Pawns of Wrath

The dimly lit boardroom of the Old World Order carried an air of suffocating formality and dread. The walls were lined with imposing portraits of past leaders, whose disapproving, painted stares seemed to add to the tension in the room. A long obsidian table stretched through the center, reflecting the faint flicker of cold fluorescent lights.

At one end of the table, Sewickly stood in looming silence, his shadow consuming the polished surface. His hand rested on the edge of the table as his breathing grew heavier with every passing second. The room was filled with twelve other high-ranking members of the Order, seated in plush chairs, all watching the chairman uneasily as they anticipated what was about to happen. No one dared speak. Breaking the silence, he spoke.

“Ten hours.”

He straightened to his full height, well over six feet, with his sharp, hawkish face contorted into a mask of rage. His gray, calculating eyes swept through the room like searchlights before locking onto the trembling figure of General Berg. The volume of Sewickly's voice rose dramatically.

"Ten hours! In ten pitiful hours, you bumbling fools have managed to unravel years—decades—of planning. Decades! And for what?!"

Sewickly’s hand shot out, grabbing a crystal water decanter from the table. Before anyone could react, it was hurled across the room, shattering against the wall in a loud crash. Cohen flinched visibly, while General Berg sat frozen, his face pale and his hands trembling under the table. Sewickly's voice roared with anger.

"A failed attempt to detain two families? Two families! You make us look like amateurs! Zeke Haywood and Amma Enki—two pathetic, insubordinate relics of the military—laughed in our faces! They humiliated us! And then?"

He slammed his fist into the table, rattling glasses and utensils, "Some peasants waltzed into America’s most secure building, using nothing but math!"

The force of his voice reverberated through the boardroom, silencing even the low murmur of anxious breaths from the other members. Cohen, nervous as always, tried to calm Sewickly with a weak attempt at placation.

"Chairman Sewickly, I—"

Sewickly interrupted yelling, spinning on him seething.

"Shut your mouth, Cohen, before I rip out your tongue and feed it to you! This isn’t about you! Not yet!”

He glared back at General Berg.

"But it WILL be if you don’t stop cowering like a beaten dog!"

Berg, finally breaking, stammered uncontrollably to explain himself to the chairman.

"Please sir! I didn’t expect...I thought the defenses were—"

Sewickly’s hand shot up to silence him, his other hand pulling sharply at his perfectly pressed tie as if the very presence of the general disgusted him. He responded in a softer, but more menacing tone. "You THOUGHT?? YOU THOUGHT?! THAT’S the problem! You’re not paid to THINK General! You’re paid to ACT! Except you don’t even do THAT properly, do you? You’re a liability, Berg! A blubbering embarrassment to this Order! Tell me, what exactly did I warn you the last time you stumbled into this meeting with your tail between your legs?"

Berg’s lips quivered. His mind raced to say something. But all he could summon were fragmented mumbles as his eyes darted around the room nervously, searching for a savior. Sewickly’s glare intensified as he stepped closer, each step deliberate and intimidating.

"I told you—WARNED you—what would happen if you failed us one more time! Do you need reminding, Berg?! Are you so dense that you forgot your own fate?!"

Berg’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees in desperation, looking around the room to the other members for any sign of support. None came. Eyes averted; some members stared at the table while others glanced nervously at Sewickly, knowing full well that any attempt to show sympathy would result in sharing the same fate. General Berg pleaded desperately.

"Chairman please! I beg you! I can fix this! I’ll do anything! Anything you ask of me! I’ll personally eliminate Peter Parsons and his rotten family! I’ll slaughter anyone who stands in your way! Just give me the opportunity to—"

His voice cracked completely as he fell into incoherent rambling, still on his knees, hands clasped together as if praying at an altar. Some members of the Order exchanged glances. Some filled with shame for the man’s utter lack of dignity. Others filled with silent disgust. And a rare few filled with pity for his pathetic display.

From the far side of the table, a slow, deliberate creak of a chair interrupted Berg’s begging. Chesterton Millbrand, the regional director of the Old World Order’s developed regions, his stoic face devoid of any humanity, rose, his fingers sliding neatly into the pockets of his charcoal-gray suit. The room fell so silent that the sound of his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor was deafening as he made his way toward the pitiful general. He commanded with a low and cold tone.

“Stop sniveling like a child!”

Berg looked up, tears streaming down his pale face. Millbrand towered over him, every feature of his expression screaming disappointment and disgust. He proceeded to scold the general.

"You have been given what peasants would call a golden opportunity. A chance to sit at this table. The kind of chance that entire families would sell their souls for. And yet," He leaned down slightly.

"You repay that kindness with failure upon failure. Do you know what I see when I look at you, Berg?"

Berg shook his head faintly, his lips trembling too much to form words.

"I see a pathetic old dog. A mutt who should’ve been put down years ago."

He straightened and pulled a sleek, black pistol from his pocket, its weight making a quiet thud as he rested it against Berg’s trembling head. Berg gasped, collapsing into full-blown hysteria.

"Please! Give me another chance! I’ll do anything! "

Millbrand tilted his head slightly, the pistol steady in his hand. A long silence followed, and for a moment, everyone in the room thought he would pull the trigger. But instead, he slowly slipped the gun back into his coat pocket, his cold gaze fixed on Berg’s tear-soaked face. Millbrand said in a soft, yet terrifying voice.

"Death would be too merciful. For you, I have something much worse."

He snapped his fingers, and two muscular bodyguards stepped into view, moving with robotic precision as they approached Berg, who flinched and tried to back away.

"Take him to the catacombs," he commanded.

The catacombs, a place of whispered horror, was reserved for traitors and the utterly disgraced. It was where members of the Old World Order were unmade. The bodyguards yanked Berg to his feet, drawing a pained yelp as they roughly manhandled him, shaking him violently before dragging him toward the exit. His pleas grew louder, more desperate, as the blood drained from his face. Berg screamed in horror.

"No! Please! Not the catacombs!"

Sewickly, sitting back down at the head of the table, leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. He calmly responded.

"You’re out of chances."

The boardroom door closed behind him with a deep thud, sealing his fate. The remaining members sat in silence, digesting everything they had just witnessed. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others looked at Sewickly with renewed fear and reverence.

Cohen, still visibly shaken, cleared his throat, his lips trembling as he managed to gain the nerve to speak. He said anxiously with approval.

"A fitting punishment sir. Effective, surely."

Sewickly ignored Cohen, his steely eyes turning to scan the room, ensuring his message was branded in every one of their minds. He let the silence linger before finally standing and addressing the group. His gaze swept through the room.

"Let this serve as a reminder. With the exception of myself, ALL of you are replaceable. Correct every loose end in your regions immediately, or you will find yourselves joining our dear Berg in the catacombs. I will NOT tolerate failure."

The members nodded quickly, each one murmuring obedient affirmations like frightened schoolchildren. Satisfied, Sewickly turned his back to them, staring at a large, gilded map of the world hanging on the far wall. His reflection gleamed off the glass as he spoke, quieter this time but no less threatening.

"The Parsons. The Zimmermans. Haywood. Enki. Eliminate them. Or I will eliminate you."

With that, the meeting adjourned, though no one dared to stand until after the chairman had left the room. Fear rippled over the group like a crushing wave as the reality of Sewickly’s wrath remained painfully clear.