#SuperViral, Ch 10: The Contagion of Collaboration Pt. 2

As Alex entered the sterile, concrete bunker the Syndicate called a clubhouse, his influencer's smile felt brittle, out of place. Three months. That's how long it had been since his last video had broken a hundred thousand views. His agent had stopped returning calls. The rent was two weeks overdue. He'd gone from rising star to yesterday's algorithm in the time it took for the platform to shift its preferences. This collaboration wasn't just an opportunity-it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

Void led him through the shiny, impersonal lobby of a financial district skyscraper. They passed security guards who nodded at them with practiced respect. They got into a private, unmarked elevator. There were no buttons for floors, only a scanner for a handprint. Void pressed his palm against the glass. The elevator went down with a silent, stomach-dropping speed, plunging them deep into the rock beneath Chicago. The doors opened to a cavern of polished concrete and exposed pipes, a war room bathed in the cool, blue-white light of data streams.

The only sound was the low, constant hum of powerful computer systems. The "guests," about a dozen of them, were scattered around a large, raw steel table. Their faces were intense, their conversations low and serious. The fabric of his trendy jacket felt paper-thin against his skin. His influencer smile was a stiff mask.

Void's hand rested on his shoulder. It felt less like a welcome and more like he was being shown off. "Everyone," Void announced, his voice echoing a little in the huge room, "I'd like you to meet Alex Chen. @OneForAllVids. Our newest collaborator and a man who understands that being able to do many things is true power."

The group turned to look at him. Their gazes were a mix of curiosity, judgment, and a chilling lack of warmth. Alex recognized a few faces from financial news sites and tech blogs. There was a thin tech billionaire known for his extreme libertarian views and his belief in a post-human future. There was a former high-ranking hero from the Vanguard agency, disgraced years ago for using "too much force." His face was a mask of bitter resentment. The rest were intense, sharp-eyed young men and women who watched Void with a passionate, steady devotion. The atmosphere was zealous, cult-like. The air in Alex's lungs seemed to thin and turn cold.

He tried to play his part, the cool, up-and-coming influencer. He shook hands, accepted a glass of whiskey that was far too expensive for him, and tried to nod along as the conversation swirled around him. But the words he heard were not the casual chat of an afterparty.

"The natural weakness of the regular population is a flaw in the system," the tech billionaire was saying, swirling his drink. "Democratic government is a failed experiment, an anchor holding back the inevitable wave of progress. It gives a voice to the timid, the weak, the majority who fear change."

"They're not just weak, they're a problem," the disgraced Vanguard hero added, his voice a low growl. "They create agencies like the one I served, full of pencil-pushers and ethics committees, designed to limit true power, to chain the lions because the sheep are scared. They force us to ask for permission to save them from themselves."

The conversation was openly, terrifyingly extreme. They spoke of the moral duty of the "powered elite" to take control, to guide society with a firm, unburdened hand. They praised the sovereign nation of New Babylon as a "noble first step," but quickly criticized its leader, Arthur Hawke. "Hawke is a sentimentalist," Void said, his voice dripping with condescending disappointment. "He still believes he has to please the humans, to build bridges. He doesn't understand. You don't build bridges with ants; you simply avoid stepping on them, unless they get in your way."

The group murmured in agreement. Alex felt a wave of nausea. He took a sip of whiskey. The burning liquid did nothing to warm the ice in his stomach. Every casual remark about "culling the herd," about "necessary sacrifices for a new world order," about the "destiny of the activated," sent a fresh wave of ice-cold dread through him. The raw fanaticism in the room was a physical force, pressing in on him. This was real. These were dangerous fanatics with money, influence, and a terrifying amount of power. They were a terrorist cell with good PR.

As he nodded along, he felt his own face twisting into a shape he didn't recognize. His laughter was forced and hollow. He was completely, utterly in over his head. He scanned the room for an exit, but the only way out was the single, large elevator, and Void's hand rarely left his shoulder. It was a friendly gesture that now felt like the grip of a prison guard. He was trapped, a willing fly who had gleefully walked into the spider's web, and the web was complex, sticky, and closing in around him.

***

Alex stumbled out of the skyscraper in the early morning hours. The city sounds hit him wrong-the mechanical wheeze of street sweepers, the metallic clatter of delivery trucks unloading-each noise too sharp, too loud, scraping against his raw nerves. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. He kept seeing those cold eyes, kept hearing the casual way they'd discussed eliminating obstacles. In his apartment, he paced from window to kitchen to bedroom, the walls pressing closer with each circuit. He drafted messages to his agent, to Chloe, fingers hovering over the send button before deleting every word. How could he explain this without sounding insane? Without implicating himself in their plans? The morning light crept through his blinds, finding him sleepless on the couch, staring at nothing.

He knew, with a certainty that made his stomach churn, that he had to back out of the final collaboration. He had to run.

But how? The Syndicate wasn't a group you just sent a polite "thanks, but no thanks" email to. He knew too much now. He had seen their faces, heard their plans. They wouldn't just let him walk away. The fear of what they might do was a physical weight, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe.

By the time he arrived for the final video shoot with Whisper, his nerves were shot. He was a walking ghost. His earlier excitement was replaced by a grim, sweaty-palmed terror.

The location was another of their secure facilities, this one a stark, sound-proofed studio in an industrial park. He had a half-formed plan to pretend to be sick, to claim his power wasn't working, anything to get out of it.

The plan disappeared the moment he walked through the door. The studio lights were on, bright and clinical, washing everything in stark white. But there was no table set up for a challenge. No smiling volunteers signing waivers. In the center of the room, a man was bound tightly to a steel chair. His face was bruised. A trickle of dried blood was at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were wide with raw terror.

Void, Kira, and Leo were all there. Their expressions were calm, business-like. "Alex, good, you're here," Void said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He gestured towards the captive. "Meet Daniel. Daniel's an independent investigative journalist. He's been getting a little too close to some of our… financial backers. Writing a series of rather inconvenient articles for a small, online publication."

Kira (Pulse) stood near the chair, idly cracking her knuckles. A faint blue spark jumped between them with each pop, a silent, effective threat.

"Forget the actors, Alex," Void continued, his smile predatory, all traces of his on-camera charm gone. "We're all about authenticity here at the Syndicate. We need some information from Daniel. His sources, his passwords, the location of his research. And you," he said, his gaze locking onto Alex's, "are going to help us get it. A live demonstration of how effective Whisper's power can be for... information retrieval."

A wave of vertigo washed over Alex; the room's bright lights seemed to dim at the edges. The heavy click of the door behind him. The man in the chair. Initiation. The word surfaced in his mind, cold and sharp.

"No," Alex whispered, the word barely audible.

The silence that followed was absolute. Void tilted his head, studying him with the patience of a predator watching prey calculate its odds.

"No," Alex said again, louder this time, his voice shaking but firm. He took a step back, his eyes darting towards the reinforced steel door. "Absolutely not. I'm not doing this. This is not what I signed up for. This is… this is illegal. It's torture."

His mind was a frantic scramble of escape plans, none of them viable. He was a mimic, a mirror; without a power to borrow, he was just a man in a room with three very dangerous Supers.

The Syndicate's collective charm vanished as if a switch had been flipped. The menace that had been a subtle undercurrent was now a tidal wave, crashing down on him. Void moved with a liquid grace, blocking his path to the door, his easy-going smile replaced by a look of cold disappointment. "That's a shame, Alex," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "I really thought you understood."

Kira (Pulse) took a step forward, her movements deliberate, predatory. The air around her hands began to hum with a low, threatening thrum, faint blue sparks dancing across her knuckles. "He doesn't understand, Marcus," she said, her eyes locked on Alex. "He's still playing by their rules. The rules of the weak."

Whisper (Leo), who had been leaning against a wall, straightened up. He didn't move towards Alex, but his gaze, cold and dissecting, felt like a physical touch, probing for weaknesses.

"You see, Alex," Void continued, his voice a low, confidential murmur that was more terrifying than a shout, "you are part of this now. You were part of it the moment you stepped into our clubhouse. You've seen our operation. You've met our backers. You don't get to just walk away with that knowledge." He took a step closer. "So you have a choice. If you don't do this, if you prove yourself a coward, we have hours of footage from last night. Footage of you laughing at our jokes. Nodding along with our ideology. It would be so easy to edit that, to release it. To tell the world you were a spy sent by the Guardians, trying to infiltrate us. Your career, your reputation… it would be over in an instant." He let that sink in, then added with a nod towards Kira, whose hands were now glowing faintly, "Or… we can solve this little misunderstanding much more quietly. Your choice."

Alex looked at the terrified journalist, Daniel, then at the predatory faces surrounding him. The last vestiges of his resistance shattered, replaced by a wave of cold, nauseating dread. He had wanted an edge. He had wanted power. He had gotten it. This was the price.

"Okay," Alex whispered, the word a surrender, a betrayal of every principle he thought he had. "Okay. I'll… I'll do it."

Void's charming smile returned. "Excellent. I knew you'd see reason."

Each step was a conscious effort, his body resisting the command to move toward Whisper. His own reflection in Whisper's dark, unblinking eyes was that of a stranger-a pale, terrified man with a hollowed-out soul. He extended a trembling hand. Whisper's handshake was like grasping a cold snake, his skin dry and unnaturally still. The power of the Veritas Aura flowed into Alex, not with the thrilling cold of shadow or the intoxicating buzz of lightning, but with an invasive, unclean sensation, like a psychic parasite burrowing into his mind. He felt… tainted.

He turned to the bound journalist. Daniel's eyes were wide with a new, strange terror as Alex approached, as if he could sense the unnatural compulsion emanating from him. "I'm sorry," Alex mouthed silently, a futile, pathetic apology.

He activated the aura.

It was like opening a floodgate. Daniel's carefully constructed composure shattered. The words began to spill out of him, uncontrolled, unstoppable.

He spoke of his confidential sources at Abacus Corp, giving up their names and positions. He detailed his private notes, his theories on the Syndicate's offshore accounts. He confessed his deepest fears for his family, the names of his wife and children tumbling from his lips in tearful, choked sobs. Every vulnerability, every secret, every piece of leverage was laid bare. Alex had to stand there and listen to it all, a passive conduit for this psychic violation, feeling like a parasite feasting on another man's soul.

Across the room, the Syndicate watched, their expressions triumphant. A camera, which Alex hadn't even noticed before, was recording every humiliating, heartbreaking moment. When it was finally over, when Daniel was a weeping, broken shell, Alex stumbled back, the Veritas Aura receding, leaving him feeling sick and empty. He was a hollowed-out thing, his own identity completely subsumed by his monstrous complicity.

As soon as they had what they wanted, the Syndicate's demeanor shifted again. The feigned camaraderie, the menacing coercion-it all evaporated, replaced by a cool, professional dismissal. Alex was no longer a potential ally or a threat to be managed; he was simply a tool that had served its purpose. They untied Daniel, dragging the semi-catatonic journalist into another room. Kira didn't even glance at Alex. Whisper had already faded back into his corner. His usefulness, Alex realized with a sickening lurch, was at an end.

Void was the only one who acknowledged him. He walked over and clapped Alex on the shoulder, the gesture now feeling like a grotesque mockery. "You did good, Alex," he said, his smile bright, insincere. "You showed real strength today. The kind that matters. You're one of us now." He squeezed his shoulder. "In fact, we're so proud of our newest member, we're going to give you the official welcome." Alex didn't have the strength to respond. He just nodded numbly, wanting only to get out, to go home, to scrub his skin until it was raw, to try and wash away the filth of what he had just done.

***

After hours of unnerving silence, his phone blew up. It wasn't the usual trickle of likes and comments. It was a deluge, a tidal wave of notifications, angry and confused messages from his followers, his agent, even his parents. With a trembling hand, he navigated to Current, where a single video was exploding across the platform.

It was from the Syndicate's official channel. The title read: "Welcome Our Newest Operator: Echo."

He pressed play.

His blood ran cold.

It opened with a shot of him from the Pulse collaboration, laughing arrogantly after blowing up the drone. It cut to him walking confidently into the interrogation room. It showed him standing over the terrified journalist, his expression, in this new context, looking less like fear and more like cold, predatory focus. They had completely cut out his initial refusal, their threats, his visible terror. They had seamlessly spliced in audio of him from his earlier videos, his voice now sounding confident, even enthusiastic, as he seemingly directed the interrogation. "Let's see what he really thinks," his voice said, a line he'd used in a fun challenge video weeks ago, now repurposed with chilling effect. "Time to show them some real power."

They had framed him not as a terrified, coerced participant, but as a willing, ruthless interrogator-the newest, most dangerous member of the Syndicate.

The truth crystallized with brutal clarity: this was never about his channel. He was just a new face for their brand.

He hadn't just been cancelled; he had been assimilated. His name, his face, and his unique power were now a permanent part of their propaganda machine, a symbol of their ideology. A million viral shares were his prison walls. The comments section, his sentence. The face on the screen, a monster wearing his own, was now the only one the world would ever see.

***