Aetherion

A hidden compound shrouded in steam and secrecy. Within its labyrinthine halls, a masked figure stands confidently beside a control panel, his gaze fixed on the blinking monitors that display crucial information. This figure, known only as A, exudes an air of authority as he addresses B,

"Are we on track, B?" A asked, his eyes searching for reassurance.

"Yes, A," B responds calmly, his voice steady. "The subjects are being implanted as planned. The others are currently in a dream state of their old world. We will soon be ready for the trials."

"And how many do you think will succeed from this batch?" A asked.

B's eyes narrowed. "Time alone knows the answer to that question. A. Success is not entirely within our grasp."

A's expression darkens. "I want certainty, B. Results are crucial for our operation. Failure is not an option."

B meets A's gaze firmly, his tone unwavering but laced with defiance. "We have minimized variables and improved our methods. Yet, some elements remain beyond our control.

A nods, his eyes scanning a list of thirty names displayed on the monitor in front of him. "I guess we will find out who is number one," he says, clasping his hands together.

As the conversation comes to an end, the scene shifts to an operating room within the compound. A man lies unconscious on an imposing table, his limbs tightly held down by restraints that leave red marks on his skin.

The flickering light above cast eerie shadows on the array of sharp surgical tools and robotic arms looming like vultures, waiting to descend upon their prey. The surgeons, their faces are hidden behind reflective masks that have a letter etched on the front.

A masked voice declares, "Today, it is operative 7's turn to undergo the transformation." The other two surgeons nod in agreement before beginning their work. The sounds of bone saws tearing through flesh, cauterizing instruments sizzling, and drills whirring meld into a symphony of horror, a chilling soundtrack to the surgeons' detached efficiency.

Their goal is clear – to implant the neural interface into thirty individuals before the trials commence. The device was crafted from ancient metals and eldritch energies. With chilling precision, the surgeons insert the interface directly into the man's exposed brain, its tendrils snaking into his gray matter and intertwining with his very being.

However, as the interface seeks to root itself within the complex labyrinth of his consciousness, something unexpected happens. The once steady monitors erupt into chaos, their screens displaying indiscernible warnings and errors. The surgeons exchange bewildered glances.

The man on the table convulses, his body jerking uncontrollably as if fighting against an unseen force. The room fills with the scent of burning flesh and the crackle of electricity, creating an atmosphere of palpable tension. A, observing the operation from a nearby control room, watches as chaos unfolds. His face contorts with both anger and frustration.

"What is happening, B?" A demands, his voice laced with danger.

B stands beside A with a stoic expression, his voice filled with. "I don't know, A, do I look like a doctor to you? Go ask F and G downstairs." he retorts.

Just as A begins to press the intercom to communicate with the surgeons, the monitors abruptly return to their usual rhythmic display of vital signs. The convulsions cease, and a hushed silence falls over the room.

"It seems... it seems we've regained control," The masked surgeon murmurs, his voice filled with a mix of relief and dread.

A's eyes narrow as he turns his attention to B. "We cannot afford any more complications," he stated firmly. "Or do you want me to remind you why you are B?"

B smirked, his gaze fixed on the monitors as they displayed stable readings.

As the surgeons resume their work, carefully closing up the man's skull and ensuring the incisions are clean and concealed,

A turns and walks away from the control room, heading back to his office. As he enters, he removes his mask and places it on his desk. He then walks over to a framed photo on the wall showing a group of people, each wearing a shirt with a letter on it.

With a sigh, he runs his fingers over the photo before his expression turns from composed to a slight frown. He reaches for his mask on the desk and puts it back on his face. "Let's get started."

----- Miles Pov -----

"I've got you, Miles," Miro's voice was filled with warmth and love as he looked at Miles, who was like a Father to him. But in an instant, the safety of their moment shattered. The steady hum of the helicopter turned into a chaotic screech, blurring everything outside the window into a whirlwind of colors.

"Miles! Sarah!" Miro's screams were drowned out by the overwhelming chaos. And then, just as suddenly as it started, everything stopped. The silence was deafening compared to the cacophony before. Miro was standing on a familiar sidewalk, but the helicopter was gone. Instead, a hot dog stand stood before him, its bright colors and aroma of grilled onions filling his senses.

"What just happened?" Miro wondered, feeling disoriented and confused. Was he back in Jersey? Or was this all just a dream? The conflicting thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to make sense of what had just occurred.

"Outta my way, pal!" yelled a nearby street vendor, thrusting a steaming hot dog into the face of an unsuspecting passerby. The urgency in his voice jolted Miro out of his thoughts for a moment, but soon, the peculiar sensation returned.

An ominous rumble echoed through the streets, growing louder with each passing second. People around him began to scatter like frightened mice. He scanned the area, searching for the disturbance.

"Truck! Get out of the way!" someone screamed, and before Miro could process the warning, a massive truck careened around the corner, barreling towards him at breakneck speed. Time seemed to slow as his mind raced, calculating possible escape routes, but it was futile – there simply wasn't enough time.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, bracing himself for impact.

The truck slammed into Miro with bone-crushing force, and as his body collided with the metal behemoth, or so he thought. A blinding flash of colorful lights enveloped him, tinged with the scent of ozone and burning rubber. His existence fractured, and reality itself seemed to splinter and reform around him.

"Wh-what's happening to me?" he gasped, his voice barely a whisper amid the chaos.

[ System error ]

Miro sat up, grabbing his head, wincing, and surveyed the scene. The truck lay on its side a few yards away, smoke billowing from its crumpled hood. People were screaming, running, and trying to help those who had been caught in the wreckage. Amidst the chaos,

"I... I don't understand," he whispered, his voice shaking. "What's happening?"

Miro spotted an old woman pinned beneath the twisted metal of the truck's cab. He struggled to his feet, his body protesting with every movement. As he stumbled towards the woman, he realized that something was...off.

He knelt beside her, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. Her skin was warm, almost feverish, and her breath came in ragged gasps. "Hang in there," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "Help's on the way."

As he waited for the paramedics to arrive, he found himself reliving the events that had led up to this moment.

" Is any of this real?! " He yelled in frustration.

[ System error ]

[ Calculating test trial results ]