Dr. Evelyn Cross hated board meetings.
Not because she disliked talking. Talking was fine—it was what people did when they weren't smart enough to act. But because board meetings meant her time was being wasted on "stakeholders" who couldn't tell the difference between a clean blood sample and a spilled latte.
The conference room on the 34th floor of NeoGeneX headquarters gleamed with sterile modernity—white glass table, smart screens humming faintly, bottled water lined like obedient soldiers. Outside, the San Diego skyline glittered, blissfully unaware that its survival depended on the whims of the people in this room.
"Dr. Cross," one of the board members said, his voice nasal, his suit too expensive. "The footage from Los Peñasquitos Canyon was… concerning."
"Concerning?" Cross folded her hands neatly on the table. "We unleashed Harbinger for twelve minutes. In that time, he neutralized a hostile drug ring, twenty-seven armed men, and three armored vehicles. With zero casualties on our side."
Another board member, a woman with ice-pale eyes and a lanyard full of security tags, leaned forward. "Zero casualties? The footage shows the canyon in flames. Local news stations are spinning conspiracy theories. We've had to silence four journalists already."
Cross smiled thinly. "Collateral visibility, not collateral damage. Harbinger did what he was designed to do. Swift. Surgical. Brutal. If your concern is media fallout, perhaps you should hire better spin doctors."
The first board member cleared his throat, trying not to look rattled. "It's not just the optics, Doctor. It's control. The creature doesn't… report. It doesn't acknowledge commands once deployed. Our field overseers reported—"
"—that Harbinger ignored extraction protocols." Cross finished for him, her smile vanishing. "Yes. I read the same reports. And let me make one thing clear: Harbinger isn't a creature. He's the pinnacle of engineered evolution. Patient Zero may have been the seed, but Harbinger is the fruit."
The room went quiet. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, as though speaking Harbinger's name summoned shadows into the room.
Cross leaned back, letting the silence stretch. She liked silence. It gave people time to realize she was smarter than them.
Finally, the ice-eyed woman spoke again. "Doctor, forgive me, but if Harbinger cannot be controlled, then he is a liability. The Pentagon will not fund an asset it cannot leash. We are not in the business of rogue weapons."
Cross's jaw tightened. She hated that word. Rogue. It implied failure. And Cross never failed.
"Harbinger is not rogue," she said softly, her voice sharp enough to cut steel. "He is… young. Newborn. Still calibrating. He responds to instinct now, yes, but instincts can be shaped. The more missions he completes, the more conditioned he will become. We don't train brilliance with leashes. We guide it."
Someone at the end of the table muttered, "Or it devours us."
Cross ignored him.
In the Shadows of Power
After the meeting, Cross returned to her private lab. It was colder here, more honest. Glass cylinders lined the walls, each containing samples of DNA suspended in nutrient solution. Some samples glowed faintly, alive with engineered energy. Others were dark, inert, failed prototypes she refused to discard—reminders of the long road to perfection.
She stood before a large monitor, cycling through Harbinger's mission data. His vitals spiked with each kill, but what fascinated her was the anomaly: a persistent resonance signal. Faint, almost like an echo.
It matched Patient Zero's.
Cross traced the waveform with one manicured finger. "Fascinating," she whispered. "You're not just a weapon, Harbinger. You're… tethered. Drawn to him."
A knock at the glass door. Zara.
Cross didn't turn, but she smiled faintly. "You weren't invited."
Zara strolled in anyway, boots clicking on the steel floor. She looked casual—like someone who'd stepped out of a nightclub and accidentally wandered into a laboratory of horrors.
"You should invite me more often," Zara said, her tone dripping with mockery. "I hear you've been playing favorites. Big scary Harbinger this, Harbinger that. I'm starting to feel like yesterday's news."
Cross turned slowly, her expression cool. "That's because you are yesterday's news."
Zara's smile twitched. Just a fraction. Enough for Cross to know she'd scored a hit.
"Careful," Zara purred. "Your shiny new toy might break. And when it does, who do you think they'll come crawling back to?"
Cross stepped closer, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm. She stopped just inches from Zara, her voice a scalpel.
"If Harbinger breaks, it won't be because of me. It'll be because of you. Because you can't control your impulses. Because you're reckless. Because you think defiance is the same as power."
For a moment, the two women locked eyes—fire meeting ice.
Then Zara laughed, stepping back. "You really don't get it, do you? You made him too well. Harbinger isn't your soldier. He's your executioner. And when he decides you're irrelevant—" she mimed a slicing motion across her throat, "—snip."
Cross watched her leave, her smile returning, sharp and cold.
Let Zara play her games. Harbinger wasn't beyond control. He wasn't beyond her. He was still tethered to Patient Zero, and that tether was the key.
And if controlling Harbinger meant breaking Zeke until nothing remained but obedience?
So be it.
Meanwhile
In a darkened warehouse across town, Harbinger stood among the ruins of his latest mission. Concrete walls scorched, steel beams twisted, air heavy with ozone. He moved through the wreckage with calm precision, eyes glowing faintly crimson.
He paused, tilting his head—as though listening to something only he could hear.
Faint. Flickering. A heartbeat echoing in the distance.
Zeke's.
Harbinger's lips curled, not into a smile but into something colder, hungrier.
"Soon," he whispered again.