Columbia's capital lay under a pall of unease, its vibrant pulse dulled by the shadow of a selective plague.
The noble districts—sprawling enclaves of wealth and power—stood eerily silent, their marble facades marred by blood-streaked windows and shattered rooftops.
Beyond their borders, the city carried on, oblivious to the terror confined within.
Rhine Lab's headquarters, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel, buzzed with frenetic energy, its command centre a crucible where Columbia's sharpest minds and staunchest defenders forged a response to the chaos unleashed by Hamelin.
Kristen Wright, known as Control, stood at the helm of a crescent-shaped conference table, her silver-gold hair catching the cold glow of overhead lights.
Her piercing gaze swept across the holographic displays flickering before her—maps of the noble districts marked with pulsing red zones, charts tracking infection rates, and grainy footage of crows swarming estates.
Beside her, Saria towered, her crystalline arts shimmering faintly along her forearms, her expression an unyielding mask of focus.
Muelsyse perched on a chair, her delicate frame belying the intensity in her emerald eyes, while Ferdinand Clooney paced behind, his broad shoulders tense, his scowl deepening with each passing minute.
The room swelled with representatives from Columbia's key institutions.
A Maylander Association envoy, clad in a crisp grey suit, scribbled furiously on a notepad, his brow furrowed.
Colonel Harwood of the Department of Defence stood ramrod straight, his uniform pristine, his hands clasped behind his back as he absorbed the briefing.
Dr Evelyn Marr, liaison from the Columbian Medical Board, clutched a tablet streaming live data, her knuckles white.
Ptilopsis and Silence lingered near the edges—Ptilopsis's owl-like eyes scanning diagnostics, Silence adjusting a portable analyser—both poised to act at a moment's notice.
The air thrummed with urgency, a palpable weight pressing on every breath.
Kristen's voice sliced through the tension, sharp and commanding.
"We're facing a targeted epidemic—Originium-based, airborne, and hyper-accelerated."
"It's hitting the nobles and their direct associates exclusively—servants, guards, immediate kin."
"Fifty-two estates have reported cases in the last twelve hours, with symptoms escalating from exposure to advanced oripathy in under a day."
She tapped the holo-display, zooming into a noble district littered with red markers.
"The afflicted aren't dying—they're locked in a state of perpetual suffering, crystalline lesions spreading, flesh rotting, yet vital signs hold."
Saria stepped forward, her voice steady as stone.
"The crows are the delivery system—Hamelin's crows. Eyewitnesses describe flocks descending on each estate moments before outbreaks, dispersing . We've secured samples from the Varnholt mansion; it's an Originium compound, volatile and engineered. This isn't a natural strain—it's a weapon, designed to punish, not kill."
Her crystalline shield pulsed faintly, a reflex of readiness.
"The crows aren't normal either—Originium signatures in their feathers, resistant to standard attacks."
Muelsyse tilted her head, her tone soft yet piercing.
"The pathogen's precision is chilling. It's selective—nobles and their inner circles only, sparing the broader population. Bioengineering's running full tilt to decode it, but it's stable and deliberate. Whoever—whatever—Hamelin is, he's not improvising. We've got to stop the spread before it evolves beyond its targets."
She glanced at Kristen, a flicker of worry in her gaze.
"The gas dissipates after twenty-four hours, but those crows keep reseeding it."
Ferdinand halted his pacing, his growl reverberating.
"This is Hamelin's doing—some prophet of vengeance, hitting the elites where it hurts.
"We're sitting ducks while he plays judge."
"DoD needs to move—hunt him, burn those damn birds out of the sky."
Every second we delay, another mansion falls." His fist clenched, knuckles cracking audibly.
Colonel Harwood nodded, his voice clipped.
"Defence concurs. We've got drones tracking the flocks—tens of thousands, moving like they're commanded. They're Originium-infused, shrugging off small arms fire. We're prepping heavy artillery and arts squads, but we need a containment zone first."
"The noble districts are bleeding—literally. Blood's pooling in the streets, and those crows are tearing through anything in their path."
Dr Marr's voice wavered as she spoke, her tablet trembling in her grip.
"Medical boards are at capacity. Nobles are flooding isolation wards—Reginald Varnholt, Elara Montague, dozens more. Their oripathy's unlike anything we've seen—black stones piercing skin, organs failing yet persisting, blood seeping from every orifice. "
"Their staff are hit too—drivers, maids—but it stops there. No civilian cases outside their circles. We've got them in hazmat-sealed wings, but our medics are stretched thin. We need quarantine protocols—full lockdown—immediately."
The Maylander envoy looked up, adjusting his glasses.
"Association's working with law enforcement to cordon off the districts, but the public's restless. Whispers are spreading—'noble retribution,' 'crow plague.' We're losing the narrative. If this hits the press unchecked, we'll have mass hysteria—looting, exodus. We need a unified front, fast."
Kristen raised a hand, her gesture silencing the room like a guillotine's fall.
"We're beyond containment—this is damage control."
"The pathogen's tied to Hamelin, and those crows are his weapon. We hit both ends: neutralise the vector, isolate the spread."
She turned to Saria, her tone unwavering.
"Assemble a strike team—take out the flocks. Lead with your arts for protection; bring Ptilopsis and Silence for precision strikes. Hit their roosts, burn them out."
Saria nodded, her crystalline aura flaring briefly.
"Understood. Ptilopsis can target their patterns; Silence can disrupt their Originium signals. We'll move at dusk—maximum impact."
Kristen shifted to Harwood, her eyes steely.
"DoD, establish a five-mile perimeter around the noble districts—hard lockdown, no exceptions. Deploy hazmat units and arts barriers along the line; nothing crosses. Ground all civilian transport—air, rail, road."
Harwood saluted, his comms already crackling as he relayed orders.
To Dr Marr, she continued, "Medical Board, convert eastern hospitals into noble-only isolation zones—staff included."
"Divert all other patients west; no overlap. Equip every medic with hazmat gear—double-check seals. We can't lose personnel to this." Marr scribbled frantically, her nod curt.
She faced the Maylander envoy last.
"Association, gag the media—official release only: 'targeted Originium outbreak, under investigation.' No mention of crows or Hamelin; call it an 'environmental anomaly.' Keep the public calm until we've got this contained." The envoy adjusted his tie, murmuring assent.
Ferdinand bristled, his voice a low rumble.
"That's all? We lock down and wait while Hamelin laughs? We should be hunting him—rooting out whoever's behind this!"
Kristen's gaze hardened, unyielding.
"We will—once we've stabilised. Blind retaliation loses us more than we gain. For now, we hold the line."
She paused, then delivered the decisive blow. "As of this moment, Columbia's is under indefinite lockdown—no movement, no trade, no contact beyond essential personnel. This ends when we stop Hamelin, or it consumes them all."
The room stilled, the weight of her words sinking deep.
Ptilopsis's monotone voice broke the silence, her analysis streaming from a nearby terminal: "Probability of containment success: 68%, assuming crow dispersal ceases within 48 hours."
Silence adjusted her gear, her quiet resolve a counterpoint to the tension.
Outside, the crows wheeled over the noble estates, their shadows lengthening as dusk deepened, their cries a relentless knell over a city fractured by vengeance.
***
Columbia's descended into a grim twilight as the indefinite lockdown took hold, the city's heartbeat stuttering under the weight of Hamelin's vengeance.
The once-vibrant enclaves of wealth—streets lined with manicured gardens and towering mansions—now lay shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant shrieks of crows circling overhead.
Rhine Lab's directives rippled outward, enforced with mechanical precision, as Columbia's institutions mobilised to stem the tide of the engineered Oripathy plaguing the nobles and their kin.
At the perimeter's edge, Colonel Harwood oversaw the Department of Defence's operation with a steely gaze.
A five-mile cordon sprang up overnight—barricades of reinforced steel and shimmering Arts barriers encircling the affected zones, their surfaces etched with Originium-neutralising runes.
Hazmat-clad soldiers patrolled the line, their visors reflecting the crimson glow of emergency flares, while drones buzzed above, tracking the crows' erratic flights.
Transport hubs—rail stations, airpads, highways—ground to a halt, their gates sealed by DoD decree, stranding merchants and civilians alike beyond the noble districts' reach. "No breaches,"
Harwood barked into his comms, his voice cutting through the static.
"If a single crow slips through, we're compromised."
Within Rhine Lab's command centre, Kristen Wright monitored the lockdown's rollout, her fingers tracing the holographic map as red zones pulsed with fresh data.
"Perimeter's holding," she said, her tone clipped but steady.
"Gas levels are dropping outside the estates—Muelsyse is right; it dissipates after twenty-four hours. But those flocks keep it alive inside."
She glanced at the live feed: crows perched on rooftops, their talons gouging stone, their red eyes glinting like embers in the dusk.
Muelsyse hovered near a terminal, her nimble fingers dancing across a console as she analysed the pathogen's spread.
"It's still selective—nobles, their guards, their cooks—no one else," she confirmed, her voice soft but edged with unease.
"Bioengineering isolated a marker in the gas—Originium bonded to a synthetic trigger."
"It's keyed to something specific—maybe bloodlines, maybe exposure history. We're close to cracking it, but we need more samples." She paused, her gaze flickering to Kristen. "
"If we don't stop Hamelin soon, he might tweak it—widen the net."
Ferdinand Clooney paced behind her, his frustration boiling over.
"Samples? We're drowning in data while those bastards rot alive out there! Saria's team needs to hit harder—wipe out the crows, find Hamelin, end this now." His fist slammed a wall panel, the thud reverberating in the tense silence.
Saria's voice crackled through the comms, calm amid the storm.
"We're on it, Ferdinand. Strike team's deployed—noble district alpha, Varnholt estate ruins. Ptilopsis, Silence, and I are moving in."
Outside, the trio advanced through the shattered remains of Reginald Varnholt's mansion, its grand halls now a graveyard of broken marble and blood-streaked walls.
Crows swarmed above, their wings a black tempest blotting the sky, their cries a relentless assault on the senses.
Saria led the charge, her crystalline shield flaring to life—a translucent dome that pulsed with Originium-deflecting energy, encasing her team.
"Stay tight," she ordered, her voice firm.
Ptilopsis flanked her, her owl-like eyes glowing faintly as she scanned the flock's patterns, her voice monotone over the comms: "Crow movements synchronised—frequency 0.8 seconds per cycle. Optimal strike window: 0.3 seconds."
Silence followed, her drone hovering at her side, its Originium disruptor humming as she primed it.
"Disabling their signals—range limited to fifty metres," she said, her tone clipped but precise.
The team struck as one. Saria thrust her shield upward, a shockwave of crystalline force shattering a dozen crows mid-flight, their bodies crumbling into ash and feathers.
Ptilopsis fired a volley of Arts-charged bolts from her wrist device, each shot threading through the flock with surgical accuracy, downing clusters in bursts of black smoke.
Silence unleashed her drone, its disruptor pulse rippling outward, scrambling the crows' Originium signatures—hundreds plummeted, twitching, to the ground, their red eyes dimming.
Yet more surged in, an endless tide, their beaks snapping at the shield's edges.
Back at headquarters, Dr Evelyn Marr's voice trembled over the comms, patched in from the isolation wards.
"We've stabilised the nobles we can—fifty-seven in critical condition, thirty staff infected. Symptoms match your data: rapid lesion growth, persistent vitals."
"They're screaming for release, but we've sedated them—barely. Hazmat gear's holding, but our supplies are thinning. We need more units—fast."
The Maylander envoy adjusted his glasses, his tone brisk.
"Association's locked the media – statement's out: 'contained Originium anomaly, noble districts only.' The public's buying it for now, but reports of crows are leaking—social channels are lighting up. We've deployed agents to scrub the chatter, but we're on borrowed time."
Kristen's jaw tightened, her mind racing through the variables.
"Saria, status?" she asked, her voice cutting through the comms.
"Flocks are thinning here—down thirty per cent," Saria replied, her breath steady despite the chaos.
"But they're regrouping—new waves incoming from the east. We'll hold, but we need air support. Ptilopsis estimates total numbers in the tens of thousands—citywide."
Kristen turned to Harwood. "Get your artillery online—target the eastern roosts. Coordinate with Saria's position; no collateral beyond the districts."
Harwood nodded, barking orders into his comms as the DoD's heavy guns rumbled to life miles away.
She faced Muelsyse next.
"Push the bioengineering team—crack that trigger. If Hamelin's behind this, he's got a purpose—find it."
Muelsyse dipped her head, already pivoting to her console.
Ferdinand growled, unconvinced.
"We're still reacting—Hamelin's out there, orchestrating this. We should be scouring the city, not babysitting nobles who dug their own graves."
Kristen met his glare, her voice cold steel.
"We will—when we've got a lead. Right now, we protect what's left. The lockdown holds indefinitely—noble districts are a dead zone until we kill the source. No exceptions, no mercy for breaches."
She paused, then added, "Ptilopsis, recalculate containment odds with current data."
Ptilopsis's voice hummed through, flat and mechanical.
"Adjusting for crow reduction and lockdown efficacy: 72% probability of containment within 72 hours, assuming no escalation from Hamelin."
Silence's drone whirred in the background, punctuating the grim hope.
Outside, the crows screeched, their shadows stretching over the sealed districts as artillery fire lit the horizon.
The nobles' screams faded into sedated silence within isolation wards, their fates tethered to Rhine Lab's resolve.
Columbia stood on a knife's edge, its defenders racing against a prophet's wrath, the city's future hinging on the battle unfolding beneath a blood-red sky.