Frankelheim,
Gaian Forge—C.I.N.T.R.A.'s European headquarters.
The
van slowed as they approached. Allen pressed his face to the window.
His
stomach dropped.
The
facility wasn't a building. It was a fortress.
A
massive geodesic dome rose from the landscape like a titanium blister
- easily three hundred feet tall, maybe half a mile wide. Hexagonal
panels caught the dying sunlight, making the whole structure gleam
like an insect carapace. Surrounding it: three layers of electrified
fence, guard towers every fifty meters, and more cameras than Allen
could count.
It
looked less like a training centre and more like a supermax prison
embedded into a spaceship.
“Oh
God,” Allen whispered.
Senn
didn’t respond. Just stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
The
van passed the outer checkpoint. A guard in tactical gear - faceless
behind a black helmet - waved them through. His rifle was matte
black, sleek, definitely not standard military issue. Allen caught
the faint blue glow along its barrel.
Energy
weapon.
Another
checkpoint. More guards. Dogs - massive, muscular things that looked
more wolf than shepherd. One lifted its head as the van passed. Its
eyes glowed faintly red.
“What
the hell did they do to those dogs?”
“First
time seeing an augmented K9 unit?” Senn’s voice was flat.
Allen
tore his eyes away from the window. “Augmented?”
“Enhanced
senses. Enhanced aggression. Enhanced bite force.” A pause. “They
can smell inhumans from half a mile away. Sense when someone’s
using powers.”
“Relax,”
Senn muttered. “They’re trained to detect active powers. You’re
not glowing right now.”
Allen
swallowed hard. Looked back out the window.
They
were approaching the dome’s entrance now. Massive steel doors -
twenty feet tall, reinforced with layered composite armour. A kill box
stretched in front of it: open ground, nowhere to hide, sniper nests
visible on the dome’s exterior.
The
van stopped. The door hissed open. Allen could see the thickness as
they parted: three feet of solid metal.
This
place wasn’t built to keep people out.
It was built to keep
them in.
The
van pulled into an underground garage. Fluorescent lights flickered
on automatically. The ceiling was low - concrete reinforced with
steel mesh. No windows. No visible exits except the way they’d
come.
The
door slammed shut behind them with a sound like a vault sealing.
Senn
opened his door. “Out”
Allen’s
hands were shaking as he grabbed his bag. He climbed out slowly, legs
stiff from the ride.
The
garage was massive. Rows of identical black vans lined the walls.
Armed guards patrolled in pairs, boots echoing on polished concrete.
Every ten meters: another camera. Motion detectors blinked with red
lights in the corner, reading each signature.
They’re
watching everything.
Allen
pushed his jacket tighter. The recycled air was cold. It tasted
metallic.
Senn
started walking. Allen followed, bag slung over his shoulder. His
sneakers squeaked on the floor. Too loud. Everyone could hear him.
Ahead:
a security checkpoint. Not just a metal detector - a full-body
scanner, the kind you see at airports, but ten times more
sophisticated. Cylindrical chamber, reinforced glass, more sensors
than Allen could identify.
Four
guards stood at attention. All armed, watching Allen like he was a
live grenade.
One
stepped forward. Was older and built like a tank. His uniform had
more patches than the others. Some kind of insignia Allen didn’t
recognise.
“Bag,”
he said.
Allen
hesitated.
“Now.”
Allen
handed it over. The guard passed it to another soldier, who
immediately started rifling through it. Clothes hit the table. His
sketchbook. The photo of his dad.
“Careful
with that,” Allen said before he could stop himself.
The
guard glanced at him. No expression. Went back to searching.
Allen’s
jaw clenched. His fists tightened.
The
lead guard pointed at the scanner chamber. “Inside.”
Allen
looked at Senn. Senn’s face was unreadable.
“Do
I have a choice?” Allen muttered.
“No.”
Allen
stepped toward the chamber. His heart was hammering. The watch felt
heavy on his wrist - hidden under his sleeve, cool against his skin.
As
he approached, the chamber door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Red
light spilt out - scanning lasers already active.
Allen
stopped at the threshold.
On
his wrist, the watch vibrated. Once. Soft enough that only he felt
it.
Text
scrolled across the tiny display, barely visible under his sleeve:
ACTIVATING
STEALTH MODE - 18%
Come
on, come on…
“Move,”
the guard said.
Allen
stepped inside.
The
door sealed behind him with a thunk that made his stomach flip. He
was trapped in a glass cylinder barely wider than his shoulders. His
throat became heavy.
Red
light swept over him—head to toe, slow and methodical.
The
watch vibrated again.
ACTIVATING
STEALTH MODE – 58%
BYPASSING SECURITY PROTOCOLS - 33%
Outside
the chamber, the guards stared at a holographic display. Allen
couldn't see what they were seeing, but their faces were focused.
Intent.
One
frowned. Leaned closer to the screen.
Allen's
pulse spiked. His palms were sweating.
ACTIVATING
STEALTH MODE – 84%
BYPASSING SECURITY PROTOCOLS - 79%
The
lead guard's hand moved to his sidearm.
Allen's
breath caught.
STEALTH
MODE – ACTIVE
BYPASSING SECURITY – PARTIAL
MASKING
CIVILIAN DEVICE…
MASKING: SUCCESS
No.
No no no...
The
scanner beeped.
All
four guards tensed. Weapons half-drawn.
“Contact
on wrist,” one said, voice sharp. “Unidentified tech.”
The
chamber door slid open.
The
lead guard stepped forward, hand extended. “Left arm. Now.”
Allen's
heart was in his throat. His mind raced.
They
can’t take the watch...
Allen
stared at the watch for a minute, then raised his left arm.
The
guard grabbed his wrist — grip like iron — and yanked the sleeve
up.
The
watch gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The guard studied it.
Turned Allen's wrist. Checked the clasp.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Smart
watch,” he muttered. Then louder, to the others: “Personal tech.
Standard civilian model.”
Another
guard approached with a handheld scanner. Waved it over the watch.
Allen
held his breath.
The
scanner beeped. Green light.
THREAT
LEVEL: ZERO
The
guard with the scanner frowned. “Clean. No active signals. No
network connection. Just a clock.”
The
lead guard held Allen's gaze for a long moment.
Allen
forced himself to meet his eyes. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.
I'm
nobody. Just a scared kid. That's all you see.
Finally,
the guard released his wrist. “Empty your pockets.”
Allen
did. Phone, wallet, loose change. Set them on the tray.
The
guard picked up the phone. Powered it on. Scrolled through. Photos,
messages, nothing interesting. Handed it to another guard anyway.
“Confiscate.
He gets it back on release.”
“Release?”
Allen's voice cracked. “How long am I...”
“That's
not my department.” The guard gestured to the door beyond the
checkpoint. “Move.”
Allen
grabbed his bag—now half-empty, everything unnecessary
removed.
They'd taken his sketchbook. His dad's photo. His phone.
He
wanted to argue. Wanted to demand them back.
But
one look at the guards' faces told him it would be pointless.
Senn
was already walking. Allen followed, fists clenched, throat tight.
Behind
them, the checkpoint sealed with another heavy thunk.
No
going back now.
They
walked down a long corridor. Concrete walls, reinforced doors every
twenty feet. Each door had a keypad lock, a biometric scanner, and a
red light blinking above it.
“Where
are we going?” Allen asked. His voice echoed.
“Intake
processing,” Senn said without looking back. “Medical eval. Power
assessment. Dorm assignment.”
“For
how long?”
“Depends
on you.”
“That's
not an answer.”
Senn
stopped. Turned. His eyes were hard.
“You're
here until we decide you're not a threat. Could be weeks. Could be
months. Could be years.” He stepped closer. “So I suggest you
cooperate. Make this easy on yourself.”
Allen's
jaw tightened. “And if I don't?”
Senn
smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
“Then
we make it hard.”
He
turned and kept walking.
Allen
stood there for a moment, heart pounding, hands shaking.
The
corridor stretched ahead.
Behind
him: locked doors.
Ahead:
more locked doors.
****
“This
is the training floor.”
They
walked down a wide corridor—polished floors, walls lined with
reinforced glass panels. Through them, Allen could see into different
training rooms.
His
escort wasn't Senn.
The
guy looked twenties — buzzed hair, lean build, grey training sweats
with a C.I.N.T.R.A. patch on the chest. He walked with the kind of
easy confidence that came from knowing exactly where he belonged.
“Name's
Kade,” the guy said without looking back. “I'm supposed to show
you around. Try to keep up.”
Allen's
jaw tightened. “I'm seventeen, not seven.”
Kade
glanced over his shoulder. Smirked. “Could've fooled me.”
They
passed a cluster of recruits in the hallway—mixed ages, teens to
mid-twenties. All wearing the same grey sweats. All watching Allen
like he was a zoo exhibit.
One
girl—maybe sixteen, blonde, arms crossed—whispered something to
her friend. They both laughed.
Allen
looked down. Kept walking.
First day of school all over
again.
Except worse. Because I can't leave.
Kade
stopped at a wall of tempered glass. Gestured inside.
“Sparring
room. Hand-to-hand, close quarters. You'll spend a lot of time here.”
Allen
looked through the glass.
Inside:
two recruits locked in combat. A guy—early twenties, stocky—and a
girl—late teens, wiry and fast. They moved like professionals. No
hesitation. Every strike calculated.
The
girl ducked a punch, swept his legs, and pinned him in two seconds
flat.
A
man stood at the edge of the mat—older, military bearing. He barked
something Allen couldn't hear through the glass.
The
recruits reset. Went again.
The
instructor's eyes shifted. Met AAllenthrough the glass.
Allen's
stomach flipped. He looked away fast.
Don't stare. Don't make
yourself a target.
“That's
Instructor Cilas,” Kade said. “You'll meet him soon enough. Word
of advice? Don't piss him off. He's got a thing about new recruits
thinking they're special.”
Allen
swallowed. “Noted.”
They
kept moving.
Another
glass wall. Inside: an armoury. Rows of weapons—rifles, sidearms,
blades. But not normal ones. These glowed faintly along the barrels
and edges. Blue. Red. Green.
“Energy
weapons,” Kade said, like it was obvious. “Standard issue for
field agents. You won't touch those for months. Maybe longer, if they
don't trust you.”
If,
Allen thought.
They
passed another room. This one was massive—open space, target
dummies lined up at the far end. Three agents stood at a firing
range, testing rifles.
One
fired.
The
shot wasn't a bullet. It was a beam—bright, searing blue. It
punched through the dummy's chest and kept going, burning a hole
clean through the reinforced wall behind it.
The
dummy's torso exploded. Synthetic flesh and metal innards scattered
across the floor.
Allen
stopped. Stared.
“Plasma
rifles,” Kade said casually. “Tier 4 ordnance. Can drop an
Enhancer in one shot if you hit vitals.”
Allen's
hand went to his chest—where the stab wound had been. Where he'd
healed in seconds.
“Come
on,” Kade said. “We're not done.”
They
reached an elevator. Kade swiped a key card. The doors slid open.
Allen
stepped inside. The doors closed. His reflection stared back from the
polished steel—pale, hollow-eyed, younger than he felt.
You
look scared, he told himself.
Stop looking scared.
The
elevator descended. Fast. Allen's stomach lurched.
“Where
are we going?” he asked.
“Sub-level
three. Recruit quarters.”
“How
many levels are there?”
Kade
glanced at him. “You don't need to know that.”
The
elevator slowed. Stopped.
DING.
The
doors opened.
The
hallway was different here. Less sterile. Warmer lighting. Doors
lined both sides—numbered, evenly spaced.
And
recruits. Everywhere.
Some
were Allen's age. Some were older, early twenties, hardened, with scars
visible on their arms and faces. They leaned against the walls, talking
in low voices. Laughing. A few sparred in the open space near the
common area.
All
of them stopped when Allen walked past.
Whispers
followed him like a shadow.
“That's
him?”
“The golden vein kid?”
“He
doesn't look that dangerous.”
“Give it time.”
Allen
kept his head down. Fists clenched. His watch felt heavy under his
sleeve.
Kade pointed as they walked. “Cafeteria's down that
way. Open 0600 to 2200. Miss a meal, that's on you. Library's next to
it—technical manuals, mission reports, all the boring shit. And
over there — ”
He
gestured to a larger open space with couches and a holoscreen.
“—That's the common room. Rec time's 1900 to 2100. After that,
you're in your room. Lights out at 2200. No exceptions.”
“Sounds
like prison,” Allen muttered.
Kade
stopped. Turned. His expression was unreadable.
“It's
not prison. Its structure. You'll get used to it.”
“And
if I don't?”
Kade's
smile didn't reach his eyes. “Then you'll have a bad time.”
He
kept walking.
They
stopped at a door near the end of the hallway. Unmarked except for a
number: 317.
Kade
gestured to the control panel beside it. “This is yours. Biometric
lock. Palm prints and facial scan. No one gets in but you.”
Allen
stared at the panel. Black glass. Glowing red outline.
“Go
ahead,” Kade said. “Register.”
Allen
stepped forward. His hand hovered over the screen.
Once I do
this, it's real. I'm locked in. Part of this place.
He
pressed his right palm to the glass.
A
cold sensation rippled across his skin. The screen lit up green.
RIGHT
PALM VERIFIED.
He
placed his left hand.
LEFT
PALM VERIFIED.
“Now
your face.”
Allen
leaned close. A thin red line swept over him—chin to forehead and
back. It felt like static electricity crawling across his skin.
FACIAL
RECOGNITION COMPLETE.
ROOM 317 ASSIGNED TO: ALLEN COLD.
The
door slid open with a soft hiss.
Allen's
breath caught. He looked inside.
The
room was... nice.
Minimalist.
Clean. White walls, black accents. A bed against the far
wall—queen-size, not a cot. A desk with a high-end laptop already
open and charging. A closet. A small attached bathroom. Even a
window—though it didn't show the outside. Just a holographic
projection of a forest. Fake. But calming.
“Everything
you need is here,” Kade said from the doorway. “Clothes in the
closet. Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop's yours—restricted
access, obviously. Can't contact anyone outside. Can't access certain
files. But you can use it for research, training modules, whatever.”
Allen
stepped inside slowly. The door slid shut behind him before he could
turn around.
He
spun. Kade was gone.
The
door was seamless from the inside. No handle. Just smooth black
glass.
Allen's
pulse spiked. He pressed his palm to the glass.
It
didn't open.
Allen
stood in the centre of the room, fists clenched, breathing hard.
A
prison is still a prison, no matter how nicely dressed it is.
He
crossed to the bed. Sat down. The mattress was soft.
He
looked at his watch.
He
lay back, stared at the white, unmarked ceiling.
How long am I
going to be here?
Time
passed. He didn't know how much. There was no clock in the room
except his watch, and he didn't check it.
Eventually,
he sat up. Looked around.
The
laptop on the desk caught his eye.
He
walked over. Opened it.
The
screen lit up immediately. No password. Just a welcome screen:
WELCOME,
RECRUIT COLD.
ACCESS LEVEL: TIER 1 (PROVISIONAL)
A
list of available modules appeared:
Training schedules
Facility
map (limited)
Combat theory archives
Mission briefing
templates (historical)
He
closed the laptop.
His
eyes drifted back to his watch.
He
lifted his wrist. The screen was dark—but it vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Text
flickered across the display, so faint he almost missed it.
EXTRACTION
COMPLETE.
