Chapter 8: Target Acquired

Darkness pressed against Alden Cross's mind like a heavy fog. His body felt weightless, drifting in an empty void, and for a moment, he wasn't even sure if he was awake. But then, slowly, his senses crept back.

Pain. A dull throbbing in his limbs. A tight pressure against his wrists and ankles. The cold bite of metal beneath his back.

His eyes snapped open.

The world came into focus—a sterile, high-tech facility, its walls lined with glowing monitors, mechanical consoles, and cables snaking along the floors. Overhead lights cast a dim, artificial glow, making the entire place feel eerily lifeless.

Alden tried to move.

Nothing.

His arms and legs were locked in place by thick, reinforced restraints, binding him to what looked like a medical examination table. His fingers twitched—Overclock should've kicked in by now. But when he reached for that familiar rush of power, it wasn't there.

Panic surged through his chest. Oh, that's bad. That's really bad.

He yanked against the restraints. No give.

His breathing quickened. Think. Process. Where was he?

The last thing he remembered—the battle. The Prototype Omega cyborgs. Felix, Iris, the academy grounds—the fighting, the alarms, and then—

The sting in his neck.

A tranquilizer. Someone had taken him.

And if they had gone through the effort of suppressing Overclock, that meant they knew exactly who he was.

His stomach twisted.

This wasn't a random kidnapping.

It was planned.

A low hiss filled the air. A mechanical door slid open across the room.

Alden froze.

A figure stepped inside—tall, composed, and unsettlingly calm.

They wore a long black coat, their face concealed behind a sleek metallic mask, illuminated with shifting glowing data streams. Their every movement was precise, controlled, methodical.

Alden swallowed. Not good. Very not good.

The masked figure stopped a few feet from him. A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, in a smooth, modulated voice, they spoke.

"You woke up faster than expected."

Alden stared. Okay. That was ominous.

He considered his options. Play dumb? Act tough? Beg?

His survival instincts settled on, "Hey, so, uh… is this the part where you monologue, or the part where I get released for good behavior?"

The mask didn't react. "Neither."

Alden sighed dramatically. "Yeah, I figured."

The figure tilted their head slightly, as if analyzing him. "You don't seem as concerned as you should be."

"Oh, I'm very concerned," Alden assured them. "This is my concerned face."

Silence.

Then, as if they had humored him enough, the masked figure finally said, "You may call me Specter."

Alden blinked. "Well, that's a very evil mastermind name."

"I prefer the term neutral operator."

"Oh, that's even worse."

Specter sighed, as if already exhausted dealing with him. "You must have a lot of questions."

"Yeah, just a few!" Alden said quickly. "Like, why am I here? Who are you people? And most importantly—how do I get out?"

Specter ignored the last part. "You were taken because you are valuable."

Alden frowned. "Valuable how?"

Specter studied him for a moment. "Your Overclock ability. It's… unique."

Alden's chest tightened.

"So you know about it," he said carefully.

"We've been watching you for a while," Specter admitted. "Ever since Sentinel Academy's training records flagged anomalous combat behavior."

Alden stiffened. "Wait. Training records? You mean… the vending machine?"

"Not just the vending machine," Specter said flatly.

Alden groaned. "Look, that was one time, and technically, the vending machine started it—"

"It wasn't just that," Specter cut him off. "Your reaction speed, adaptive movements, and power output all exceed normal parameters. More importantly—" They leaned slightly closer. "Your ability doesn't behave like any registered Gift."

Alden hesitated.

Specter continued. "Overclock isn't just copying abilities, Alden Cross. It's rewriting them."

Alden's pulse spiked.

"What?"

Specter's visor flickered with shifting data streams. "It isn't just mimicking powers. It's optimizing them in real time. It doesn't just adapt to your opponents—it adapts to you."

Alden's mind raced.

Every time he had dodged, countered, or landed a strike… it had felt sharper. Faster. As if his body was adjusting.

Like his own skills were being rewritten mid-battle.

"You're lying," Alden said automatically.

Specter didn't move. "Am I?"

Alden opened his mouth—then shut it.

Because the more he thought about it… the more it made sense.

If Overclock was truly just a copy ability, he would've only been able to replicate skills—not enhance them.

That meant—every fight he had won… every impossible move he had pulled off…

It wasn't luck. It was evolution.

A cold chill ran down his spine.

"So what do you want from me?" he asked quietly.

Specter straightened. "We want to see how far you can go."

Alden did not like the sound of that.

Before he could ask what that meant, Specter turned toward the door. "Restraints are active. Begin analysis."

A new voice crackled over the intercom.

"Understood. Suppression field at 98%. Initiating Overclock synchronization tests."

Alden's blood ran cold.

A faint humming filled the air. The walls shifted, revealing mechanical arms lined with injection needles, neural probes, and scanning devices.

Oh. Oh no.

His Overclock tried to activate—tried to push back against whatever was holding him down—

Nothing.

The field blocking his ability was still active.

Specter turned back to him one last time. "Don't resist. It'll be easier that way."

Alden's heartbeat pounded against his ribs.

Then—the machines descended on him.