, she sighed.
“I know,” she admitted. “But if we overcorrect, we lose everything.”
Khalil ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
“You ever get tired of being right all the time?”
Amina smirked, despite everything.
“I never get tired of you telling me I am.”
Khalil huffed a small laugh—then his face went serious again.
“We have to be better than the old world,” he murmured. “But we have to make it to the future first.”
Amina nodded.
She just wasn’t sure how.
* * *
In a small, dimly lit library, three of Nouvel’s most experienced minds gathered.
Zuri.
Ezra.
Mama Etta.
Between them, a collection of old-world records, resistance strategies, and handwritten notes from history.
Mama Etta ran a hand over a worn book, shaking her head.
“Ain’t nothing new under the sun, baby. Every time we try to build, somebody comes along to tear it down.”
Ezra leaned back, eyes flicking through hacked Veil transmissions.
“They’ve done this before,” he said. “In other cities, other settlements. They don’t win by fighting. They win by making people lose faith.”
Zuri nodded. “Then we need to remind people why they believed in Nouvel in the first place.”
Mama Etta tapped the yellowed pages of a history book.
“You want to subdue a revolution before it swallows itself?” she said. “You don’t just fight it. You starve it.”
Zuri and Ezra exchanged a look.
Because maybe, just maybe—
The key to saving Nouvel wasn’t just in catching the traitors.
It was in cutting off their reason to fight.
* * *
Just before dawn, an urgent message reached the Council.
Another fire.
Another attack.
Another step toward the city’s collapse.
Amina, standing at the Council steps, exhaled.
“This is it,” she murmured.
Khalil stood beside her.
“Then let’s not lose.”
And as the first rays of sunlight touched Nouvel’s broken streets, the city prepared for the battle to come.
* * *
The Council Hall was suffocating with tension.
General Malcolm Thorne stood at the center of the chamber, his broad frame casting a shadow over the long table, his face a mask of barely contained frustration.
The air was thick—not with diplomacy, not with negotiation, but with something colder, heavier.
Force.
And that’s exactly what Thorne was about to demand.
* * *
“The time for talking is over,” Thorne snapped, slamming a gloved fist onto the table. “We’ve wasted weeks posturing, acting like we can negotiate our way out of this.”
His voice boomed, a battle cry waiting for an army.
“We have infiltrators. We have traitors. And what have we done? Held meetings. Collected notes. Sat around hoping we could root them out one by one.”
His glare cut across the assembled Council members, eyes landing on Amina, Zuri, Khalil, and Ezra.
“You’re all playing a game we’ve already lost.”
Amina didn’t flinch.
She leaned forward, fingers interlaced, voice dangerously even.
“And what do you suggest?”
Thorne smirked, but there was no humor in it.
“We go to war.”
A few Council members murmured, shifting uneasily.
Zuri’s expression was unreadable, but her fingers tapped against the table, a sure sign that she was calculating, waiting.
Amina’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘war.’”
Thorne straightened, shoulders square, unyielding.
“We lock down Nouvel. Martial law. We purge suspected traitors. We stop waiting for them to make a move and start breaking down doors.”
His voice was steel and fire, his presence the kind that men followed into battle.
But this wasn’t a battlefield.
This was a city.
And Thorne was proposing its transformation into a war zone.
* * *
Khalil was the first to speak, voice laced with quiet defiance.
“You’re suggesting we turn our own people into prisoners.”
Thorne scoffed. “They’re not our people if they’re working against us.”
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
Mama Etta, who had been silent until now, exhaled deeply, her voice gravel and wisdom.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Thorne. You think you can smother a fire by throwing more wood on it.”
Thorne’s fists tightened. “And you think we can just sit back and let them burn Nouvel to the ground?”
Silence.
Then—Ezra spoke.
“No,” Ezra murmured, his tone cold and calculating. “We don’t sit back. We strike first. But we strike smart.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”
Ezra’s fingers flew across his tablet, pulling up maps, communications data, intercepted messages.
“We’ve been monitoring them,” Ezra said. “The Veil is baiting us into overreacting. If we turn Nouvel into a police state, we’re doing exactly what they want.”
Amina nodded. “We don’t need a hammer, Thorne. We need a scalpel.”
Thorne shook his head, laughing bitterly.
“You still think you can outmaneuver them. But you can’t. Not anymore.”
His eyes darkened.
“This is our last chance to take control. If we don’t, we lose everything. And when we do, remember this moment.”
His gaze cut through the room like a knife.
“Remember who hesitated.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.
* * *
The room stayed silent long after Thorne had left.
The air was thick, suffocating.
Finally, Zuri spoke, her voice quiet but absolute.
“We have two wars to fight.”
She looked at Amina.
“One against the Veil.”
She looked at the door where Thorne had left.
“And one against our own.”
Amina exhaled. “We have to move now.”
Ezra’s screen flickered, pulling up new intercepted transmissions.
His eyes went sharp.
“They’re planning something. Something big.”
Khalil stood. “Then we stop them.”
Lyric, arms crossed, nodded. “And this time, we don’t wait.”
Jalen, leaning against the far wall, finally spoke.
“If Thorne wants war, let’s make sure he’s not the one leading it.”
Amina’s eyes flickered with calculated fire.
“Then it’s settled.”
Zuri’s voice was final.
“We set the trap. And we end this.”
* * *
Thorne is preparing his own private security force, believing the Council is too weak to act.
The Veil is preparing their next move, ready to strike harder than ever.
The Council is out of time. The trap must be set now.
And as the last lights flickered over Nouvel, the city stood at the precipice of war.
The fracture had begun.
And soon?
It would shatter completely.
* * *
The Council Hall was suffocating with tension.
General Malcolm Thorne stood at the center of the chamber, his broad frame casting a shadow over the long table, his face a mask of barely contained frustration.
The air was thick—not with diplomacy, not with negotiation, but with something colder, heavier.
Force.
And that’s exactly what Thorne was about to demand.
* * *
“The time for talking is over,” Thorne snapped, slamming a gloved fist onto the table. “We’ve wasted weeks posturing, acting like we can negotiate our way out of this.”
His voice boomed, a battle cry waiting for an army.
“We have infiltrators. We have traitors. And what have we done? Held meetings. Collected notes. Sat around hoping we could root them out one by one.”
His glare cut across the assembled Council members, eyes landing on Amina, Zuri, Khalil, and Ezra.
“You’re all playing a game we’ve already lost.”
Amina didn’t flinch.
She leaned forward, fingers interlaced, voice dangerously even.
“And what do you suggest?”
Thorne smirked, but there was no humor in it.
“We go to war.”
A few Council members murmured, shifting uneasily.
Zuri’s expression was unreadable, but her fingers tapped against the table, a sure sign that she was calculating, waiting.
Amina’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘war.’”
Thorne straightened, shoulders square, unyielding.
“We lock down Nouvel. Martial law. We purge suspected traitors. We stop waiting for them to make a move and start breaking down doors.”
His voice was steel and fire, his presence the kind that men followed into battle.
But this wasn’t a battlefield.
This was a city.
And Thorne was proposing its transformation into a war zone.
* * *
Khalil was the first to speak, voice laced with quiet defiance.
“You’re suggesting we turn our own people into prisoners.”
Thorne scoffed. “They’re not our people if they’re working against us.”
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
Mama Etta, who had been silent until now, exhaled deeply, her voice gravel and wisdom.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Thorne. You think you can smother a fire by throwing more wood on it.”
Thorne’s fists tightened. “And you think we can just sit back and let them burn Nouvel to the ground?”
Silence.
Then—Ezra spoke.
“No,” Ezra murmured, his tone cold and calculating. “We don’t sit back. We strike first. But we strike smart.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”
Ezra’s fingers flew across his tablet, pulling up maps, communications data, intercepted messages.
“We’ve been monitoring them,” Ezra said. “The Veil is baiting us into overreacting. If we turn Nouvel into a police state, we’re doing exactly what they want.”
Amina nodded. “We don’t need a hammer, Thorne. We need a scalpel.”
Thorne shook his head, laughing bitterly.
“You still think you can outmaneuver them. But you can’t. Not anymore.”
His eyes darkened.
“This is our last chance to take control. If we don’t, we lose everything. And when we do, remember this moment.”
His gaze cut through the room like a knife.
“Remember who hesitated.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.
* * *
The room stayed silent long after Thorne had left.
The air was thick, suffocating.
Finally, Zuri spoke, her voice quiet but absolute.
“We have two wars to fight.”
She looked at Amina.
“One against the Veil.”
She looked at the door where Thorne had left.
“And one against our own.”
Amina exhaled. “We have to move now.”
Ezra’s screen flickered, pulling up new intercepted transmissions.
His eyes went sharp.
“They’re planning something. Something big.”
Khalil stood. “Then we stop them.”
Lyric, arms crossed, nodded. “And this time, we don’t wait.”
Jalen, leaning against the far wall, finally spoke.
“If Thorne wants war, let’s make sure he’s not the one leading it.”
Amina’s eyes flickered with calculated fire.
“Then it’s settled.”
Zuri’s voice was final.
“We set the trap. And we end this.”
* * *
Thorne is preparing his own private security force, believing the Council is too weak to act.
The Veil is preparing their next move, ready to strike harder than ever.
The Council is out of time. The trap must be set now.
And as the last lights flickered over Nouvel, the city stood at the precipice of war.
The fracture had begun.
And soon?
It would shatter completely.
Chapter 15: Trust and Betrayal
Nouvel had always been built on whispers. They carried through the markets like drifting embers, igniting tempers, spreading faster than fire. Today, those whispers were an inferno.
It started in the morning without ceremony, just as the city was waking, the scent of roasting maize and fried dough thick in the air. Someone found an envelope under the council’s chamber doors. By noon, copies had spread across the city like a plague. It was read aloud in alleyways, tacked onto shopfronts, slipped into the hands of wary citizens who already had their doubts.
