Simón Torres is five minutes late; this is by design.
He is freakishly tall, thin as a branch, and bespectacled by a pair of glasses that haven't been in fashion for at least a century. His hair is a half-organized mess of a graying brunette that matches perfectly with his brown striped suit and red bow tie. His face is a cold mask of calm determination — he carries himself with the dignity and status of someone at least two social positions more significant than you.
There's only two things most people need to know about Simón Torres: one, that he's a technocrat-billionaire in the making, the CEO of Phoenix Technologies, a paratech giant that's erupted like cancer from the reborn remains of Prometheus Laboratories some few years after the collapse of the Veil; two, that he's likely the worst person you're ever going to meet. This, similarly, is also by design.
He's been a prodigy since he could speak his first words, really. With two Nobel Prizes and eight language fluency certificates, he rarely hesitates to show that he's the smartest person in most rooms he enters. Unlike most of his entrepreneurial brethren, he looks down on others not because of their perceived inferiority, but because of his own superiority; a wholly different breed of bigotry to the one practiced by the common 21st century idiot. If he'd been born a hundred years earlier, he would have probably been into eugenics — but, blessed with the sociotechnological revelations of his times, the only kind of oppression that Torres regularly practices is the one imposed on unlucky bystanders by his own ego.
He checks his watch and smiles. He's sure that by now, the whole summit's biting their nails in anticipation of the only invitee who's yet to show up, the only man they physically cannot start the talks without. It's a tactic as old as time, tested by Torres on the corporate battlefield many times over many decades; he's glad it still works when imposed upon the bureaucratic ladder of the Global Occult Coalition. The World Parahealth Organization cannot possibly afford to wait — not when faced with a danger as high as their newest threat — but they are going to wait anyway. All for the man whose scientific assets they so desperately need to save the world's occult hierarchy — and their place directly atop it.
Still, ten minutes is as far as he'll go; anything after that stops building intimidation and only contributes towards annoyment. Faced with no other choice, Torres shows the guards the card that signifies he's been checked for the virus and declared healthy, opens the doors, and enters through, ready to join the World Parahealth Summit — the most significant event the world has witnessed in over a decade.
The first thing he notices is the cameras.
The paparazzi flash their lights as he enters through, broadcasting his appearance for the whole world to witness. He lets them bask in his presence; he enjoys this. For a few seconds, their attention lays solely on The Man Who's Finally Arrived; a sign their audiences need to start paying attention. Still, they keep their distance — seated in a lounge above the whole meeting, all they can do is simply look as the real players decide what step the world will take next.
Beneath those press balconies, the gigantic room's divided into two clear sections, two semi-circular audiences of blue chairs that face each other. The first one hosts a gathering of the Global Occult Coalition's Council of 108, seated alongside their leader, Undersecretary General Da Capo al Fine. She sits at the very bottom of the assembly, clearly drawing the attention of any observer — even without the placard placed before her that informs everybody of her name and status, it is clear that she's the real deal here. The long, rune-covered staff she holds only serves to reinforce that image.
Opposing the Coalition sits the real reason this summit is even necessary: the delegates of every single parascientific organization that truly matters, in this day and age. The upper crust of progress, all in a single room. Eyeing the gathered, Torres can notice representatives from all around the globe: there's Haru Yoshida and Hisashi Kunō of JOICL, both old fools in a world that is no longer theirs; Daniil Sokolsky, Ann Barlowe, Adrea Maslov, and Jay Everwood of Vanguard, all pioneers of a new era in spite of their age; General Thomas Bowe of the PENTAGRAM, a jaded relict of ways long since forgotten; and many, many more he cannot quite recognize from their faces alone.
And they're all waiting for him, the final piece they need for their scheme. He almost smiles, but makes sure to note down the relief he sees on the faces around him the second he walks through the doors.
Nodding a quiet greeting to the nearby Sahmthri Horath, the Manna Charitable Foundation's secretary in Europe, Torres takes his seat. It doesn't take him long to realize that he is directly facing the Undersecretary General. He enjoys this. It's only appropriate, he thinks. All he needs is a single flash in her eyes — a sign of recognition that Torres is finally here — to know she's aware of his delayed attendance.
Al Fine stands up.
"Honorable delegates," she begins, hitting the ground thrice with her staff. The whole room falls silent. "We will now begin."
Quiet whispers run throughout the hall, but all eyes remain focused solely on the Undersecretary General.
She thumps her staff again; this time, the lights fall down and a holographic map appears on a wall behind her. It's a display of the whole world alongside relevant off-world colonies. Though its borders are Coalition-blue, inside several countries and territories Torres can see red dots of varying sizes; among all of them, the United States bear the most scarlet. It doesn't take a genius to realize that this is the global infection map of the Washington Virion.
"I say this only for the sake of posterity: you were all gathered here because the occult legacy of this planet is currently at stake. The Coalition does not bear the might or wisdom necessary to save it alone." She pauses, eyeing the attendees gathered before her. She places her second hand on the staff, then points it directly at the map. "What you're looking at is the situation as of today. Though we were able to quarantine the USA, it would be foolish to call it a solution — it's merely a half-measure, one aimed at preventing further spread of the virus. The matter of those trapped inside the country — and those few suffering outside it — still remains."
The map changes to a display of various graphs and tables of parahealth data. It is almost as if al Fine is dictating the plan of how this will go and not pure data, Torres remarks.
"So far, we have been unable to find a cure for the virion, let alone a vaccine. Nothing we try is actually working." She pauses again. "We can isolate those afflicted and halt the expansion as much as we want, but the fact of the matter is that for as long as we remain without a remedy, we are as good as useless. Until then, all we can do is wait.
"All of that is to say: we need as much time as we can possibly get." She pauses. Her eyes are cold with determination. She means everything she says. "To facilitate that, we suggest the following: the declaration of Procedure Pizzicato, worldwide, until we can eliminate every single last case of KTE-9817."
The staff falls again, and the lights come back up.
"This is our proposal."
The room immediately explodes into discord. No wonder — to even put forward the deployment of Pizzicato is insane, even for someone like Torres. It isn't just any regular procedure — it's the Coalition's nuclear solution, a war against anything and anyone that dares stand in the Coalition's way, until the threat is dealt with. A total suspension of basic human rights for the duration of the emergency; global martial law, with al Fine as its temporary dictator.
In the whole history of the Coalition, Procedure Pizzicato has only ever existed on paper. Even during the Impasse all those years ago, the GOC remained flagrant followers of their Fivefold Mission, up until the very end. But times have changed, and so has the Coalition — in this new world, they can no longer take any chances. It's either kill or be killed. The virus isn't open to negotiations, and neither is the Coalition's place atop the occult world.
Torres is almost impressed al Fine actually put it forward — he didn't expect her to have it in her. Something doesn't add up. The Coalition isn't operating under its baseline modus operandi.
The Speaker to Humans of the Silicon Nornir is the first one to talk. "To clarify:" The vaguely humanoid mess of gears and cables stands up. Its voice broadcasts clearly throughout the room, forcing everyone else to fall silent. "We are the ones that suggested the deployment of the Procedure. We are more than aware of what it implies." It pauses. The screen behind it flicks once more, this time revealing further circular graphs. "But our proposal was born out of objective data, not our own subjective agendas. In the vast majority of our simulated futures, the whole world—"
"So you admit a chance still exists!" says Nam Donghyun, the CEO of Oneiroi Incorporated. Torres is almost surprised a corporate coward like Donghyun had the courage to speak up. Nam corrects his glasses and points directly at the Speaker. "How dare you even suggest Pizzicato when you know the world can survive without it?"
The Speaker quickly nods in recognition of the point. Almost too quickly for a machine, Torres thinks. "Yes, a chance exists, naturally. But it is so slim that it could just as well be a measurement error. It is a possibility, but one that exists as little less than the seance equivalent of dirty lenses. It would be unwise to trust its existence — I believe that the phrase is missing the forest for the trees?" it asks no-one in particular. "What we are so desperately trying to say is that we need more time. Together, we can find a solution, of that the Nornir are certain — but we cannot do it in this instant. We must find a way to delay the deadline, to keep as much of the virus inside the USA as possible — and unless JOICL decides to cooperate, Procedure Pizzicato is the best we have got."
All eyes turn from the speaker towards the delegates of JOICL. Even Torres, though hesitantly, accepts he needs to pay them attention. Haru Yoshida and Hisashi Kunō don't even flinch; instead, the two scientists point with their heads at the representative of PENTAGRAM.
General Thomas Bowe gives his collaborators a heavy look, but recognizes the play. He clears his throat, and stands up, putting both his hands behind his faded military uniform. He somehow has to maintain the illusion of power he so enjoys. "It would be against the interest of the United States to reveal the details of its clandestine military assets." His tone is rough but firm, as is his posture. "As advisor to President Crenshaw, we have decided that shedding light on Project SCARLET DAWN would be equivalent to betraying the safety of the American people for the sake of foreign interests."
Olivié Gwyneth, the Head Archivist of the Sidhe Lounge, practically erupts from her seat. "And withholding vital information wouldn't?!" she shouts out, pointing her wrinkled finger at the old general. There is genuine fury in her eyes. Torres is almost surprised to see Gwyneth out of all people backing up al Fine's militaristic approach. It's unusual of her. "Have you lost your mind, general? The whole world will—"
Bowe regards her with tired irritation. "Our decision is final."
For a moment, Gwyneth looks back at her Council brethren, seeking support in anyone — but even the old Xenia Dufort, Archdirector of ICSUT and closest ally of Gwyneth, does nothing but sigh. There is no debating the United States; a message the United Nations have long since learned.
"So we find ourselves at an impasse," the Speaker continues, very clearly articulating the lowercase 'i' in spite of its monotonous voice. "Again."
Jay Everwood is the one to speak, this time around. Torres is almost curious to hear what they've got to say — if anyone at Vanguard ever was the right person for this job, it's definitely Everwood. "It is the consensus opinion of Vanguard that protecting the American people is of paramount importance," they say. A quiet murmur of agreement goes around the hall. Andrea Maslov, seated behind Everwood, nods in approval. "With all that being said, we would like to join our forerunners in agreeing that… Pizzicato is drastic overkill. This isn't just some war you can win — alternative methods should—"
Al Fine crosses her legs. "To clarify: we have considered alternative options, but they will never actually be enough. Pizzicato might've been conceived with military scenarios in mind, but its founding principles still apply here." She practically hammers each word out.
Everwood rolls their eyes. "Yes, Undersecretary General, I am more than aware. But my point still stands — you're not fixing the issue, you're giving yourself the power to kill its symptoms. I cannot in good faith ever agree to that."
"In case it wasn't obvious: Pizzicato would allow us to not only bypass the American bureaucracy to deliver help more efficiently, it would also make for an actual and proper quarantine possible. Without it, we cannot guarantee our border to be impenetrable," al Fine replies.
Before Bowe can stand up again, prompted by the mention of ignoring his own hierarchy, Daniil Sokolsky of Vanguard snaps his fingers. Though the Director of the Emergent Threat Tactical Response Authority is as bald as he's ever been, his characteristic grin is now gone; still, Torres can practically see the gears in his head turning. "Pizzicato would elevate you to a totalitarian status. Nobody in America would be able to stand against your decisions." His words aren't a question.
Al Fine nods. "Yes. Naturally—"
"So you're saying that, without any outside supervision to hold you accountable, you'd be able to claim whole cities? Claim their policies? Claim their banks? Claim their healthcare? Claim their facilities? Claim our facilities?" he says, squinting his eyes at the Undersecretary General. If Torres hadn't known him from situations prior, he would have never picked up on the subtle note of genuine anger in Sokolsky's voice. He very much does not like not being bound by a game he couldn't win — or, at the very least, a game he couldn't win as easily.
Al Fine sighs. "Yes, Director, that is what I am saying. But Vanguard should not remain—"
"This isn't about Vanguard. It's about you reaching straight for the nuclear option. Tell me: what could ever stop you from exploiting the entire continent if you so desired, after you activate Pizzicato?"
Al Fine sighs. "Nothing, Director. However—"
"Then I rest my case." Sokolsky sits back down.
A spark of realization flashes inside the eyes of Akari Nakamura, CFO of Tou-Hei Heavy Industries. She's a sturdy fellow; Torres is glad to see her on the side of relative reason. "That's a good point, actually. What about the banks? What about the economy in general? How could you ever hope to actually maintain world trade with one of the biggest players out there quarantined? Even in the last few months, our profits—"
Before she can hope to finish, Robert Carter stands up. He is barely containing a smirk, as is Skitter Marshall, sitting legs-crossed right next to Carter. They have long since prepared for this question, Torres sees. It is clear they have both been awaiting this moment in utmost anticipation — so much so, in fact, that Skitter doesn't even look like a total moron and Carter actually waits for his turn to speak. Torres is less than happy he has to actually endure their idiocy here — but he's at least glad they haven't been totally let off the leash this time around, judging from the context of the conversation. Still, the lack of Iris Dark anywhere near the two trillionaires worries Torres. He mentally takes a note to consider it later.
"All of that is already taken care of, mademoiselle," Skitter says in the tone of a child that's happy he's gotten his dessert. He's as insufferable as ever. He points with his cane — its head ending with the classic Marshall hellhound insignia — towards Carter.
Ah, Torres thinks. So that's why they even bothered with those two in the first place.
Carter clears his throat. "As outlined in the documents you have all been sent, the Carter Courier Channel would maintain a steady flow of resources in and out of the United States, as directly approved by the Undersecretary General. Not only would we ensure the total virological safety of all parties involved, our system would also sterilize the transport of materials, actively and objectively improving—"
Al Fine waves her hand. She's just as tired of listening to them as Torres is — clearly not the first time she's heard this song. "Yes, yes, we get it. You can save a detailed explanation for later. Or, preferably, for the emails," she adds, before Skitter can put his own fifty cents into the discussion. She eyes all of the gathered once more. There is genuine weariness in the gesture. "Before anyone else asks — we have already taken care of details such as this. The quarantined United States would remain an active player on the international field. The only difference would be its citizens—"
The third Vanguard representative stands up. "Yeah. The 'only' difference, huh?" Ann Barlowe says, crossing her arms. The red-headed alchemist narrows her eyes, meeting the steady gaze of al Fine with something almost akin to a challenge. "How could you even say that, general? Out of everybody gathered, you should know what the threat of losing your magic actually means. How can you sentence half a billion people to… to a fate worse than death? Could you even imagine what losing who you are would mean to those people?" She shakes her head.
To the surprise of her fellow Council members — how dare she question the Coalition's unified opinion, huh? — Xenia Dufort sighs again. "My obvious bias aside, it is hard to ignore the truth Ms. Barlowe brings to our table." She looks at Barlowe, and for a split second there is a shared understanding between the two historically divided clans of alchemists and thaumaturgists. They are both scared. Ah. So that's what this discrepancy is about. "What we're proposing is caging a whole nation with a feral animal. One we can't even hope to postpone.
"To hell with damage to the infrastructure that risking American magic would actually mean — there's over fifty million thaumically gifted people in that country, for god's sake. We aren't counting them in our plans. We aren't counting what thousands will inevitably lose if we just let the virus fester inside America until we find a cure."
"So what else do you propose, Director?" Olivier Serrano, Director-General of the world Parahealth Organization spits out, almost as if he'd had it already memorized. He corrects his glasses, trying his very best not to show the bags under his eyes for the whole world to see. Though small in posture, his words thunder through the microphone. "This is the option that concerns itself with the people. Any other solution would mean risking everybody else on planet Earth and well beyond."
He rubs his temples. When he speaks again, his tone is far calmer than before. "I don't say this to take a cheap shot at you — I am being fully genuine. What else do you propose we do, what else can you even think of that would concern itself more with the people's safety than declaring Pizzicato?"
Dufort throws her hands in the air. "Christ Olivier I don't know. I don't know. But there's got to be a better solution. There…" her words slowly fade away as the eyes of the remaining attendees. Nobody speaks up to support her — nobody except Barlowe.
She rolls her eyes. "Come on. It's a ridiculous excuse for your incompeten—"
Serrano returns Dufort's gaze, ignoring Barlowe. "I truly wish there was, Xenia. I truly do." He turns to face the rest of the Council, and says in a firm voice, "But the truth is that only with Pizzicato can our personnel effectively quarantine affected areas, ensuring a steady flow of required resources for the people to…"
For a split second, Simón's attention fades out. He immediately realizes something.
He eyes Serrano, then al Fine, then the Speaker. He almost smirks when he notices it.
This is all a setup.
Of course it is. Of course it is. This is why Iris Dark isn't here — she too realized that the Coalition is going to win no matter which way the summit goes. This is all just a facsimile, a play; a plot for the malcontents to speak their truths and promptly be forced to realize that their views align with that of the Coalition. Washington is going to fall into the hands of al Fine no matter what words are spoken today.
He looks back at the Undersecretary General, and almost applauds her move. Still, he cannot possibly let this slide — now that he knows the game, he can actually win.
"One year," he suddenly speaks out in a calm and determined voice. The entire room immediately falls silent, and all eyes are on him.
Al Fine raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Torres?"
"With your resources, the teams of everyone gathered here combined would need one year to develop a cure," he says but he doesn't truly believe it; it's a gambit, one he desperately needs them to believe if he is to come out victorious. "But they would need someone to lead them. Someone to guide the research forward in the most efficient way."
Serrano scoffs. "And that should be of course you, is what you're trying to say."
Torres regards him not with irritation, no — Serrano isn't worth his anger. It's a look that makes the Director know he is nobody to Simón. Less than nothing. "Yes, Director, that is what I am saying. Would you care to argue somebody else for the position?"
The little Director furrows his brows. "We haven't even proposed a joint research team, and you're already—"
"It's hard to argue with Mr. Torres," al Fine suddenly adds. She looks at Simón. "That truly does seem to be the most reasonable way to go about this. Independent research from all parties would only mean a longer time before we can get our hands on the cure."
Simón nods in appreciation. "All of that being said, I would like to join Vanguard and others in saying that Procedure Pizzicato would be an overkill."
Something almost like surprised anger flashes across al Fine's eyes. Before it can make itself manifest, Simón continues, "To put the whole globe under martial law would be a drastic overreach. However, to isolate the Procedure only to America?" A quiet murmur of agreement goes through the room. "It would allow for efficient operation without endangering the safety and liberty of the remaining countries. We can eat our cake and have it too."
Al Fine skews her head, raises her eyebrows, and considers for a moment. "We haven't considered that possibility. It would be a reasonable consensus, I think." She looks directly into Torres' eyes; he knows she's trying to see if he knows what her plan is. "Does anyone have any objections?"
Bowe recognizes his moment, and stands back up. "We can agree to that, if you uphold your Third Mission. PENTAGRAM can tolerate your control inside our borders — but we need to ensure the safety of the American people. You can't bomb our cities even if it means wiping the virus out." Torres sees Bowe doesn't mean it — he's just playing for leverage. Nevertheless, he continues, "Activate Pizzicato and override our bureaucracy, but withhold the Termination Triage. We will not agree to any other consensus."
Al Fine's too tired to debate the general, here and now. If need be, she will win with him later. "I will allow it. However," she says, before Bowe can cut in, "if you ever intentionally sabotage our work again like you already have by not declassifying research or if a cure is not found within the designated period, we will not hold back. Is that clear?"
Bowe skews his head, his face almost twisted in resentment. "Crystal."
The rest of the hall remains silent.
"Fantastic. Similarly, does anyone else have any objections against the Coalition forming a joint research group from the personnel of those gathered, in hopes of developing a cure for KTE-9871, as led by Simón Torres of Phoenix Technologies?"
Nobody says anything, either.
She turns to look at Simón. He smirks. "Well, then. I believe that is settled."
He nods.
"A year, Mr. Torres," she confronts him.
"A year, Undersecretary General," he retorts, as calmly as ever. "A year, and not a day longer."
She nods. "Until then, a limited Pizzicato in America stands." She pauses. "Anyone against?"
For a third time, nobody answers.
The hall is almost empty when Torres approaches al Fine. It is already dark; somewhere in the back, the last attendees are packing up and leaving, but for the most part, the meeting is long since over. The lights above are already beginning to fade.
"Well played," he says, putting his hands behind his back. "Well played indeed."
For a short moment, al Fine considers playing ignorant. Instead, she just smiles faintly. "You too, Torres. Not too bad, for someone under a century."
He smirks. "Does it never get old? Being worried, I mean," he adds before she can act on her confusion. "Surely, this isn't the first crisis to actually threaten you, general. Do you never get tired of worrying?"
"You get used to it sometime after your years grow to triple digits. Besides," she says, waving her hand. "Come on now. You cannot actually believe I would ever be threatened by something like this, can you?"
He nods, recognizing the point. "True, that."
For a few seconds, they just stand there, neither party really saying anything.
"It's ironic, isn't it," he states more than asks. "Crenshaw brewed this whole mess up thinking it would protect his country from growing foreign interests. And now this is what he'll have to deal with." He turns towards the rest of the hall.
Al Fine doesn't question how he got his hands on that information. "Aye. Karma's known to be a bitch."
They both laugh a quiet laugh. When al Fine turns to face Torres again, there is something almost like sadness in the gesture. "For what little it's worth," she says, her tone almost a whisper, "I really am sorry. Extinguishing the flame of your predecessor is one of the few things I truly regret, all those years later."
"Even you can't know fate, general. You're lucky I'm no longer young — I loved my grandfather too much to ever forgive you shutting Prometheus down, when I was still a kid." He smiles, remembering days long since past. "But that's in the past now. Besides — if you didn't hammer that train down, I would never be standing here, leading the ashes of what little remains."
They pause again.
"You know, a lifetime ago, I would have killed for an ally like you," she says. "If you ever decide you want to expand your domain into politics, I'm sure a seat on the Council would… We could—"
He almost laughs.
"General, I don't feel like you understand. There is no we here."
Sudden, cold realization dawns on al Fine's face.
"There is you, the foreign invader, the one who the people will blame for every mistake. And then there is me, the one who will bring them the cure."
He looks directly into her eyes.
"The one who will save the world, alone."
