Chapter 205: 205 VoltCore Complications

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205: VoltCore Complications 205: VoltCore Complications Mishka had forgotten about work until her phone rang at seven-thirty Monday morning with Angus’s gruff voice cutting through her coordination calls with incoming volunteers.

“Morrison, where the hell are you?

We’ve got the Henderson account presentation at nine, and you’re the lead engineer on the sensor array specs.

Sarah’s been covering for you, but the client specifically requested you be there.”

Mishka closed her eyes, mentally cataloguing the chaos of the past week.

In her previous life—the one before supernatural trafficking conspiracies and mind-control weapons—the Henderson account would have been the most important thing on her calendar.

Now it felt surreal that VoltCore Technologies was still operating, still expecting her to present sensor schematics while she was planning to conduct a supernatural counter-demonstration against international conspirators.

“Angus, I—” she started, then stopped.

What could she possibly say?

*Sorry, I’ve been busy preparing to fight a two-hundred-year-old conspiracy to enslave every supernatural being on the planet?*

“You sound exhausted,” Angus said, his tone softening from boss to concerned father figure.

“Look, Morrison, whatever’s going on in your personal life, I get it.

But you’ve been reliable for three years.

If you need to call in sick, just say so.

I’ll reschedule with the clients.”

Through her kitchen window, Mishka could see volunteers beginning to arrive at Eldergrove—the first wave of supernatural beings responding to the call for help.

Julian’s security team was processing them through the gates, running background checks while trying to identify potential infiltrators.

She needed to be there, coordinating, screening, planning.

But she also needed her job.

Needed the normalcy it represented.

Needed the reminder that there was still a world beyond supernatural crisis management.

“I’ll be there,” she said, making a decision she wasn’t sure was wise.

“Give me an hour.”

“Make it ninety minutes,” Angus replied.

“And Morrison?

Bring coffee.

Strong coffee.

You sound like you need it.”

Bruce found her frantically organizing presentation files while simultaneously texting Duncan about infiltration protocols.

His fashion designer’s eye immediately catalogued her stress—the way her hands trembled slightly, the tension in her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

“You’re going to work,” he said, not quite a question.

“I have to maintain some semblance of normal life,” Mishka replied, pulling professional clothing from her closet with one hand while typing security protocols with the other.

“If I disappear completely, VoltCore will start asking questions.

And the last thing we need is corporate HR investigating why their lead engineer is suddenly coordinating with international supernatural communities.”

“Let me come with you,” Bruce offered.

“I can work remotely from VoltCore’s lobby, be there if something happens—”

“You need to be here helping Julian screen volunteers,” Mishka interrupted gently.

“Your werewolf instincts can detect deception better than any magical scan.

I’ll be fine.

It’s just a client presentation.”

But as she drove through Toronto’s morning traffic toward VoltCore’s downtown office building, Mishka couldn’t shake the feeling that she was making a mistake.

The city looked so normal—commuters heading to work, students walking to classes, the mundane rhythm of human life continuing oblivious to the supernatural crisis building toward catastrophe.

Part of her wanted to stop random pedestrians and warn them.

*In four days, everything you know might change.

There’s a conspiracy to enslave supernatural beings, and if it succeeds, you won’t even know your neighbors are being controlled.*

But she couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

The whole point of fighting The Collector was to preserve the possibility of integration—supernatural and human coexistence built on choice rather than control.

Causing mass panic would only play into his narrative that supernatural beings were threats to be contained.

VoltCore Technologies occupied floors twelve through seventeen of a glass and steel tower that gleamed in the morning sun.

Mishka had always loved this building—the way natural light filled the open-concept offices, the collaborative workspaces designed to encourage innovation, the sense that good engineering could solve any problem.

Now, as she rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, she felt the disconnect between her two worlds more acutely than ever.

These people designed sensors and circuit boards.

She coordinated supernatural choirs and counter-intelligence operations against ancient evil conspiracies.

Sarah intercepted her the moment she stepped off the elevator.

Her colleague and friend looked professionally polished as always—blazer perfectly pressed, ponytail precisely positioned, tablet clutched like a shield—but her eyes were concerned.

“Oh thank God,” Sarah said, steering Mishka toward the conference room.

“The Henderson people—wait, different Hendersons than your neighbors, right?—anyway, they’ve been here since eight-thirty going over the prototype specs.

Tim’s been demonstrating the sensor array, but they keep asking technical questions that only you can answer.

Where have you been?”

“Family emergency,” Mishka said, which wasn’t technically a lie.

“Is the presentation ready?”

“Ready and waiting for you to actually present it,” Sarah replied, then lowered her voice.

“Mishka, are you okay?

You look like you haven’t slept in days.

And there’s something…

different about you.

I can’t explain it, but you seem—”

“Stressed?” Mishka supplied.

“Dangerous,” Sarah finished, surprising her.

“Like you’re constantly calculating exit routes and threat assessments.

It’s unnerving.”

Before Mishka could respond, Tim emerged from the conference room looking relieved.

“There she is!

Mishka, thank God.

These clients are very…

particular about details.

Angus has been stalling, but we really need your expertise.”

The presentation should have been routine.

Mishka had delivered dozens like it—explaining sensor array architecture, demonstrating prototype functionality, answering technical questions about signal processing and noise reduction.

Her engineering mind could handle this complexity while simultaneously thinking about Siren choir harmonics and infiltration screening protocols.

Except one of the clients kept staring at her with an intensity that made her supernatural instincts prickle with warning.

He was in his forties, professionally dressed, with the demeanor of someone used to corporate negotiations.

Nothing obviously suspicious.

But something about the way his eyes tracked her movements, the slight tilt of his head when she spoke, the subtle tension in his posture—it reminded her uncomfortably of how predators watched potential prey.

“Ms.

Morrison,” he said when she finished explaining the noise reduction algorithms, “your sensor design is quite sophisticated.

The frequency range you’ve specified is unusually broad.

What applications are you anticipating?”

“Standard industrial monitoring,” Mishka replied smoothly, though her Siren instincts were screaming that this question wasn’t standard at all.

“Environmental sensing, structural integrity assessment, that sort of thing.”

“Interesting,” the man—his nameplate identified him as Richard Blackwell—replied.

“Because these specifications would also be quite effective for detecting…

unusual acoustic phenomena.

Sounds outside normal human hearing range, for instance.”

The room fell silent.

Angus looked confused.

Sarah frowned at her tablet.

Tim adjusted his glasses nervously.

And Mishka felt ice water run down her spine as she realized what Blackwell was actually asking.

The sensor array they’d designed could theoretically detect supernatural vocalizations—Siren harmonics, werewolf communications, magical incantations that operated on frequencies humans couldn’t hear.

VoltCore had designed it for industrial applications, but in the wrong hands…

“Mr.

Blackwell,” she said carefully, “are you asking if our sensors could be modified for surveillance applications?

Because VoltCore’s contracts specifically prohibit use of our technology for unauthorized monitoring—”

“Oh, nothing unauthorized,” Blackwell interrupted smoothly.

“Simply academic curiosity about the sensor’s capabilities.

My organization is interested in comprehensive environmental monitoring.

All frequencies.

All phenomena.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“We’re prepared to offer a very generous contract for exclusive access to your technology.

Angus’s expression shifted from confusion to shrewd business interest.

“Mr.

Blackwell, if you’re proposing a modification to our standard contract terms, we’ll need to discuss specifics with our legal team—”

“Actually,” Mishka interrupted, her mind racing, “I’d like to understand your organization’s specific monitoring needs first.

Environmental sensors are only useful if they’re properly calibrated for the target phenomena.

What exactly are you hoping to detect?”

Blackwell’s eyes gleamed with something that looked almost like approval.

“Let’s say we’re interested in monitoring population movements that traditional methods miss.

Tracking individuals who might not register on conventional surveillance.”

Supernatural beings.

He was asking for technology to track supernatural beings.

Mishka’s phone buzzed with a text from Duncan: *Financial trace revealed Collector has shell company buying surveillance tech.

Watch for approaches.*

Too late, she thought grimly.

The approach had already happened.

“I think,” Mishka said slowly, choosing her words with extreme care, “that kind of specialized monitoring would require significant modifications to our core architecture.

Modifications that would take weeks to design and implement.

We certainly couldn’t have anything ready by—” she paused deliberately, “—say, the end of this week.”

Blackwell’s expression flickered with something—frustration?

recognition?—before settling back into professional neutrality.

“That’s unfortunate.

My organization was hoping to deploy test equipment by Friday.”

Friday.

Of course it was Friday.

“Perhaps,” Mishka continued, her Siren voice unconsciously adding subtle harmonics of misdirection, “you could share more details about your intended deployment?

Environmental conditions, target frequencies, range requirements?

With better specifications, we might be able to accelerate development.”

What she was really asking was: *How much does The Collector know about our plans?

What is he preparing to counter?*

Blackwell smiled, and this time it was predatory.

“I’m afraid those details are proprietary.

But Ms.

Morrison, I’ve heard remarkable things about your work.

Your approach to frequency analysis is particularly…

notable.

Some might even say it has applications beyond traditional engineering.”

The threat was subtle but unmistakable.

He knew.

Not just that VoltCore’s sensors could track supernatural beings—but that Mishka herself was one of those beings.

Sarah, bless her observant nature, must have sensed the tension because she suddenly spoke up: “Gentlemen, I think we need to take this discussion to our executive team.

Mr.

Blackwell, would you be available for a follow-up meeting tomorrow?

That would give our legal and technical teams time to review your proposal properly.”

“Tomorrow won’t work,” Blackwell said flatly.

“We need decisions today.

In fact, Ms.

Morrison, perhaps you and I could discuss the technical details over lunch?

I suspect we’d have a very productive conversation.”

Absolutely not, Mishka thought.

Getting isolated with someone connected to The Collector’s network was exactly the kind of trap she needed to avoid.

“I’m afraid my schedule is fully booked,” she said.

“But I’d be happy to arrange a conference call with our technical team this afternoon—”

Her phone rang.

Director Chen’s number.

Not a call she could ignore.

“Excuse me,” Mishka said, stepping out of the conference room.

“I need to take this.”

Director Chen’s voice was tense: “Mishka, we have a problem.

One of the volunteer screening teams just identified someone with a concealed device designed to disrupt Siren frequencies.

They’re claiming it’s a hearing aid, but our specialists confirmed it’s a weapon.

We’re questioning them now, but—”

“But if they have one, there are probably others,” Mishka finished.

“The Collector’s already embedding people in our volunteer groups.”

“Worse.

The device was designed specifically for your vocal signature.

Someone’s been studying recordings of your voice and building counters tailored to your specific frequencies.”

Mishka leaned against the hallway wall, feeling the weight of targeted assassination attempts.

“How many could there be?”

“Unknown.

But Mishka—the device we found has VoltCore Technologies serial numbers on its components.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

“What?”

“Your own company’s technology is being used to build weapons targeting you.

Either someone’s stealing your designs, or someone at VoltCore is actively cooperating with The Collector.”

Through the conference room’s glass walls, Mishka could see Blackwell talking animatedly with Angus, probably negotiating contract terms.

Sarah was taking notes, looking uncomfortable.

Tim was demonstrating the sensor prototype, oblivious to the underlying threat.

One of them might be working for The Collector.

Or all of them.

Or none of them, and the leak was coming from somewhere else in the building.

“I need to get out of here,” Mishka said quietly.

“If VoltCore’s compromised—”

“Don’t run,” Director Chen interrupted.

“Running confirms you know something.

Act normal.

Finish your presentation.

But don’t let Blackwell isolate you, and don’t share any technical details that could be used against supernatural beings.”

“Too late,” Mishka replied.

“He already knows the sensor specs.

And I think he knows what I am.”