The scandal hit Eden's networks like wildfire, igniting every corner of the empire with outrage, shock, and, as always, endless commentary. The Sacred 69—a council of the old guard, renowned for their staunch conservatism and fierce patriotism—had nearly combusted upon hearing the news. To them, the Dome Baby incident wasn't just a trivial lapse in judgment or a mishap—it was heresy. The idea that a foreign woman would exploit Eden's holy laws, established to honor the sanctity of life, was an affront to everything they stood for.
The first televised response came from the venerable Grand Vizier Absalom, the most outspoken of the Sacred 69. He stood in the Hall of Eternal Service, visibly shaking with rage. "This vile act," he declared, "is a direct assault on the divine order! To manipulate our sacred Pregnancy Act—our most treasured law—like some tawdry loophole is an insult to every citizen of Eden and our great leader, Saint Clara Lantrun." He pounded the lectern, sending ripples through the national broadcast. "The woman must be punished for her deceit! We will not stand by and let Eden's laws become a mockery!"
The rest of the council followed Absalom's lead. Their networked posts echoed the same sentiment, demanding immediate legal action against Tasa, the unfortunate girl caught in the scandal. Phrases like "moral decay," "outsider treachery," and "violation of Eden's purity" flooded newsfeeds. The Sacred 69 called for mass sermons in the temples of Saint Clara, urging Edenites to reaffirm their faith and denounce the dangerous "foreign influence" infiltrating their moral sanctity.
But as often happens in Eden, no outrage could go uncontested.
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A member of the new money elites—an ultra-feminist blogger named Karla Rhanis—posted a statement praising Tasa. "This girl," Karla wrote, "is the embodiment of feminist cunning. She took control of her own future in a system built to suppress her. If she wants a better life by trapping a soldier, good for her. She used the tools available—just like men have for centuries." The post went viral among Eden's young liberals, sparking a wave of applause and even some satirical memes.
Unfortunately for Karla, her message also reached the Sacred 69, where it was interpreted not as one woman's opinion but as the entire philosophy of the new money elites.
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The resulting fallout was inevitable. The Sacred 69 erupted in fury, convinced that the entire new money faction endorsed the betrayal of Eden's values. "They applaud this treachery?" Absalom snarled in a closed-door council session. "Do they believe deception is something to be celebrated now?" The council began to issue demands for public apologies and new legislation that would restrict the manipulation of Eden's laws.
Naturally, the new money elites refused to back down. They argued that punishing Tasa would send a dangerous message—that women had no right to secure their future. What began as an ideological clash quickly spiraled into a full-blown political crisis.
Meetings devolved into shouting matches. Bills were introduced, retracted, and reintroduced, each more ridiculous than the last—one proposal suggested tracking condoms to "preserve accountability." Petty revenge tactics followed, with both factions sabotaging each other's operations. The power vacuum left by Mark Lantrun's recent political purge had not yet been filled, and the tension threatened to collapse the administrative structure holding Eden together.
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In the middle of this chaos, the supreme leader, Mark Lantrun, grew increasingly furious. He expected better from his officials; Eden prided itself on being a model of efficiency. The in-fighting was causing logistical nightmares that even Indra, the hyper-powered AI responsible for managing market fluctuations and resource distribution, could not fully adapt to.
The cracks began to show. Bases and outposts scattered across Eden's empire found themselves cut off from vital supply chains. Fuel deliveries were missed, rations ran short, and the carefully calibrated network of operations began to sputter. The treasury had no choice but to mobilize vast reserves of funds to keep things from unraveling completely, flooding the economy with emergency capital to stabilize the crisis.
Merchants who thrived on Eden's usual precision rejoiced at the sudden influx of opportunity. They charged exorbitant prices for necessities—fuel, food, water—knowing that Edenites would pay whatever it took to maintain their way of life. The markets boomed with absurd inflation, and local profiteers declared it a "golden age of dysfunction."
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Amid the madness, Orin Lantrun, High Inquisitor of Eden, was having a spectacularly bad day. Sitting in his war room, he barked orders to his exhausted agents, who were already spread dangerously thin. "I want this scandal buried!" he snarled, slamming his fist onto the table. "Fix it, or you won't live to regret it!"
The Inquisitors, dressed in their sleek black uniforms, moved with mechanical precision, knowing that failure would mean more than just reprimands—it could mean disappearance. But the timing couldn't have been worse. A large contingent of the Inquisition was tied up in Londonium, dealing with a resurgence of an old one cult that had been stirring trouble for months. Between rooting out cultists and quelling the scandal, there simply weren't enough agents to go around.
Frustrated, Orin kicked over a chair and glared at the chaos unfolding across his screens. He could feel the Supreme Leader's fury looming over him like a storm cloud. Mark Lantrun rarely gave direct orders to the Inquisition—his disapproval was usually subtle, like a cold wind—but this time it was unmistakable. If Orin didn't get the situation under control fast, there would be consequences.
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To make matters worse, the Sacred 69 had now taken to the airwaves, demanding public executions for anyone involved in the scandal. Meanwhile, the new money elites, offended by the old guard's overreach, were launching counter-campaigns online, accusing the Sacred 69 of "moral fascism." Memes comparing Absalom to an angry goat circulated widely. The schism between the two factions widened by the hour.
Even Indra, the AI designed to monitor fluctuations and maintain Eden's balance, struggled to keep pace. The algorithm flagged supply disruptions, shortages, and skyrocketing prices as "unprecedented errors." Entire outposts along key trade routes became ghost towns overnight, cut off by the collapse of critical supply chains.
The treasury pumped even more gold into the failing system, throwing money at every logistical problem in the hope of buying time. It was like trying to plug a sinking ship with coins—the faster they patched one leak, the more sprang open.
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By the end of the week, Orin's Inquisitors had managed to contain the Dome Baby narrative—barely. The media cycle had shifted to other matters, but the damage had been done. The fractures in the administration were deep and wouldn't be easily repaired.
And Orin knew one thing for sure: This wasn't over. The Sacred 69 was emboldened, the new money elites were furious, and the Supreme Leader was watching with cold, calculating eyes. The Inquisitors would need to tread carefully in the days to come.
But for now, Orin let out a long, frustrated breath and slumped into his chair. Somewhere out there, in the black heart of the Dome or the swirling chaos of Londonium, something worse was brewing.
And he could only pray it wouldn't involve any more condoms.