Where the Styx Runs Cold, Ch 9: The Rogue Asset Protocol Pt. 1

For two months, SHEPARD had punished Styx Squad with an exquisite torture: silence, stillness, and the slow, grinding certainty that a judgment was coming.

The Austrian Alpine facility was their gilded cage, a place of clean air, nutritious food, and state-of-the-art training facilities, all wrapped in the suffocating blanket of enforced idleness. They were officially undergoing "extended post-mission debriefing and psychological evaluation"—a bureaucratic fiction. In reality, they were on ice, a problematic asset whose fate was being decided in rooms they would never see by men they would never meet.

Director Cromwell's absolute silence was a strategic void more menacing than any threat. After their frantic exfiltration from Kivu, one cold order diverted them to this facility, then… nothing. The quiet was designed to let pressure build, to let uncertainty fester, to remind them of their utter dependence on the system they had spectacularly defied.

The inactivity was a corrosive acid. Breaker was a thundercloud of contained energy, his frustration manifesting in punishing, hours-long weight room sessions. Ricochet had dismantled and reassembled his gear so many times the components were worn smooth, his sharp wit dulled. Static retreated into her datapad, running endless diagnostics. Even Lancet, the immovable object, seemed to carry a new tension in her stillness.

They were loyal, Hawke knew, and their loyalty was to him. He had led them into this gilded prison. The weight of their loyalty settled on him, a physical pressure in his chest.

He spent his days in controlled restlessness, dissecting the Kivu data, analyzing Serpent's Coil's ideology, trying to build a profile of the unseen "Benefactor." He played a thousand chess games in his mind against Cromwell. He spoke often with Rita, their conversations a quiet island of shared understanding. But even she could not see the final outcome. The future was a locked room.

The summons arrived as a cold, formal message on his private terminal, its blocky green text stark on the monochrome screen.

TO: ARCHITECT, STYX SQUAD; HARGRAVE, RITA

FROM: DIRECTOR CROMWELL, SHEPARD

SUBJ: FINAL STRATEGIC REVIEW

ATTENDANCE REQUIRED. MY OFFICE. 1400 ZULU.

Final Strategic Review. A sentencing. And it was addressed only to him and Rita. Cromwell intended to cut the head from the snake. The long silence was over. The judgment was at hand.

He met Rita's eyes. Her expression was calm, but he felt the sudden sharpening of her focus.

It was time to face the executioner.

***

The debriefing room was a perfect grey cube, cold and sterile. Director Oliver Cromwell was already seated, physically present. The air crackled with his contained fury. He gestured for Hawke and Rita to take the seats opposite him.

Hawke had expected a tirade. Instead, Cromwell began with a surprising, almost philosophical calm.

"For ten years, Architect, you have been my sharpest instrument," Cromwell began, his gaze on Hawke. "Precise, effective. I believed you understood the board upon which we play. Your actions in Kivu have forced me to reconsider."

He leaned forward. "Let me tell you about the realities of the world. There are forces at play, men and networks of influence, that treat nations as fancies. They are vast. Pragmatic. The true architects of this world."

He was talking about Neil Klein.

"Aethelred Bio-Systems, the corporation you so recklessly endangered," Cromwell continued, "is a necessary tool, one vital component in a network dedicated to a singular, overarching purpose."

Cromwell's gaze turned inwards. "Our deepest intelligence sources are tracking things on the horizon. New enemies, Architect. New realities. Fractures in the dimensional veil. An apocalypse, a war for the continued existence of our very reality. And the network you dismiss, the one guided by Aethelred's backers, is the only thing with the resources, the technology, and the ruthless will to prepare for it. They are building an ark. And everything we do, every dirty, morally compromising mission, is in service of that ultimate, desperate goal."

The speech was a tidal wave of scale and necessity, designed to drown any individual moral qualms.

Then, Cromwell's tone shifted, the mask dropping to reveal cold fury. "And you," he hissed, "your actions in Kivu, in your idealistic, arrogant pursuit of a 'purer' victory, endangered that entire fragile ecosystem. You took a priceless facility offline. You put your own moral compass ahead of the survival of the species."

He stood, his shadow falling across them. "Your defiance, Architect, was a profound, naive, and unforgivable act of arrogance. You are a tool, and you have forgotten your function."

***

Rita watched Cromwell. The conviction in his voice was a chilling thing, a jailer singing praises to his prison. The words—ark, greater good—were a thin veil over the atrocities of Neil Klein's network. A grand lie, she thought, to serve a monster.

Cromwell returned to his seat, his demeanor shifting to the cold, clinical tone of a surgeon. "Despite your… catastrophic lapse in judgment," he said, "your skills are a valuable asset. You will be given a chance to prove you can once again be a reliable instrument."

He gestured, and the holographic projector hummed, displaying a complex bio-mechanical schematic. "Your recent, mandatory medical evaluations were more… comprehensive than usual," Cromwell said, his voice chillingly flat. "Your 'error' in Kivu will be officially overlooked. Your records will be scrubbed clean."

This was a leash.

"However," Cromwell continued, "trust must be rebuilt. And control must be re-established. To that end, a new piece of proprietary SHEPARD technology was implanted in every member of Styx Squad." He gestured to the schematic, now an image of a tiny, spider-like device. "A subdermal bio-monitor and tracker. Undetectable. Powered by your own bio-electricity, fused with your nervous system. Unremovable without killing the host. It monitors your vitals, your location, and can be activated remotely."

The gilded cage had just become a shock collar. They were marked. Branded.

"If you ever again defy a direct, Class-A directive," Cromwell stated, his slate-grey eyes holding no mercy, "if you go rogue, withhold intelligence, or if your bio-signs flatline without my authorization… this tracker will broadcast a signal on a closed channel. A dedicated Hunter-Killer team, whose sole purpose is to hunt and liquidate compromised SHEPARD assets, will have your exact location in seconds. Their orders will be to terminate, no questions asked."

He looked directly at Arthur. "You are SHEPARD's finest weapon, Architect. And now, you have a safety."

Rita felt a phantom itch under her skin, a horrifying awareness of the alien technology now fused to her being.

***

Hawke felt a phantom itch, a reaction to the alien tech now fused with his nervous system. Every heartbeat, every breath, was now a data point for a machine holding his life on a razor's edge.

He had gambled in Kivu and lost. He hadn't won a reprieve; he had merely traded one form of servitude for another. Checkmate.

Cromwell, seeing Hawke's cold acceptance, knew he had won. The grand speeches were over. Now came the first test of the leash.

"With your renewed understanding of the stakes," Cromwell said, his voice clipped, "we have an immediate and critical situation." He tapped the console, and the tracker schematic was replaced by a new dossier. The face of a man in his late twenties, with haunted eyes, appeared.

"Elias Jenkins," Cromwell began. "A Level-Four Mnemonic Infiltrator. His power allows him to absorb and perfectly recall vast quantities of data. He was a key research asset at a secure Swiss facility in Bern." He paused. The Bern facility was a known joint venture between the Swiss government and one of Neil Klein's most valuable subsidiaries.

"Forty-eight hours ago, Jenkins breached containment and escaped," Cromwell continued. "During his escape, he accessed the facility's central server core. He has absorbed a catastrophic amount of highly classified data. Information that could destabilize governments and compromise decades of operations."

"The official narrative is that Jenkins suffered a psychotic break and is now mentally unstable," Cromwell stated, the lie rolling off his tongue. "Our Swiss partners have requested our… discreet assistance."

He looked directly at Hawke, his gaze hard. The test was here.

"Your mission is simple," Cromwell said, each word a hammer blow. "Find Elias Jenkins. And terminate him."

Terminate. An absolute kill order.

"Capture is not an option," Cromwell reiterated. "The asset is compromised. The data he carries represents an unacceptable risk. You will find him, and you will eliminate him. This is your opportunity to demonstrate your renewed loyalty. To prove you understand what is truly at stake. This is a test, Architect. Don't fail it."

Hawke stood in the silent, grey room. This was Cromwell's "greater good." A man, likely another victim who learned a truth he shouldn't know, was to be executed to protect the secrets of Neil Klein's empire. And he, Arthur Hawke, was to be the executioner, his team the instruments. Any hesitation would be logged as continued defiance. The Hunter-Killer teams would be alerted.

He looked at Rita. Her silent horror was a mirror. To obey was to become Cromwell's executioner. To defy was to sign her death warrant, and that of his entire team.

With a cold, professional calm he did not feel, he met Cromwell's unwavering gaze. He let a moment of feigned consideration pass.

"Understood, Director," Hawke said, his voice a flat, steady instrument of compliance. "We will acquire the target."

***

The walk back to the team's holding area was the longest of Rita's life. The sterile corridor seemed an infinite, suffocating tunnel. The weight of their new reality pressed down like a physical force. Arthur walked beside her, his face a stone mask. The rebellious spark from Kivu had been banked, condensing into a colder, more calculating fire.

She knew he had no intention of simply murdering Elias Jenkins. His deliberate use of "acquire"—she'd caught it, the tiny deviation—was a signal. A promise he was still looking for a way out. But she also knew the terrifying danger of that path.

Every move they made would be watched. Every communication, every tactical decision scrutinized. The trackers were a gun pressed permanently to their temples. How could they save Jenkins while convincingly playing the role of his executioners?

The mission was a terrifying, high-stakes performance. A single missed cue would mean their deaths.

They reached the holding area. Arthur paused, then looked at her. His eyes were the eyes of a chess master staring at an impossible board, knowing he must sacrifice his most valuable pieces to avoid checkmate.

"They need to know," he murmured. "All of it."

Rita nodded, her heart a cold stone. "They deserve to know the shape of their own cage, Arthur."

He opened the door. Breaker, Ricochet, Static, and Lancet looked up, their faces a mixture of anxiety and hope. They saw Arthur's stony expression, Rita's somber stillness, and the hope in their eyes died.

Arthur stepped into the room. He had to tell them. The trackers, the kill order, the lethal trap. He had to ask them to walk this razor's edge with him, to trust him on a mission where success, failure, and betrayal were intertwined.

Rita met his gaze. Their quiet defiance hardened into something new, more desperate and dangerous. They were prisoners, now fully aware of their chains, plotting an escape from a jail no one had ever broken free from.

The mission to "terminate" Elias Jenkins had just become a mission to find a way, any way, to break their own bonds, even if it meant playing the part of the hangman.

***