Bedlam, p.8
Bedlam, page 8
But inside the circular Council Chamber, the air was thick with expectation.
The four—five, with Lyric—took their seats around the wide stone table, Zuri standing at the head, her hands resting on the smooth surface. The room was dimly lit, the golden glow of sconces casting soft shadows against the inscribed walls.
Behind her, the Council Members sat, watching, waiting.
Zuri did not stall.
“You’ve seen what we’ve built,” she said. “You’ve seen how far we’ve come.” She let her eyes pass over them, meeting each gaze in turn.
“And now, you know why we called you here.”
She took a breath. “Nouvel is strong. But strength alone is not enough. We need to be prepared, unified, and adaptable. And that means bringing in people who can see what others can’t, build what others won’t, and hold onto history so we don’t make the same mistakes that ruined the old world.”
She stepped around the table, slow and deliberate, as if measuring their resolve.
Then, she made her offer.
* * *
Zuri turned to Amina first.
“We need someone who can keep Nouvel one step ahead—who can read between the lines, anticipate threats before they arrive, and counter them before they gain ground.”
Amina sat with her arms crossed, silent but calculating.
Zuri’s voice remained steady. “You built your reputation on being five moves ahead of everyone else. But you’ve also seen what happens when people refuse to listen to those who can see the bigger picture.”
Amina exhaled slowly. “You’re not wrong.”
Zuri met her gaze. “This city cannot afford to be reactionary. We need a mind that sees the faults before they form, that can predict The Sanctum’s next move and uncover The Veil’s hidden hands.”
A pause.
Then, Amina smirked, tilting her head.
“You know,” she murmured, “I was hoping for a vacation.”
Zuri didn’t blink. “You wouldn’t know what to do with one.”
Amina chuckled, shaking her head. “Fair enough.”
She leaned back, considering, but the decision had already settled.
“You’ve got me,” she said. “For now.”
* * *
Zuri’s gaze moved to Khalil.
“You saw our infrastructure.”
Khalil sighed through his nose, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. I did.”
Zuri nodded. “And?”
Khalil leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You built a strong city, Zuri. But strong doesn’t mean sustainable. You’ve expanded fast—maybe too fast. I saw fault lines forming. Cracks in the foundation. If you keep growing at this rate without proper reinforcement—”
“It won’t last,” Zuri finished.
Khalil exhaled. “Yeah.”
Zuri didn’t flinch at the critique. Instead, she nodded. “That’s why we need you. Not just to fix what we have—but to design the next phase of Nouvel. To make it something that doesn’t just survive for now, but stands for generations.”
Khalil rubbed his face, staring at the table for a long moment.
The weight of his failures, the ruins he had left behind, the cities that had fallen despite his best efforts—they all pressed against him.
But this—this wasn’t just patchwork survival.
It was a chance to build something real.
He dragged in a breath.
Then, with a slow nod, he accepted.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
* * *
Zuri’s attention turned to Mama Etta, but the older woman was already watching her with a knowing look.
“You don’t have to sell me anything, baby,” Mama Etta said, adjusting the wrap on her shoulders.
Zuri gave a small smile. “Then I won’t.”
Mama Etta exhaled, drumming her fingers against the table. “You know what my problem is with cities like this?”
Zuri waited.
Mama Etta’s voice was quiet but firm.
“They always start with a dream. And then that dream turns into something else. Power shifts. Greed grows. The people get left behind.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen too many revolutions eat themselves alive.”
Zuri’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then help us make sure this one doesn’t.”
A long silence stretched.
Then, slowly, Mama Etta nodded.
“Well, hell,” she muttered. “Guess I got one last fight in me.”
* * *
Jalen had been quiet the entire time, arms crossed, his gaze flicking between Zuri and Lyric.
He had already known what his answer was.
But it wasn’t just about him.
Zuri didn’t rush them.
She let them talk it through.
Jalen turned to Lyric, his voice low. “What do you think?”
Lyric let out a breath, adjusting his glasses. “I think... I think you belong here.”
Jalen’s jaw tensed. “And you?”
Lyric shook his head with a smile. “Where you go, I go.”
Jalen studied him for a long moment.
Then he turned back to Zuri. “Alright.”
His voice was steady, but his hands tightened into fists beneath the table.
“You got us.”
* * *
Zuri let the weight of their decisions settle over the room.
Then she inclined her head.
“Then welcome to Nouvel.”
She smiled.
“Your work begins tomorrow.”
And just like that—
Everything changed.
* * *
The Council Hall had been transformed.
The long, circular table, typically reserved for strategy and governance, was now a place of celebration. Lanterns hung from the wooden ceiling beams, casting a warm golden glow across the polished stone floors. A mosaic centerpiece, depicting the city’s motto "We Build, We Rise", stretched across the length of the table.
Soft drumming played in the background, blending with the low hum of voices and the clinking of ceramic plates and glassware.
The air was thick with the aroma of slow-cooked meats, fragrant spices, and freshly baked bread.
At the head of the table, Zuri N’Dour raised her ceremonial goblet.
“To those who answered the call,” she said, her voice ringing through the hall. “To those who will help shape what comes next. Tonight, we do not work. Tonight, we welcome.”
She motioned to the culinary master behind the feast, a man with a wide grin, salt-and-pepper beard, and the steady hands of a man who had spent his life perfecting his craft.
“This is Chef Basir Diallo—the best hands in Nouvel’s kitchen.”
Chef Basir dipped his head, his eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “I do my best. But a meal is only as good as the company who shares it.”
He gestured grandly to the spread before them.
* * *
The table was laden with rich, colorful dishes, each one a tribute to Nouvel’s diverse cultural influences.
Grilled lamb seasoned with Berbere spice, cooked until tender and falling off the bone.
Jollof rice, deep red with tomatoes and fiery scotch bonnet peppers, its aroma both familiar and intoxicating.
Braised greens, cooked with smoked turkey and thick slices of onion, a reminder of Southern kitchens before the world fell.
Fried plantains, crisp at the edges, soft in the center, caramelized with a hint of nutmeg and honey.
Freshly baked flatbreads, still warm, to be dipped in bowls of spiced lentil stew and groundnut soup.
And for dessert—
A platter of sweet potato pies, dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg, alongside bowls of hibiscus and ginger sorbet, cool and refreshing after the heavy meal.
Jalen let out a low whistle. “Y’all really went all out.”
Zuri smirked. “We don’t do half-measures in Nouvel.”
Mama Etta took a slow sip of her wine, nodding approvingly. “You know... I think I could get used to this.”
* * *
As the meal went on, Zuri laid out their official roles within Nouvel.
Amina was named Chief Strategist, responsible for anticipating external threats and neutralizing internal risks.
Khalil was appointed Master Builder, charged with expanding and fortifying Nouvel’s infrastructure.
Jalen became Minister of Communications, overseeing public morale, messaging, and alliances.
Mama Etta was declared Historian & Cultural Steward, the keeper of Nouvel’s past, present, and future stories.
Lyric, though unexpected, was given the title of City Archivist, responsible for documenting and preserving Nouvel’s journey.
As Zuri finished outlining their positions, she looked at them one by one.
“You are not just filling roles. You are shaping what comes next.”
The weight of it settled over them—heavy, but not suffocating.
For the first time in years, they weren’t just surviving.
They were building something real.
* * *
After the feast, they were led outside, where five sleek black convoys waited, engines humming low in the quiet night.
Each vehicle bore Nouvel’s insignia, and at the driver’s seat of each stood a uniformed escort, flanked by armed security personnel.
“Your new homes await,” Zuri said, motioning to the convoys. “Take the night. Rest. Tomorrow, we begin.”
One by one, they boarded their respective vehicles, their security teams introducing themselves as the streets of Nouvel stretched out before them.
* * *
Amina’s convoy pulled up to a sleek, modern high-rise, its glass windows reflecting the city lights.
Inside, the apartment was spartan yet luxurious, its walls lined with tactical maps, a private command station, and a weapons locker built into the wall.
The balcony wrapped around the entire floor, offering a panoramic view of the city—one she could analyze from every angle.
Her bedroom was minimalist, with a queen-sized bed, a hidden safe beneath the floorboards, and a desk with encrypted data pads waiting for her review.
Amina smirked. “They really knew how to set me up.”
She dropped onto the couch, staring out at the city.
Tomorrow, she’d get to work.
Tonight?
She’d enjoy the quiet.
* * *
Khalil’s convoy stopped before a multi-level home, constructed almost entirely of reclaimed wood and reinforced steel.
Inside, it was a builder’s paradise—a private workshop filled with tools, drafting tables covered in blueprints, and a sunken living space lined with engineering books.
His bedroom walls were exposed brick, with industrial-style lighting that cast a soft, golden glow.
He ran his hands over the polished steel railing, nodding in appreciation.
“They built this for me.”
And for the first time in a long time, he thought—
Maybe this time, I’ll stay.
* * *
Their vehicle wound through Nouvel’s artist quarter, where music drifted from open windows and murals stretched across entire buildings.
Their home was a loft-style space, with open-concept design, a private recording studio, and a rooftop garden filled with wildflowers and herbs.
Jalen stepped inside first, taking in the vinyl-lined shelves, the soft lighting, the soundproof walls made for late-night discussions and even later nights making music.
Lyric walked in behind him, taking a slow look around.
Jalen exhaled. “This feels... like us.”
Lyric smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah. It does.”
And for the first time in years, Jalen didn’t feel like he had to move again.
* * *
Mama Etta’s convoy led her to a stone cottage, surrounded by blooming jacaranda trees.
Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves, each filled with worn leather-bound texts and carefully preserved artifacts.
The living room had a massive, hand-carved table, a firepit in the center, and seating for whoever needed to listen.
Her bedroom had a four-poster bed, wrapped in thick quilts and woven blankets.
She exhaled, stepping onto the front porch, staring up at the stars.
She rocked in the chair that had been placed there just for her.
She had a home again.
And that meant she had one last story to tell.
Chapter 7: The Council
Amina had been in war rooms before.
She had seen the quiet power struggles between commanders, the unspoken rivalries between leaders who claimed to be on the same side but were always angling for more control.
But nothing—not the backrooms of D.C., not the fractured coalitions of the post-collapse world—had prepared her for Nouvel’s Council.
The Council Hall was an imposing structure, a relic of old-world grandeur repurposed for the new age. Its walls of polished stone bore murals depicting Nouvel’s founding, its struggles, its victories. A massive circular table sat in the center of the room, designed not for one to reign but for all to debate.
But debate, Amina quickly realized, was not always progress.
The Council members sat in high-backed chairs, their faces a mix of wariness, determination, and quiet hostility.
Zuri N’Dour sat at the head of the circle, her expression calm, but Amina knew a calculated front when she saw one. This was not a meeting of like minds. This was a battlefield where words were weapons.
She had barely taken her seat when the first shot was fired.
* * *
Thorne wasn't a man who spoke in riddles.
His voice was gravel and steel, honed from years of commanding forces that no longer existed. He was broad-shouldered, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed with military precision, and his sharp eyes never stopped scanning—as if the enemy might be sitting at the table with them.
"Let’s not waste time with formalities," Thorne said, his hands flat on the table. "The threats outside our gates are growing, and we need to be prepared. We need more soldiers, more weapons, more structure."
Amina leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “You mean more control.”
Thorne’s jaw ticked. “I mean security. Or do you think diplomacy is going to stop The Sanctum from breaching our walls? You saw the reports. Their scouts have been spotted again—too close to our food stores.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Zuri remained silent, watching.
Amina exhaled. “You want to increase the military budget? By how much?”
Thorne slid a document across the table. “Forty percent.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Forty percent? You want to drain nearly half our resources into an army?”
Thorne’s voice remained level. “Half our resources? No. But half our unallocated budget? Absolutely. We don’t exist if we can’t protect what we’ve built.”
Amina tapped her fingers against the table. "Tell me, General—how much of Nouvel is already dedicated to defense?"
Thorne's mouth tightened, but Darion Hayes, the city's logistics officer, answered before he could. "About thirty percent of total resources are directed toward security—patrols, walls, training."
Amina turned back to Thorne. "And you're saying that isn't enough?"
Thorne's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was enough last year. But The Sanctum is reorganizing. We’ve already stopped three infiltration attempts in the last six months. That number is only going to grow."
Amina leaned forward. "So, your solution is to gut public infrastructure? Take from education, from agriculture, from power maintenance, and funnel it into building a standing army?"
Thorne’s nostrils flared. “You call it gutting. I call it protecting.”
“And I call it militarization.”
Silence.
Zuri’s fingers tapped once on the table. "Enough," she said quietly.
The room settled, but the unease lingered.
Amina turned to the rest of the Council. “Nouvel was built to be a model of governance, not a fortress-state. If we fall into the trap of funneling everything into military defense, then we become no different than the warlords outside our gates.”
Thorne scoffed. “And what happens when the next attack comes? You going to negotiate with the enemy?”
Amina's smile was cold. “I’m going to make sure we don’t have to.”
* * *
The real work began after the meeting.
Amina stepped into the hall, her mind racing with everything she had just witnessed.
This Council was not unified.
It was fractured, split into factions, each with its own agenda.
* * *
Led by Zuri N’Dour, the Progressives were the visionaries of Nouvel—the ones who believed in sustainable governance, cooperation, and long-term prosperity.
They saw Nouvel as a beacon, a place that could inspire other city-states, proving that self-sufficient governance was possible in a world that had already collapsed once.
Their members included:
Lisette Connors – Nouvel’s urban planner, who fought for sustainable housing, public works, and infrastructure.
Darion Hayes – Logistics and supply mastermind, ensuring resources were distributed fairly.
Evelyn Thorne – A reluctant ally, but one who believed the city needed balance, not war.
Amina respected them.
But she knew they lacked ruthlessness.
Nouvel would not last on good intentions alone.
* * *
The Traditionalists wanted order, but not the kind Zuri envisioned.
