CHAPTER 22: THE SIEGE — Part 3
"THIS IS THE POLICE. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO RELEASE THE HOSTAGES AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP."
Marcus's gun came back up. Swept across the room. His face cycled through panic, rage, desperation.
"They're not listening," he said. Voice breaking. "They're not fucking listening. We did all this and they're just going to—"
"Marcus." I kept my voice calm. Trauma Lock holding the fear in check while I projected steady confidence I didn't entirely feel. "Let me talk to them."
"What?"
"The police. Let me go out there. Tell them you have real demands. That this isn't random violence." I stood slowly. Hands visible. "Buy yourself time to actually be heard."
Dennis stepped forward. "Don't listen to him. He's playing you."
"I'm not." I met Marcus's eyes. "You wanted someone to hear what happened to you. Right now, the police think this is just a random hostage situation. Let me tell them it's not. That you have legitimate grievances."
Marcus looked between me and Dennis. The gun wavered.
"Why would you help us?" he asked.
Good question. Why would the Roy kid help his captors?
"Because you're right," I said simply. "What happened to you was wrong. And if this ends with someone getting shot, the story becomes 'crazy employees attack innocent people.' But if it ends peacefully, the story can be 'desperate workers driven to extremes by broken corporate promises.' Which story helps you?"
I felt something shift inside me as I spoke. The words carried weight beyond their literal meaning. Landing with Marcus like they meant more than sound waves. Like they were truth he could believe in.
Silver Tongue. Stage one. Activating from genuine intent and desperate need.
I didn't try to manipulate it. Didn't force it. Just spoke what I actually believed and let the power carry the sincerity.
Marcus's shoulders lowered. Just slightly. The gun dipped.
"You really think you can make them listen?" he asked.
"I think I can make them understand this wasn't random violence. That's a start."
"Marcus, no—" Dennis moved closer. His gun was steady in his hand. His eyes were cold. "He's one of them. The second he's outside, he'll tell them to storm the building."
I turned to look at Dennis. Let the Empathy Engine extend fully.
What I caught wasn't desperation about pensions or healthcare. It was deeper. Older. A wound that bled rage instead of grief.
They killed her. Gave her pills. Made her an addict. Watched her die. Someone has to pay—
Not about layoffs. About revenge.
"Dennis," I said carefully. "What's your real reason for being here?"
His face hardened. "Same as Marcus. Same as Jerry. We got screwed."
"No." I shook my head. "Marcus is here because his pension got taken. Jerry's here because his daughter needs medication. But you... you're here for something else."
"Shut up."
"Something happened. Something personal." I kept my voice even. "This isn't about money for you."
"I said shut the fuck up!" Dennis raised his gun. Pointed it at my chest.
Marcus stepped between us. "Dennis, what's he talking about?"
"Nothing. Rich boy's trying to divide us."
But I'd seen it. That flash of pain beneath the rage. A daughter. Loss. Pills. Connection to Waystar that went beyond employment.
I filed it away. Couldn't push it now—not with Dennis's gun aimed at me.
"Fine," I said. Hands up. "I'm just trying to understand. So we can end this without anyone getting hurt."
"EIGHT MINUTES," the megaphone blared outside.
Jerry spoke up from near the door. His voice cracked. "I can't do this. I can't—we're going to prison. We're all going to prison or die."
"Shut up, Jerry," Dennis snapped.
But Jerry kept going. "My daughter. Who's going to take care of my daughter if I'm dead or in prison? This was supposed to—Marcus, you said we'd just scare them. Make them listen. But they're not listening and now—"
"Jerry!" I called out. Gentle. "Can you do something for me?"
He looked at me. Tears streaming down his face.
"There's water bottles in the supply closet. Second door on the left. Can you get some for people?" I gestured at the hostages. "Some of them need it."
"I... what?"
"Water. For the hostages. Give you something to do. Something helpful."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Go ahead, Jerry. Just... be careful."
Jerry set his gun down on the floor. Moved to the closet. Found bottles. Started distributing them to the hostages.
Giving him a task. A purpose. Something to focus on besides the panic.
He calmed. Slightly. Still terrified but functional.
Dennis watched this. His jaw clenched.
"What are you doing?" he asked me quietly.
"De-escalating. Trying to get everyone out of here alive."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to die. Because I don't want any of these people to die." I met his eyes. "And because I think you don't actually want to kill anyone either."
"You don't know me."
"I know you're in pain. I know something happened that brought you here. And I know if you wanted everyone dead, we'd already be dead."
Dennis stared at me. The gun didn't lower but it didn't fire either.
"SIX MINUTES."
Marcus wiped his face. "Okay. Roman—that's your name, right? Roman?"
"Yeah."
"You can go outside. Tell them... tell them we want guarantees. That they'll investigate the pension fund. The healthcare cuts. The layoffs. Real investigation. Real consequences for the people who broke their promises."
"I'll tell them."
"And tell them if they try anything—if they storm this building—people die."
I nodded. "Understood."
Dennis grabbed my arm as I moved toward the door. His grip was iron. His voice was a whisper meant only for me.
"I see what you're doing. Talking them down. Playing the hero." His eyes bored into mine. "But you're still one of them. And they still need to pay."
"For what?" I asked quietly. "What do they need to pay for, Dennis?"
His hand tightened. Pain flashed across his face. Then the mask came back.
"Everything," he said.
He released me. Stepped back.
I walked to the door. Jerry moved aside. My legs were shaking but Trauma Lock held. Kept me upright. Functional.
"Marcus," I said before opening the door. "I'm trusting you not to shoot anyone while I'm gone. Can you trust me to come back?"
He considered. Nodded. "Yeah. I trust you."
Dennis laughed. Bitter and sharp. "Then you're a fool."
I opened the door. Stepped outside into Pennsylvania afternoon light that felt impossibly bright after the dim conference room.
Tactical teams behind vehicles. Rifles aimed at me. Megaphone guy stepping forward.
I raised my hands. Called out: "Don't shoot. I'm Roman Roy. I'm a hostage. I have a message from inside."
The tactical commander—a woman in her forties with cop eyes that had seen everything—gestured for me to approach slowly.
I did. Hands up. Moving carefully.
When I reached the barricade, she pulled me behind cover.
"Status inside?" she asked immediately.
"Thirty hostages. Three hostage-takers. All armed but—" I paused. "They don't want to hurt anyone. They want to be heard."
"They took hostages. That already hurt people."
"I know. But we can end this peacefully. They have demands."
"What demands?"
I told her. The pensions. The healthcare. The broken promises. Real investigation. Real accountability.
She listened. Took notes. Her expression never changed.
"Can you guarantee their surrender if we agree?" she asked.
"Two of them, yes. The third..." I thought about Dennis. About the rage underneath. "He's more complicated. But if you give me time, I think I can bring him around."
"You think."
"I'm doing my best."
She studied me. "You're that Roy? The family?"
"Yeah."
"And you want to help these people who took you hostage?"
"I want everyone to walk out of this alive. Including them."
She considered. Spoke into her radio. Had a conversation I couldn't fully hear.
Finally: "We can relay the demands. We can promise investigation. But they need to surrender. All of them. No deals until they're in custody."
"Let me take that back to them."
"You're going back in?"
"I said I would."
She looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was.
"Five minutes," she said. "Then we assume negotiations failed."
I nodded. Walked back toward the building.
Behind me, one of the tactical officers muttered: "Kid's got balls."
Another replied: "Kid's got a death wish."
Maybe both were true.
I reached the door. Knocked.
Marcus opened it. Gun still in hand but lowered.
"Well?" he asked.
"They'll relay your demands. Promise investigation. But you need to surrender. All of you. Come out peacefully."
"And then what? Prison?"
"Maybe. Probably. But alive. With your story heard."
Dennis materialized behind Marcus. "They're lying. The second we walk out, they'll shoot us."
"They won't," I said. "Not with media already showing up." I'd seen the news vans pulling in while I was outside. "Too many cameras. Too much attention. But we're running out of time."
Marcus looked torn. Jerry was crying again. The hostages were watching with desperate hope.
And Dennis... Dennis's hand moved toward his gun.
"This wasn't supposed to take so long," he said quietly.
I realized it then. Dennis had a different timeline. A different plan.
This wasn't about being heard. Not for him.
This was about something else entirely.
And the timeline just shortened.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0