The heavy silence following Xavier's threat was broken not by an apology, but by the cold, rhythmic tapping of Vance's fingers on his tablet. He stepped forward, his face pale but set in a mask of grim determination.
"It's not just about the crew, Mr. Baskwood," Vance said, his voice echoing in the sterile room. "The trajectory of that dragon… it's heading toward the Australian coast. If it hits Sydney or Melbourne with that same fire, we're looking at hundreds of thousands of civilian casualties. Children, families—people who don't even know Blackstar exists."
"Vance is right," Xavier growled, leaning over the table, his scarred face illuminated by the glow of the monitors. "The thermal output of that 'pastel' fire is over 3000°C. It doesn't just burn; it vaporizes. We're talking about a firestorm that could level a city block in seconds. You're talking about 'data' while a sentient nuke is flying toward a population of five million."
Baskwood straightened his charcoal suit jacket, his expression chillingly detached. He looked at the two of them as if they were children failing a simple math test.
"You speak of casualties as if they are a tragedy," Baskwood said softly. "I see them as a necessity. The global population is at a breaking point, Xavier. Resources are dwindling, the climate is collapsing, and we are suffocating under our own weight. The world needs a reset. If this creature acts as a natural culling—a 'divine' intervention—then Blackstar has succeeded in finding the ultimate solution."
"You're talking about genocide," Vance whispered, horrified.
"I'm talking about equilibrium," Baskwood countered.
The word was the final straw. Raven let out a gutteral roar of betrayal and charged. He moved with the speed of youth, a blur of motion aimed directly at his father's throat. But Baskwood didn't flinch. With the fluid, economy of motion that comes from decades of high-stakes combat experience, the older man stepped into the attack.
He caught Raven's momentum, pivoted, and drove his shoulder into his son's chest. In one seamless move, Baskwood gripped Raven's arm and bodyslammed him onto the mahogany conference table. The wood groaned under the impact.
Before Raven could even gasp for air, Baskwood had a sleek, matte-black sidearm pressed firmly against his son's temple. The cold steel clicked as the hammer moved back.
"Is this how it ends, Raven?" Baskwood asked, his voice devoid of heat, his grey, blind eye staring into nothingness while his good eye locked onto his son. "Do you truly want to die this early in life? Is thirty a reasonable age to stop, or would you prefer to see fifty? Sixty? Seventy? I can make that decision for you right now."
The fire in Raven's eyes flickered and died, replaced by a devastating, hollow softness. He didn't struggle. He just lay there, the side of his face pressed against the cold wood of the table his father had just cracked.
"You are the worst father that any son or daughter could have," Raven whispered, his voice trembling not with fear, but with pure, concentrated loathing. "You don't even deserve that title. I hate you every single day. I'd rather die at thirty than grow up to be a ghost like you. So do it, Kill your only son."
Baskwood's hand didn't shake, but for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightened. The room held its breath, the only sound the distant hum of the Missouri HQ's ventilation system.
Baskwood stared into his son's eyes for a long, agonizing second before slowly thumbing the safety back on. He holstered the weapon in one fluid motion and stepped back, smoothing the front of his charcoal suit as if he hadn't just held a gun to his own blood.
Raven rolled off the table, coughing, his hand clutching his throat as Jessie rushed to his side.
"You're insane," Xavier growled, his hand still hovering near his belt. "You think you can just let a monster loose on the world and call it 'equilibrium'?"
"I'm a realist, Xavier," Baskwood said, turning his back to them to look out at the Missouri horizon. "The world is a sinking ship. I'm not the one who poked the holes, but I am the one building the lifeboats. And because you've been a loyal asset to this agency, I've already secured your family's safety. They've been cleared for transport to the lower-level bunkers in Grafton, Illinois. It's one of our most secure subterranean facilities—deep enough to survive a nuclear winter or a dragon's breath."
Xavier froze. The mention of his family wasn't a gesture of kindness; it was a leash. "You touched my family?"
"I protected them," Baskwood corrected smoothly.
Vance stepped forward, his eyes darting between the monitors and the Director. The scale of the betrayal was starting to sink in. This wasn't a rogue operation. This was a policy.
"Who else?" Vance's voice was barely a whisper, thick with dread. "Who else knows about this? Who else signed off on letting that thing burn its way across the Southern Hemisphere?"
Baskwood turned around, his sightless grey eye catching the light, making him look like an ancient, uncaring statue. He looked at Vance, then Xavier, and finally at his son.
"Everybody in the higher-ups, Vance," Baskwood replied, his voice chillingly flat. "The Board, the regional directors, the primary stakeholders. This isn't a secret mission. This is the new mandate of Blackstar Strategic. We aren't just an agency anymore. We are the architects of the world that comes next."
A heavy, suffocating shock settled over the room. Vance felt the floor drop out from under him. Every mission they had ever run, every life they had saved, felt like a lie leading up to this singular, horrific truth. The very organization they bled for was now the hand behind the monster.
Raven looked at his father, his expression turning from hatred to a cold, hollow realization. "You didn't just find the dragon," he said, his voice trembling. "You've been waiting for it."