Secret Society – Episode 016: Whispers of the Whisperer, Part 1

 

Secret Society – Episode 016: Whispers of the Whisperer, Part 1

A new voice stirs in the shadows of the North Pole.
Glimmer Byte’s search for the truth uncovers whispers of a forbidden project buried beneath the ice.
But the deeper she digs into Erasmus… the more the darkness begins to whisper back.

Scene: A small street café in downtown Toronto. October 14 — the day after Thanksgiving.
The weather is shockingly mild for fall — golden leaves swirl lazily in the air, the sunlight glinting off café windows, casting long, warm streaks across the patio tables. The chatter of brunch-goers mixes with the distant rumble of streetcars. A jazz cover of “Silver Bells” hums from the café’s speakers, somehow too early and too nostalgic at once.

At a corner table sits Dave “The Brute” Kent — his trademark scowl softened by the rare peace of the day.
He wears aviator sunglasses and a grey hoodie under a vintage NPCW jacket, sipping a steaming mocha and picking at a cranberry scone. A folded newspaper — the Toronto Star, sports section open to a small NPCW column — sits beside his phone.

Dave leans back, enjoying the warmth.

Dave (thinking aloud):
“Sun on my face, no frostbite, no screaming fans… and no Brick Brody running his mouth. Guess miracles happen the day after Thanksgiving.”

He chuckles dryly, takes another sip. His phone buzzes — a notification from NPCW’s internal feed.
A headline reads:
“North Pole Arena renovations continue — merger with Scrooge’s Glacier Plex ahead of schedule.”

Dave exhales, muttering to himself.
Dave: “Great. A Christmas wrestling empire run by a corporate Scrooge. What could possibly go wrong?”

He scrolls further, his brow furrowing as another thought crosses his mind — the Bunker broadcast from Halifax, the verbal brawl with Brick Brody that ended with a challenge.
Dave (muttering): “I should’ve kept my mouth shut. If Byte was still producing, she’d’ve cut the feed before I opened it…”

As if summoned by the memory, a voice cuts through the café noise — smooth, sharp, and unmistakably sardonic.

Glimmer Byte (off-screen):
“Well, Brute, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this time. The last guy who tried to work himself into a shoot with Brick Brody retired with three black eyes and an ice pack named Regret.”

Dave looks up, startled — then breaks into a wide grin.

Dave: “Byte?! You gotta be kidding me. What are you doing here, elf? Thought you were still on the Naughty List after that last Chill Factor ‘data mishap.’”

Glimmer Byte slides into the chair opposite him — compact, neon-streaked hair glinting in the sun. Her hoodie is black with silver circuit patterns that shimmer faintly as she moves. A peppermint stick hangs from the corner of her mouth like a cigarette, and her glowing headphones rest around her neck.

Glimmer (deadpan):
“After watching you talk yourself into a match with a man who wrestled like a runaway snowplow, I figured I’d fly south just to see if you’d already dug your own grave. Maybe I could help you make it deeper. For symmetry.”

Dave (laughs):
“Ha! Always the morale booster. You still working for NPCW even though the released the Chill factor production staff?”

Glimmer:
“Define working for..”

They both laugh — a rare, warm exchange between two people who’ve seen too many strange things to trust the quiet.

Glimmer leans forward, her tone shifting.
Glimmer: “Truthfully, Dave… I wanted to catch you before you head down to HCW. It’s about Chill Factor. The production changes. Something’s not right.”

Dave’s smirk fades.
Dave: “You mean that black-budget truck again? The one we spotted at the North Pole? I saw it parked behind the Halifax arena last weekend. Same unmarked guards, same frozen stares.”

Glimmer:
“Yeah. It’s followed the crew everywhere. And now, with the North Pole renovations, no one — and I mean no one — is allowed near the old arena. But I got my hands on something.”

She slides a tablet across the table and taps the screen. Blueprints unfold in holographic light — layered schematics of the North Pole Arena, with highlighted sections labeled “Integration Phase – Glacier Plex.”

Glimmer:
“These are the official blueprints for the renovation. They’re building a whole new production area — state-of-the-art, quantum-synced, AI-assisted. Twice as big as before.”

Dave (squinting):
“Looks like a tech geek’s dream and a privacy nightmare. But what am I missing?”

Glimmer:
“Wait for it.”

She splits the screen — one side shows the blueprint, the other shows photos she took inside the arena.
She begins counting softly, pointing at each door in the picture, then comparing it to the plan.

Glimmer:
“See these? One, two, three, four… but the blueprint only has three. That fourth door doesn’t exist — not officially.”

Dave frowns.
Dave: “So, what’s behind Door Number Four?”

Glimmer:
“I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse before security showed up — cables thicker than my arm, lights pulsing in some kind of pattern, and this hum… low, like the sound between radio stations. Whatever’s in there, it’s not for editing wrestling promos.”

Dave sits back, rubbing his chin.
Dave: “Glimmer, you’ve gotta be careful. You’re poking at something that clearly doesn’t want to be found.”

Before she can respond, a young mother with long brown hair strolls by pushing a stroller. The baby is crying softly. She offers a distracted smile as she passes and settles a few tables away.

Glimmer: “Anyway, look at this.”

She presses play on her tablet — footage from Dave’s Bunker interview with Brick Brody. Dave watches himself on-screen, trading barbs with Brody.

Dave (grinning): “What am I supposed to see, other than a handsome devil who’s clearly going to regret his life choices?”

Glimmer: “Cute. But I’m not showing you your ego — I’m showing you what’s missing.”

She fast-forwards, then replays a section in slow motion. There’s a flicker — almost imperceptible. A frame drop.

Dave: “Wait. What was that?”

Glimmer: “Exactly. Less than a second of data, gone. Scrubbed clean. I ran diagnostics — this isn’t compression or lag. It’s surgical. Something or someone edited the live broadcast in real-time. That requires hardware beyond top-tier. Like… black project level.”

Dave: “So we don’t know what actually happened in that moment.”

Glimmer: “Not unless we get into that hidden room. Whatever they’re doing, it’s tied to those gaps. Those whispers in the signal.”

Dave looks at the paused image — his own frozen expression mid-sentence. A chill creeps into the warmth of the afternoon.

Dave: “Alright. I know some people. Folks who might be able to dig deeper without ending up in a snowbank. But first, I’ve got to handle this HCW thing. I’ll be back north next week. You go dark. Stay safe.”

Glimmer (nodding):
“Got it. You go get your butt kicked in HCW; I’ll keep my circuits clean.”

They exchange a smirk. Dave tosses some bills on the table, grabs his jacket, and walks off down the street, the sun glinting off his NPCW patch.

Glimmer lingers, sucking on her peppermint stick, watching him disappear into the crowd.

The young mother passes by again, maneuvering the stroller. This time, the wheel catches on a cobblestone — her bag spills to the ground.

Glimmer: “Here, let me help.”

She bends down, gathering pacifiers and a bottle while the woman thanks her hurriedly. As Glimmer’s head is turned, the woman’s hand subtly waves a small black box over the tablet on the table. A faint click sounds — inaudible over the café chatter.

Glimmer finishes helping, hands the woman her things.
Mother (softly): “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

Glimmer (shrugs): “Don’t tell Santa. He still thinks I bite.”

The woman smiles faintly and walks away, disappearing into the bustle of the street.

Glimmer sits back, finishing her espresso. Then — she notices it.
A tiny red blinking light on the corner of her tablet.

She frowns.
Glimmer (quietly): “Well, someone’s been naughty.”

She taps the screen and inputs a code sequence. The interface shifts to a hidden diagnostic layer — dark mode with glowing sigils of green code.

A message appears:
“Unauthorized Copying Detected. Protocol Six Enacted. Data Protected. Cloning Prevented.”

Glimmer smirks, tapping the peppermint stick against her teeth.
Glimmer: “Nice try, sweetheart. But Byte bites back.”

Her smirk fades as she looks up — scanning the street. The mother is gone. The stroller is gone. The air feels heavier, like static before a storm.

Glimmer packs her tablet into her bag, stands, and walks off toward the subway — her reflection flickering briefly in the café window as though the light itself is glitching.

As she turns the corner, the café’s Wi-Fi router light begins blinking erratically — faint whispers of distorted audio leaking through the café speakers for a moment, then cutting off.

FADE OUT.

Epilogue 1

Scene: Trinity Bellwoods Park, Toronto — early afternoon.
The last warmth of October sunlight filters through thinning trees, casting gold-and-amber dapples across the winding paths. A faint breeze scatters fallen leaves that crunch beneath quiet footsteps. In the distance, children’s laughter mingles with the metallic strum of a busker’s guitar, but here — down a side path — it’s calm. Too calm.

The woman with the stroller turns off the main trail and rolls into a more secluded stretch of the park, where the trees grow dense and the city hum fades into silence. Her smile has vanished. Her posture changes — straight, purposeful, military.

She glances over her shoulder once, confirming no one is near. The stroller’s wheels creak softly as she stops beside a bench dappled with sunlight.

After a beat, she exhales and leans over the stroller.
The “baby” — a bundle of soft blankets and synthetic skin — stirs faintly. The sound is too perfect, too rhythmic. She brushes her hand over its head, pressing a nearly invisible button beneath the left ear.

The faint mechanical hum fades. The “baby’s” eyes close. The disguise powers down — its silicone chest stills, a small red diode near its neck winking out.
Beneath the surface, metal glints for just a second.

She pulls her hand back, cold and steady.

Woman (softly):
“Sleep mode engaged.”

Her demeanor shifts again — from concerned mother to something colder, efficient. She reaches into her coat and retrieves a burner phone, matte black and scuffed, with no logos or identifiers. The screen glows a pale green as she presses a speed dial code.

Click. Static. Then—
A distorted male voice answers.
Voice (filtered): “Authorization.”

Woman (even tone):
“Agent Alpha–Omega–Six–Two. Reporting on subjects Kent and Byte.”

A pause. Wind rustles through the trees. The voice crackles faintly.
Voice: “Proceed.”

Agent (continuing):
“Subjects met in open café environment. Byte presented digital materials to Kent — visuals consistent with NPCW Chill Factor archives. Audio incomplete due to environmental interference, but analysis confirms topic related to production anomalies. Attempted full data replication successful. Uploading cloned image now.”

She taps a command on her phone — a faint hum as a pulse of encrypted data transfers from a hidden transceiver in her jacket to the unseen network.

Agent (after a brief pause):
“However… the retrieved data appears non-sensitive. Historical footage only. It appears Project Whisper remains uncompromised. Recommend continued passive surveillance. Subjects unaware of tail.”

A brief silence follows. Only the soft whine of cicadas and a distant barking dog fill the air.
Then — the filtered voice again:

Voice: “Understood. Maintain cover. Await new directive.”

Agent: “Acknowledged.”

The call ends.

Without hesitation, the woman snaps the phone in half. Sparks flicker once. She tosses the broken remains into a nearby trash bin, her face expressionless.

She adjusts her coat, then leans down and gently straightens the stroller’s blanket — re-covering the inert android — and pushes forward down the path. Her posture returns to that of a weary mother, tired but loving, blending back into the human rhythm of the park.

A jogger passes her. A dog trots by. No one looks twice.

But once she disappears around a curve — a shadow stirs in the thicket near the trash bin.

From the dense foliage, a homeless man emerges — gaunt, wrapped in layers of tattered fabric. His beard is wild, his eyes alert beneath the grime. He glances in the direction the woman left, then turns to the trash bin.

Without hesitation, he reaches inside and retrieves the broken phone, handling it with care, almost reverence. He studies the cracked surface, thumb brushing over the fractured casing.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiles — not the smile of madness, but of understanding.
Something in his eyes sharpens, a glint of recognition.

He slips the phone into his threadbare coat pocket and straightens up, posture subtly shifting from hunched vagrant to silent operative.

Homeless Man (quietly, to himself): “Well now… looks like the game’s back on.”

The wind stirs again, scattering a swirl of golden leaves across the path as he steps out of the shadows, following the faint sound of stroller wheels in the distance.

FADE OUT.
END EPILOGUE.