Chapter 4: The Titan's Decree

Chapter 4: The Titan's Decree

Fifty stories above the choked streets of Neo-Veridia, the air was different. Inside the penthouse boardroom of the Khemia Global spire, it was scoured, chilled, and recycled to an unnatural purity that bore no resemblance to the toxic haze outside. The floor-to-ceiling smart glass was polarized against the perpetual grey twilight, rendering the dying city below into a silent, abstract mural of urban decay—a problem Alistair Khem had not solved, but had certainly mastered.

Alistair stood before the window, a titan in a bespoke charcoal suit, his silvering hair catching the cold, recessed light. His reflection was a ghost superimposed over the smog, a king surveying his toxic castle. On the corner of his immense obsidian desk sat a single, perfect fossil: the petrified remains of a trilobite, an organism that had dominated its world for three hundred million years before failing to adapt. It was his most cherished possession, a reminder of both the glory of absolute dominion and the penalty for failure.

“Report,” he said, his voice a low baritone that commanded the sterile air. He didn't turn to face the three scientists huddled around the holographic display table. He didn't need to. His authority was an ambient pressure in the room.

Dr. Eva Rostova, a lead analyst with eyes that held a permanent flicker of anxiety, cleared her throat. “Sir, the event occurred approximately fifty-two minutes ago. Sector Gamma-7, residential block 9.”

On the holographic map of the city, a single grid square pulsed with a faint, crimson light. “We detected a high-frequency energy signature,” Rostova continued, manipulating the display to show a series of jagged graphs. “Non-ionizing, but with a resonance pattern we’ve never encountered. It spiked for precisely forty-seven seconds, then vanished.”

Alistair remained silent, his gaze fixed on the city below. Energy spikes were common—grid malfunctions, illegal power siphons, the occasional meth-lab explosion. It was the next part that made this report ascend fifty floors to his desk.

“The energy reading itself is an anomaly, Mr. Khem,” another scientist added, his voice thin. “But it’s the corresponding material analysis that… well, sir, it’s impossible.”

He brought up a second display, a molecular model of a complex polymer. “Our atmospheric and waste-particulate sensors in that sector detected a simultaneous event. A complete and localized sublimation of multiple hydrocarbon polymers.”

“Sublimation?” Alistair turned, one eyebrow slightly raised. The word hung in the air, a challenge. Sublimation was a phase transition from solid to gas. It left a trace.

“A poor term, sir,” Rostova corrected hastily. “It’s more accurate to say they… ceased to exist. Approximately 150 grams of polyethylene terephthalate, 40 grams of acrylonitrile butadiene styrene, and a small quantity of polyvinyl chloride. One moment, they were registered by our micro-sensors. The next, they were gone. No heat signature, no chemical residue, no gaseous trace. They simply vanished from the material plane. It violates the law of conservation of mass.”

Alistair walked slowly toward the table, his polished shoes making no sound on the synthetic marble floor. He stared at the data, his cold, calculating eyes processing the impossible facts. An unknown energy that made plastic disappear. A miracle, some might call it. A salvation for a world drowning in its own refuse.

Alistair Khem saw something else entirely. He saw a threat.

His entire empire, a global network of oil fields, refineries, and distribution channels worth trillions, was built on the foundation of hydrocarbons. Plastics were the solidified form of his primary commodity. An entity, a technology, a something that could erase his core product from existence wasn't a miracle; it was a declaration of war. It was a new predator entering his ecosystem, and like the trilobite on his desk, he would not fail to adapt. He would simply eradicate the threat.

“Sector Gamma-7, Block 9,” he mused, his voice dangerously soft. “That’s a low-income residential sector. Hardly a hotbed of advanced research. Cross-reference the address with our security division’s active watch lists.”

An analyst’s fingers flew across a console. Seconds later, a file appeared on the display, accompanied by a haggard, black-and-white photo.

“Dr. Aris Solara, sir,” the analyst reported. “Disgraced biologist. We fund some of his theoretical work—a legacy grant. Standard corporate intelligence protocol to monitor radical environmental scientists.”

Alistair’s expression didn't change, but a cold fire ignited behind his eyes. Solara. The obsessive Cassandra, screaming about the end of the world while cashing Khemia’s checks.

“My security team paid Dr. Solara a visit less than an hour ago,” Alistair stated, recalling the preliminary report from his head of security, Thorne. A routine check-in. Thorne had reported nothing but a cluttered apartment, an uncooperative scientist, and his strange, pale daughter lurking in a doorway. A daughter with wide, unnerving eyes. Thorne had noted a fleeting sense of… something being hidden. An instinct he couldn’t quantify but had flagged as unusual.

The energy spike. The disappearing plastic. The disgraced scientist. The unsettling visit. The pieces clicked into place with the cold, final certainty of a chambered round. Solara wasn’t just a harmless crank. He had found something. Or perhaps, his daughter had.

“Dr. Rostova, you and your team are to be commended,” Alistair said, his tone one of absolute finality. “You will now forget this data exists. You will wipe it from your personal logs and sign a Tier One non-disclosure agreement before you leave this room. Your work on this is finished.”

The scientists paled but nodded in unison, understanding the command was not a suggestion. It was a wall of silence being erected around them. Alistair dismissed them with a flick of his wrist.

Alone once more, he walked back to the window, looking down at the sprawling city that ran on his oil, his power, his control. A world saved by some self-replicating, plastic-eating miracle was a world plunged into chaos. The global economy would shatter. Nations would fall. A new paradigm would emerge, one he did not own. His legacy, written in steel and oil, would be erased by a speck of organic matter.

He would not allow it. Order, his order, had to be maintained.

He touched a discreet button on his desk. “Send in Talon.”

The door hissed open, and a man entered. He was the antithesis of the scientists—built with a compact, lethal grace, his face a scar of emotionless efficiency. He wore a simple black uniform, devoid of any rank or insignia save for the same subtle Khemia pin as the men who had visited Anya’s home. This was the leader of Khem’s Acquisition Team.

Alistair did not turn. “The Solara residence. Sector Gamma-7.”

“Sir,” Talon acknowledged, his voice a gravelly whisper.

“Dr. Solara has created something,” Khem said, his eyes tracing the path of a transport vehicle through a smog-choked canyon between skyscrapers. “An anomaly. Most likely biological. It consumes polymers.”

He finally turned to face the man, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “I want the source. Not the formula, not the scientist. The living source. Secure it. Bring it here to the spire. Uncontaminated.”

Talon’s expression remained unchanged. He was a tool awaiting instruction. “And the inhabitants?”

Alistair Khem gave a small, chilling smile, a barely-there curl of his lip. “Dr. Solara has become a regrettable expense. His daughter is irrelevant data.”

He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle in the sterile air.

“Eliminate any obstacle that prevents you from securing the asset. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Talon replied, without a flicker of hesitation.

He turned and left as silently as he had arrived. The hunt was no longer a matter of surveillance. It was now an acquisition. And the titan had just signed the extinction order.