"Eighteen," she repeated softly, her mind already processing the implications. Blacksite Division Eighteen was rumored to handle some of the most cutting-edge—and dangerous—projects in the entire CIA network. If Morty was telling the truth, that explained his access level and expertise.
"I've heard rumors about what goes on there," Reagan admitted, her voice dropping to almost conversational—another small victory for the Breeder Essence working beneath her awareness. "They say you handle things that make even our projects look tame."
"Some of those rumors are true," Morty said, his tone serious but not boastful. He let the mystery hang in the air. People like Reagan didn't respect bragging—they respected those who could keep secrets and handle pressure.
He shifted slightly, just enough for his arm to brush against hers accidentally—an intentional, gentle contact. The Breeder Essence warmed at the physical proximity.
*The subtle brush of Morty's arm against hers felt completely natural, yet somehow... electric.* She didn't pull back immediately—something about his presence was disconcerting, yet oddly comforting. Her fingers twitched on the desk, nearly reaching out to touch him back. She cleared her throat coldly. "Let's get back to the encryption, Smith."
Morty nodded, keeping his focus on the screen, but his Ultimate Mind was cataloging everything—how easily she'd recovered from the contact, the slight flush on her neck, the way her breathing had shifted. The Breeder Essence was working perfectly—slowly dismantling years of CIA conditioning, one controlled interaction at a time.
"Section Three-B," he said smoothly, scrolling down.
Reagan leaned forward, her eyes scanning the decrypted algorithms. The Breeder Essence made her more receptive to his voice—smooth, authoritative, yet calming.
"The quantum key distribution sequence..." she murmured, her finger tracing the screen near his hand. "It's not just unbreakable. It's predictive." She looked up at him, real interest breaking through.
"Predictive," Morty confirmed, keeping his tone casual. "The encryption anticipates attack vectors before they happen." He caught the slight widen in her eyes—Reagan Ridley, the most guarded woman in the CIA, showed a genuine reaction.
The Breeder Essence hummed. Her guard was still up, but she wasn't retreating now.
"Who developed this?" Reagan asked, her voice sharp but curious—the tone of a woman who recognized something revolutionary. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, wanting to run tests, to verify, to understand.
"Internal Division Eighteen project," Morty replied smoothly, leaning back slightly. "Classified. I'm authorized to share the findings with you, Ms. Ridley."
Her gaze flicked up to his, searching for any hint of deception. Finding none, she bit her lip, processing the implications. An encryption this advanced could change the game, give the CIA an unbreakable advantage. And he was sharing it with her, no strings attached. At least, not yet.
"Why me?" Reagan asked flatly, her suspicion returning. "There are dozen of senior researchers with higher clearance than you. Why send this to my desk?" The Breeder Essence pushed against her wariness—making her curious instead of purely defensive. Her hand moved unconsciously closer to the clipboard.
Morty didn't miss the slip. He'd already analyzed her psychological profile.
"Because," Morty said calmly, holding her gaze, "you're the only one who'll actually understand and appreciate the complexity without getting caught up in political maneuvering." He paused, letting the implication sink in—he saw through her, past her CIA mask. "And..."
"And?" Reagan prompted, her defenses lowering slightly. Flattery wouldn't work on her, but recognition of her intellectual abilities always did. The Breeder Essence made her more receptive to genuine respect.
"And you're the only one here who might actually use it for something worthwhile," Morty finished, his voice dropping slightly. His eyes held hers—no flirtation, no hidden agenda in his expression. Just blunt, uncomplicated honesty.
For once, the Ultimate Mind was completely aligned with the moment.
Reagan's breath caught—barely noticeable.
She blinked, her professional mask momentarily faltering. For a split second, Reagan Ridley—the most guarded, cynical, and emotionally detached woman in the CIA—looked almost... seen.
"Don't," she said sharply, recovering quickly. Her voice was cold again, but the tips of her fingers still twitched on the desk.
Morty didn't push—he knew that "don't" was a defense mechanism, not a rejection. The Breeder Essence had done its job: she felt understood, which terrified someone who had spent years ensuring no one could get close. He turned back to the screen, giving her space to recover.
"Section Four," he said simply, scrolling down.
Reagan leaned back, her expression turning cold—the professional mask firmly back in place. "Just a data dump, Morty," she dismissed sharply, avoiding any deeper conversation. "I'll review and get back to you if anything seems useful." Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up other files to ignore his encryption report.
Morty nodded, respecting the boundary. But his Ultimate Mind noted everything—the way she dismissed the connection, the tightness in her shoulders, the way she buried herself in work. The Breeder Essence hummed softly. He knew this wasn't rejection—it was a reflex. Someone who had been trained by a manipulative father to never trust, never be vulnerable, never let anyone close.
"I'll send the decryption keys over to your secure server," Morty said calmly, standing up and gathering his things. As he walked past her desk, he let his briefcase brush lightly against her arm—a subtle, almost imperceptible touch. Just enough to activate the Breeder Essence implant in his possession.
Reagan's fingers froze on the keyboard. The slight brush of fabric against her arm sent an unfamiliar sensation through her. Not a caress—her body wouldn't allow that. Something else entirely. Something that made her skin tingle.
She stared at her screen, jaw clenching tightly.
"Send them," she said coldly, not looking up.
Morty's Ultimate Mind processed her response—cold, dismissive, but without the razor-sharp hostility someone truly rejecting him would use. The Breeder Essence had planted the first seed. Now he had to nurture it without making her feel trapped.
"I'll be in the lab if you need anything on the encryption," he said over his shoulder, letting himself out.
The door clicked shut. Reagan remained frozen for a long moment, staring at her blank screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. Finally, she typed out a brief message to Brett, her closest ally in the CIA.
"Hey Reed!" Brett's cheerful voice crackled through her headset, a stark contrast to the heavy silence in her office. She couldn't stand how easily he navigated social connections—the man was the CIA's golden retriever.
"Got some crazy decryption data in Section Four. Need your eyes on it." She clicked 'enter', sending the file over.
"On it, boss!" Brett replied instantly, probably already opening the file with that eager-to-please energy he had. She rolled her eyes at the nickname. Brett had been paired with her to balance out her anti-social tendencies—management's attempt to make her more 'collaborative.' She hated it. Brett was too... friendly. Too nice. Always seeking approval.
Meanwhile, Morty sat in the lab, his Ultimate Mind analyzing Reagan's behavior patterns. The Breeder Essence implant was working—she hadn't dismissed him outright. Instead, she'd sought out Brett for help with the encryption data.
On the other hand, Reagan couldn't shake the feeling of Morty's arm brushing against hers. It was irrational—she didn't care about some Division Eighteen transfer. Her father had taught her better—never trust anyone, especially not someone with classified access.
Brett's window popped up. "Reagan! This encryption is INSANE. Like, what the actual hell?"
Morty was adjusting a circuit board when the door slid open. He didn't need to look up to recognize her approach—the sharp, controlled footsteps, the subtle shift in atmosphere. Reagan Ridley, the most guarded woman in the CIA, standing in his lab less than an hour after dismissing him.
"The predictive encryption," she said without preamble, dropping the file onto his desk.
Morty looked up, his Ultimate Mind immediately reading her expression—neutral, controlled, but there was something slightly off about the composure. She wasn't angry, not entirely. She'd come to him, not Brett.
"Is there a problem with it?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral. The Breeder Essence hummed beneath his skin.
"No problem."
"Then why are you here?" His question was blunt—too blunt for someone who'd just been dismissed coldly. But Reagan Ridley didn't do social graces, and Brett Hand had been the one she usually went to for collaborations. Not him.
The Ultimate Mind cataloged her reaction—none. No flustered denial, no irritation. Just... nothing.
Morty's Ultimate Mind processed her reaction—no rejection, no anger. Just a cold, distant silence. He knew what he was doing—testing the Breeder Essence, pushing boundaries. He decided to make a bold move—something completely outside the scope of their professional relationship.
"Come to dinner with me tonight."The lab fell silent. Morty watched her closely, his Ultimate Mind waiting for her response. He knew she was desperate for male attention—her father had kept her isolated, and the few boyfriends she'd had were always pushed away for security reasons. She was lonely, whether she admitted it or not.
"Why?" She asked simply, her expression unchanged. But her eyes flickered slightly—interest, perhaps? Or was it just suspicion? The Breeder Essence was working, softening her defenses, making her consider something she'd normally dismiss outright. Dinner with a subordinate? Unheard of.
"Because we both have to eat," he said casually, as if asking a colleague to grab lunch. "And I found this place near the base that has amazing curry. No pressure, just food." The Ultimate Mind calculated—the casual invitation, the focus on food rather than romance.
Her mind raced. Dinner. With him. The man who just handed her revolutionary encryption data. The man she'd dismissed coldly less than an hour ago. And he was asking her out—casual, no strings attached.
Morty's Breeder Essence screamed at her to say yes. She hadn't been on a proper date in years. "I don't date subordinates," she said automatically, the words falling from her lips like a well-rehearsed script. Her father's voice. "It's a conflict of interest." But she didn't walk away. She didn't even sound convincing—just... tired of repeating the same excuse.
Morty leaned back in his chair. "We're not dating, Reagan."
"Just dinner. No expectations, no strings. I promise." His voice was low, almost hypnotic—thanks to the Breeder Essence. He saw her defenses crumbling slightly. She needed this—needed normalcy after years of isolation and control.
She bit her lip, a small, almost imperceptible sign of indecision. Morty's Ultimate Mind noted it—he had her. The Breeder Essence was working perfectly. "Fine," she said abruptly, as if making a business decision. "Dinner. Tonight."