09-26-2025, 11:20 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-27-2025, 02:06 AM by Ascendancy.
Edit Reason: Hyperlink
)
Carter entered like a prince striding into the midst of vagrants.
Not that they were without power. He wasn’t naive enough to think that. But even here, with their wolfish eyes and blood-soaked pedigrees, he was above them. Their wealth was transient, born of liquor, drugs, knives, and flesh. His was eternal. Generational. Written into the ledgers of nations that stretched centuries.
Tall and blonde, hair combed into the easy perfection that only old money could produce, he cut a figure as deliberate as his family’s centuries of design. His suit was deep blue, the fabric whispering its expense even in the dim light of the penthouse. He wore no ostentation because Volthström wealth didn’t need it. His very bearing was the luxury. His very existence was proof.
As Ryker’s flat introduction hung in the air, Carter offered a faint smile, nodding toward the soldier as though the man had merely fetched him into the room.
“Carter de Volthström,” he said aloud, his voice refined, each syllable dripping with English aristocracy.
“I know what you’re all thinking,” Carter began, his voice smooth, practiced. “What could one of my family possibly bring into this room that isn’t already in your grasp?” His smile deepened, just enough to show teeth. He provided no answer. Not yet.
He circled the table, positioning himself behind Zixin's chair like a shark smelling blood in the water. He spread his hands lightly, letting his grip rest naturally behind Zixin's shoulders. The perfect position that he might wring the filthy man's neck, but it was only for a moment before shifting away. He was absolutely above such things, symbolic or not.
“Whatever you believe wealth to be, set it aside. It is pocket change compared to what is about to unfold. The banking system of the future is not about vaults or gold. It is about control. Quiet control. And you,” he inclined his head, gracious, as though bestowing favor “are privileged enough to be the first among the elite to taste it.”
From his pocket, he drew a small velvet case, the kind that might have held jewels in another context. He set it on the walnut table and clicked it open. Inside, resting in neat compartments, lay a row of slim metallic Tiles shimmering with faint circuitry like art in miniature.
“These,” Carter said, “are the future. The Tile system. A mechanism of exchange and storage far beyond currency as you know it. Untraceable, incorruptible, and infinitely flexible. Each one is coded. Each one unique.” The manufacture of such technology was a secret kept to their family and the production line. Suffice to say, the raw materials were extremely important. When every person in the world possessed a Tile, those who provide such materials would be quite blessed indeed.
He took the first and slid it across the table toward Zixin, then another toward the Russians, then Adrian, then the Yakuza, continuing until every man in the room had one before him. Even the independents at the edges received theirs.
“None of you will know what is on the others’ Tiles. Unless you ask each other nicely,” Carter continued, his smile sharpening just enough to suggest he enjoyed the imagery of that. “Each is programmed. Consider it… a friendly competition. A seed of wealth planted in each of your hands, to be nurtured as you see fit. Even the least successful among you will be among the world's elite. Forever.. So long as the program remains coded as such."
"And who deigns to determine the code?" Someone asked. Carter knew not which of them it was. They all looked alike to him.
The Tiles gleamed in the light. "Our Ascendancy," he answered directly.
“But I am merely delivering these prizes. The Volthströms are but humble servants to the Custody. What I offer is opportunity. Play along, and you will find yourselves obscenely rich. Refuse…” His smile turned faintly pitying. “Well. Someday, refusal will not even be an option.”
He let the words settle, the aristocratic gravitas of them filling the space. Then he folded his hands atop the table, utterly at ease, and waited for the weight of his family’s legacy to do the work.
And yet, as his gaze drifted past Adrian, who sat too calmly, and Zixin, who deliberately didn’t meet his eye, Carter felt a pulse of nerves. Guillaume should have been here. Guillaume, the heir, the face of the family. Why not? Why send Carter instead? Was it the same old family game of egos, or something more? In the Volthström world, plans nested inside plans. He could never quite tell if he was the knife or the pawn it was driven through.
So he smiled brighter. Because the show must go on.
Not that they were without power. He wasn’t naive enough to think that. But even here, with their wolfish eyes and blood-soaked pedigrees, he was above them. Their wealth was transient, born of liquor, drugs, knives, and flesh. His was eternal. Generational. Written into the ledgers of nations that stretched centuries.
Tall and blonde, hair combed into the easy perfection that only old money could produce, he cut a figure as deliberate as his family’s centuries of design. His suit was deep blue, the fabric whispering its expense even in the dim light of the penthouse. He wore no ostentation because Volthström wealth didn’t need it. His very bearing was the luxury. His very existence was proof.
As Ryker’s flat introduction hung in the air, Carter offered a faint smile, nodding toward the soldier as though the man had merely fetched him into the room.
“Carter de Volthström,” he said aloud, his voice refined, each syllable dripping with English aristocracy.
“I know what you’re all thinking,” Carter began, his voice smooth, practiced. “What could one of my family possibly bring into this room that isn’t already in your grasp?” His smile deepened, just enough to show teeth. He provided no answer. Not yet.
He circled the table, positioning himself behind Zixin's chair like a shark smelling blood in the water. He spread his hands lightly, letting his grip rest naturally behind Zixin's shoulders. The perfect position that he might wring the filthy man's neck, but it was only for a moment before shifting away. He was absolutely above such things, symbolic or not.
“Whatever you believe wealth to be, set it aside. It is pocket change compared to what is about to unfold. The banking system of the future is not about vaults or gold. It is about control. Quiet control. And you,” he inclined his head, gracious, as though bestowing favor “are privileged enough to be the first among the elite to taste it.”
From his pocket, he drew a small velvet case, the kind that might have held jewels in another context. He set it on the walnut table and clicked it open. Inside, resting in neat compartments, lay a row of slim metallic Tiles shimmering with faint circuitry like art in miniature.
“These,” Carter said, “are the future. The Tile system. A mechanism of exchange and storage far beyond currency as you know it. Untraceable, incorruptible, and infinitely flexible. Each one is coded. Each one unique.” The manufacture of such technology was a secret kept to their family and the production line. Suffice to say, the raw materials were extremely important. When every person in the world possessed a Tile, those who provide such materials would be quite blessed indeed.
He took the first and slid it across the table toward Zixin, then another toward the Russians, then Adrian, then the Yakuza, continuing until every man in the room had one before him. Even the independents at the edges received theirs.
“None of you will know what is on the others’ Tiles. Unless you ask each other nicely,” Carter continued, his smile sharpening just enough to suggest he enjoyed the imagery of that. “Each is programmed. Consider it… a friendly competition. A seed of wealth planted in each of your hands, to be nurtured as you see fit. Even the least successful among you will be among the world's elite. Forever.. So long as the program remains coded as such."
"And who deigns to determine the code?" Someone asked. Carter knew not which of them it was. They all looked alike to him.
The Tiles gleamed in the light. "Our Ascendancy," he answered directly.
“But I am merely delivering these prizes. The Volthströms are but humble servants to the Custody. What I offer is opportunity. Play along, and you will find yourselves obscenely rich. Refuse…” His smile turned faintly pitying. “Well. Someday, refusal will not even be an option.”
He let the words settle, the aristocratic gravitas of them filling the space. Then he folded his hands atop the table, utterly at ease, and waited for the weight of his family’s legacy to do the work.
And yet, as his gaze drifted past Adrian, who sat too calmly, and Zixin, who deliberately didn’t meet his eye, Carter felt a pulse of nerves. Guillaume should have been here. Guillaume, the heir, the face of the family. Why not? Why send Carter instead? Was it the same old family game of egos, or something more? In the Volthström world, plans nested inside plans. He could never quite tell if he was the knife or the pawn it was driven through.
So he smiled brighter. Because the show must go on.