Six men tumbled out from the courtyards and from behind parked cars, converging on Freya and the Chinese. They wore body armor and red caps, the front of each embroidered in white: “SHRAMP 2020.”
After 2020 and all the sins of Shrampism, caps like that belonged in a museum of Nazism—but these men wore them with pride.
They clutched pump-action hunting shotguns. Shotguns now aimed at Freya and the Chinese.
The women shrieked. The men dropped their bags and threw up their hands, their bare stomachs still exposed. The children scrambled behind the adults, and Freya ducked behind the Chinese and the kids. She’d conveniently found herself behind a human shield, tucked inside a formation like Roman legionaries—if Roman armor had been forged from the stench of pepper, garlic, and sweat.
The men surrounding them were a motley crew. One was clearly an office worker in a sweat-soaked white shirt—the kind of guy who looked like he’d popped out for lunch on Wall Street and somehow ended up a bandit. Another was still in his green food-delivery-guy rain slicker. The only things uniting them were their red SHRAMP caps, their guns, and the vicious, desperate gleam in their eyes.
Maybe even fear. But Freya was in no state to study them.
“Take it all! Please, take it all!” one of the Chinese women cried out, switching back to broken English. “Let us pass!”
She kicked one of their bags toward the men in red caps. It almost cost her her life. The nearest Shrampist nervously pumped his shotgun’s action.
“Don’t move!” he howled.
“Aaaah!” the Chinese woman let out a gut-wrenching scream.
“Quiet!” another one of the armed men barked, raising a hand. “We’re Shrampists! We’re not robbing you. We need the Illuminatus!”
This man stood out even from his motley crew. He had a buzz cut, broad shoulders, and a strong jaw. A signet ring was tattooed on his finger, and a white collar peeked out from under his camouflage jacket. In short, he had all the markings of a private security goon—the kind who stands stone-faced at events, silently cursing his tight suit and the rich bastards who make him wear it.
“No luminat! No!” the woman yelled, shaking their heads frantically. “Have ramen! Have water! Have bubble tea! No laminate!”
“It’s a person, you idiot! With you! Cut the shit!” the Buzz-cut snarled.
Suddenly, the man with the bare stomach and his hands in the air—the one who’d claimed to know English—spoke up. It turned out he hadn’t been lying about his certificate; drenched in sweat, he managed a coherent statement.
“Gentlemen! We are just people! We are going to help Shramp escape! There is no Illuminatus with us!”
The Buzz-cut interrupted him.
“Cut the act! The military leaked the escort protocols for a big shot from your fucking order! The Illuminatus is here, among you.” he said. “Come out now, and you get to live.”
From her spot behind the Chinese, Freya knew the Shrampists' search wouldn't last long. Even if she squinted and did a bucktooth impression, she’d never pass for one of them. And since she was already incredibly lucky they hadn’t just thrown her to the wolves, the woman seized her chance to counterattack.
“Hey! There’s no Illuminatus here!” she yelled, peeking out over their heads. “We’re on our way to see Ronald Shramp with an urgent message!”
At the sight of a white woman, every Shrampist flinched. But Freya knew her gamble had paid off. Whoever these thugs were looking for, it wasn’t her. Or perhaps they didn't even know what their target looked like…
“That’s her!” one of the men exclaimed. “The Illuminatus!”
What the hell?!
“Is it because I’m white?!” Freya cried out. “My name is Freya Akselsen, and I’m a media personality! And I have confidential information for Shramp himself!”
Her audacity left the Shrampists bewildered. But the Buzz-cut leveled his shotgun at her.
“Enough games. Step out. Shramp is very eager to speak with you, too,” he growled. “You can whisper it all in his ear.”
Freya remembered the protocols Susan had read from that captured soldier. Evacuate all Government personnel—something like that. It all clicked into place.
“While you’re wasting time arguing with me, the real Illuminati are getting the hell out of New York!” Freya shouted. “If you knew anything at all, you’d know they never travel without Delta Null!”
The verbal carpet-bombing worked—on the Shrampists and the Chinese alike. Both groups started eyeing each other suspiciously. The office worker actually lowered the barrel of his shotgun. The Buzz-cut’s cheek twitched, and the office worker snapped back to attention—but the class hatred in his eyes when he'd jumped out from around the corner was gone.
And while the Shrampists were trying to get their bearings, Freya heard one of the Chinese whisper, “These aren’t real Shrampists. They’re liberal assassins.”
Even the Buzz-cut seemed to soften. He lowered his shotgun, too—just enough so the black muzzle was no longer pointed at Freya’s eyes.
“Then you have nothing to fear,” he said. “If you’re not the Illuminatus, your schedule doesn't matter.”
“I’m a woman with six men pointing guns at her,” Freya said. “And I’m supposed to have nothing to fear? At least lower your weapons! There are children here!”
The office worker now openly glanced back at the leader, his eyes off the Chinese. The other Shrampists started looking around, too. The Buzz-cut himself had already lowered his shotgun to his waist. The oppressive atmosphere was hissing away like air from a punctured tire.
Just when Freya thought she had talked her way out of it, one of the Chinese women screamed.
“Penjin, Kalash!”A plaid bag went flying over their heads. The Shrampists’ eyes snapped up to follow it. It ripped open in midair, and cans rained down, slamming against the asphalt and exploding in a spray of minty foam and tapioca pearls.
In that instant, the English expert dove for a second bag at their feet. He yanked a Kalashnikov from beneath a pile of rags and pulled the trigger.
A deafening burst of gunfire thundered out. The Chinese scattered, screaming. Her ears ringing, Freya watched a line of scarlet bursts stitch across the office worker's chest, sending him staggering back into the puddle of bubble tea.
The Buzz-cut hit the deck and fired.
The Chinese man’s fingers exploded into a red pulp, and the Kalashnikov flew from his grasp. The Shrampist’s second shot caught the English expert in the chest, slamming him into the asphalt. A fine spray of blood misted Freya’s shirt.
“Bitches!” the Shrampist roared.
Total chaos erupted. The Chinese were scattering in every direction. The Shrampists fired after them, buckshot whistling through the air and pinging off the cars. Covering her head, Freya bolted blindly, but a hand instantly clamped down on her wrist.
It was the Buzz-cut. He seized her other hand in a vise-like grip and snarled in her face, his breath a foul blast of tobacco.
“You thought I wouldn’t recognize you, you Illuminati bitch? Your protocols were clear: you were coming with the Chinese. Alone.”
Freya’s heart hammered with terror. Expecting it to be useless, she tried to wrench her hands from the Shrampist’s vise-like grip.
But his fingers simply opened, releasing her.
The shock of it sent Freya stumbling back a few steps.
The Buzz-cut’s eyes went wide. He scrambled after Freya and snatched her hand again. She yanked back, and once more, she was free.
“Leave me alone, you freak!” she commanded, realizing what was happening. “Now!”
But he had other ideas. This time, he grabbed Freya by the collar of her t-shirt. Before she could even struggle, he backhanded her across the face.
Freya lost her balance and crashed to the asphalt. Blindly, desperately, she kicked out with her sneaker, connecting with his leg. Her toes slammed into what felt like an iron column.
Then came the crunch.
And his scream.
The Buzz-cut toppled to the ground, his eyes wide as saucers as he clutched his leg. The calf beneath his pant leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and a crimson stain was spreading across the camouflage fabric. His red cap had fallen from his head and now lay on the asphalt beside his shotgun.
Freya had broken his leg with a single kick. As the realization hit him, the man let out a deafening scream.
She scrambled backward, crawling through the spilled tea. Suddenly, something hot shot past her face, searing her lips.
Freya snapped her head up. The Shrampist in the rain slicker was standing right over her, his shotgun smoking. His eyes gleamed, his hands trembled. He’d missed.
As Freya stared him down, he backed away, fumbling to pump the shotgun for a point-blank shot. His slick fingers kept sliding off the rubber pump, preventing him from chambering a new shell.
Before she could even think, Freya launched herself at him like a panther. She smashed her fist into his red cap with all her strength and squeezed her eyes shut, expecting a spray of blood.
Freya was convinced the impact would make him explode. Like a toad that some Texas boys had stuffed a firecracker under.
Her fist connected with the man’s head. There was a loud, painful crunch from her knuckles. The Shrampist grunted—but contrary to her expectations, he didn’t fly apart.
For a moment, Freya and the Shrampist just stared at each other, stunned. Then, like spooked cats, they jumped apart.
She scrambled backward, lunging for The Buzz-cut’s shotgun lying in the puddle. He was still cradling his leg, the weapon forgotten. Meanwhile, the hands of the Shrampist in the rain slicker, sweaty with fear, finally stopped slipping on the rubber pump.
Freya scrambled backward, lunging for Buzz-cut’s shotgun lying in the puddle. He was still cradling his leg, the weapon forgotten. Meanwhile, the sweaty hands of the Shrampist in the rain slicker finally stopped slipping on the rubber pump.
With a heavy clank, he racked the action, and a plastic shell plopped into the bubble tea. But Freya was faster. She snatched the shotgun from the puddle and pulled the trigger.
The trigger wouldn't give. Jammed.
She looked straight into the bottomless eyes of the Shrampist's shotgun. Freya’s heart skipped a beat, then froze painfully.
A shot rang out. She flinched, bracing for the impact. But she wasn't dead. With a surge of will, she forced her eyes open.
The Shrampist in front of her was clutching his chest. Blood pulsed from beneath his fingers, streaming down the rain slicker and dripping into the puddle of bubble tea, mixing with the tapioca pearls.
I can shoot with my mind now, Freya thought, but that thought was swept away by the next. Oh God, did I just kill someone?!
The Shrampist looked at her, hurt, like a child. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, face-first into the puddle.
Behind him, Freya saw the black mask of Delta Null and its red, impenetrable eyes. The figure in black clutched a long, bloody dagger made of steel as dark as he was.
“All witnesses have been eliminated, milord,” the agent rumbled. “The Silence now reigns.”
And Freya suddenly understood: a ringing silence had fallen.
The firefight with the Chinese, the one that had spilled out of sight behind the cars and into the courtyards, had abruptly ended. The parking lot was strewn with bodies—Shrampists and Chinese, all lying in red puddles filled with tapioca pearls. Even The Buzz-cut had stopped cradling his broken leg; he lay still, stretched out on the ground.
Freya turned pale. Ten meters away, by a car, she saw a small body thrown onto its back.
A child.
His reflective silver vest was riddled with the deep, black craters of bullet holes. Standing over him was another Delta Null agent, holding an assault rifle.
“What the hell have you done?!” Freya screamed. “Did you really just…”
She couldn't finish. The air was knocked from her lungs, as if she’d been punched in the gut herself. But the killer in black understood perfectly.
“Affirmative, milord. They learned the Truth.” The agent’s tone was calm, but he spoke the word “Truth” with a breathy reverence. “No witnesses remain. We are in complete Silence.”
Oh God. Vile, insane bastards. These were killers—the kind the Deep State wouldn’t just send after her parents. These were killers who would, without a moment's hesitation, sacrifice even children to their insane ideas. How old was the kid? Five? Six?
Freya’s head spun. Her vision swam, reducing the lifeless little body to a gray silhouette. The black figures dissolved into dark smudges, and it grew harder and harder to breathe.
The most important thing was not to pass out right now, so the killers wouldn't just swat someone else while she lay unconscious in a puddle of blood and bubble tea.
So Freya slapped herself across the face, hard enough to make her ears ring.
Then she slowly rose from the ground and straightened up on unsteady legs.
She had no idea what else the Deep State was capable of, which meant passing out was not an option.
Neither was running.
“Who killed this child?” Freya asked, her knees trembling with adrenaline and fear.
The agent in black standing over the small body readily raised a hand in a tactical glove. Metal plates on the knuckles glinted in the moonlight.
“Agent D,” he rumbled through his mask.
Freya stared at him with barely concealed contempt. He had declared his crime without a shred of doubt, without the slightest remorse, as if it were a routine chore—a triviality. As if he killed children every day.
She was afraid of being exposed, of them realizing she was a false Pruner, but it was too late for fear now. She had to act.
To do one good thing today. To cleanse the world of at least a little of its evil.
Suddenly, Freya saw with perfect clarity what would happen next. She would say, “Kill yourself,” and Agent D would drop to one knee, brace the stock of his rifle against his leg, and rest his chin on the barrel. Freya saw his bull-like neck, bound by an armored collar, stretch taut. Then, without hesitation, the agent would squeeze the trigger with both hands.
A suppressed burst would bark like a dog. The bullets would tear into Agent D's head, blood gushing from under his helmet. He would stagger and fall—his mask landing in the blood of the child he had killed. And the other Delta Null agents wouldn't even flinch as the shots rang out and their comrade collapsed.
But it was Freya who shuddered in horror now, squeezing her eyes shut to force the vision away.
Agent D, having escaped death by a hair, showed no reaction. But for Freya, the adrenaline-fueled tremor of anger and fear was gone. Her teeth stopped chattering.
The right thing to do would have been to finish them all. Before they could commit any more evil.No. The right thing to do was to seize control and stop this madness at its root. If they were going to treat her as their commander, then she would be one—and not another soul, child or adult, would die tonight.
The thought was so powerfully right that her doubts vanished, and the words she needed came to her. Along with a plan.
For a moment, sticking to the Pruner’s plan seemed logical—get to the Sanctuary, figure things out. Even if it was just a bunker where Pruners waited out a nuclear strike or an alien threat, she, Freya, needed information. The final decision would still be hers…
No. She couldn't think inside the old confines anymore. Because a simpler solution had just revealed itself.
“We are no longer killing witnesses. And from now on, your mistakes will cost you your lives,” she said, her voice loud and clear. “I need access to intelligence on the situation in the city. I want to know what’s happening, and what the Deep State intends to do.”
And stop it, if I have to. To hell with the Sanctuary, to hell with the Pruner’s plan.
“Affirmative!” Delta Null thundered in unison.
They fell silent, staring blankly at Freya with their red eyes. For two seconds, nothing happened. It was so still that she could hear the hoarse, distorted rasp of their breathing through their masks.
Of course. I have adjusted the text to reflect the Prophet's more demanding tone and to maintain narrative consistency.***
Then, a piercing ring shattered the silence. It echoed off the dark windows of the buildings, tearing through the stillness over the parking lot. Freya fought the instinct to reach for her pocket—but her jacket was gone, and her phone was at the bottom of a diner toilet.
Delta Null began looking around. One of the agents knelt by the dead child and pulled a phone from the boy’s vest—it was in a pink case with bunny ears, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across the screen. And on that screen, Freya saw a name she now knew all too well.
Prophet.
The Delta Null agent presented the broken child's phone to Freya, carrying it carefully on two outstretched palms like a priest presenting a holy relic.
And again, the Prophet was impatient. The instant Freya’s fingers brushed the pink rabbit-ear case, the same ghastly melody blasted from it—a mix of electronic shrieks, harmonics, and voices distorted beyond recognition.
Freya braced herself, expecting another stream of alien thought to pour into her mind, for the Prophet's cold fingers to reach into her head. But instead, out of the white noise, a sepulchral, booming voice crystallized.
TAKE YOUR THRONE, ROMAN. THE SILENCE OF NEW YORK IS UNDER THREAT. I DEMAND YOUR DOMINION.
It wasn't a physical voice, but there was no escaping it. It penetrated her mind, vibrated in her teeth. The Prophet's cold words made the hair on her arms stand on end.
But it invigorated Freya. The moment she seized control, even the Prophet started speaking to her with actual words, not with that fucking telepathy. The path appears for those who walk it.
Power, a throne—that sounded good. But beyond that, Freya didn't understand a thing. And no matter how decisive she felt, she still had to hold her breath as she lifted the bunny-eared phone to her lips and spoke.
“What does that mean, Prophet?”
It was the first time she had spoken to him. It was terrifying. But Freya also remembered a simple truth: only subordinates weren't allowed to ask stupid questions. A real boss was the one who always asked the stupid questions, especially when everyone else thought the answer was obvious.
And that particular truth, it turned out, held firm even in the world of the Deep State. For the Prophet, not the least bit fazed that the Pruner Roman had the soft voice of a woman, replied.
THE WORLD OF SILENCE WILL SOON MAKE CONTACT WITH AGENTS FROM ANOTHER WORLD-BRANCH…
Aliens, then. The realization hit her simply and naturally, the way a better, clearer phrase pops into your head when you're stuck listening to some tedious self-help guru.
I HAVE NO FUTURES THAT INCLUDE THEM. I CANNOT SEE THEIR ACTIONS. I SEE THE WORLD OF SILENCE DESCEND INTO CHAOS AND EXPOSE THE WORLD OF TRUTH. PROTECT SILENCE, ROMAN, OR I WILL PROTECT IT MYSELF.
The Prophet’s words had no intonation, no more than you could hear speech in a roll of spring thunder, but Freya felt the threat in them. It was a physically vivid sense of danger that prickled across her skin in a thousand tiny goosebumps, as if she’d just stepped on an anthill.
World of Silence? World of Truth? Freya had no idea what they were; her intuition gave her only a vague sense of their meaning. But her instincts as a coach guided her toward the right questions. She swallowed.
“And how exactly do you plan on protecting Silence, Prophet?”
I WILL DETONATE THE NUCLEAR ARSENAL HIDDEN IN MANHATTAN AND WIPE OUT THE WORLD OF SILENCE. THE ALIENS WILL BE UNABLE TO LEARN THE TRUTH. SILENCE WILL BE PRESERVED.
These weren't just words.
Vivid, fiery mushrooms bloomed before Freya's eyes. From a bird's-eye view, she saw them erupt, shattering buildings like matchstick models. She saw scurrying human figures transformed into scorched outlines on the asphalt and walls, wherever they had dared to cast a shadow against the searing glow of a thousand suns…
“No, you can’t!” Freya cried out.
The explosions vanished. Freya could practically feel it on her skin: the Prophet's mind shifting on the other end of the line—vast, heavy, and cold, like a coiling python.
I DEMAND YOUR DECISION, ROMAN. WITHOUT ONE, I—the voice stressed the word—WILL PROTECT SILENCE.
“For fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to do?!” Freya cried out.
All pretense was gone. There was no time to play the part of the Pruner. She wasn't sure how she was hearing the Prophet, or what she was really hearing at all, but one thing she knew for certain: the images of that fiery hell erasing Manhattan were no illusion. The Prophet was showing her the very "Future" he could see, a budget of possibilities that was running out before her eyes.
A new torrent of images crashed into Freya's mind—but this one, unlike the others, swamped her completely. Bright flashes of light, running figures, data tables scrolling at impossible speeds, the thrum of helicopter rotors, the hum of power lines. It all fused into one, a nauseating blur of flashing images and concepts.
It was impossible to process. The Prophet was trying to tell her too much.
But somehow, he seemed to realize she couldn't handle it. The overwhelming flood of information, a blast from a fire hose, cut off as suddenly as it had slammed into her mind. In that same instant, the Delta Null agents, who had been standing by in silence the whole time, began to move.
“New protocol. We are deploying a field command post, milord,” rumbled the agent closest to Freya. “Please, follow us.”