Chapter 6: Origins
Two years ago
New Berlin, Eastern Bloc
The slums of Sector C were colder than death in winter, where fog clung to rusted rooftops like a second skin. Neon signs flickered above half-functioning shops, selling broken tech and half-truths. Down here, the world didn't ask questions—it just chewed and swallowed.
Mike preferred it that way.
He moved like a ghost through the alleyways, cloak tight, hood lower. His target had vanished twenty minutes ago, but he knew the streets better than anyone. And he knew the scent of cult activity when it stained the air like rusted iron.
His comm crackled.
"Agent Callahan, visual confirmation yet?"
He tapped his earpiece. "Not yet. But I've got the trail."
"We've got another hit—possible convergence. Sending backup."
He almost told them not to bother. He didn't need help.
But that's when she showed up.
The Encounter
Eleanor dropped from a rooftop like a blade, landing in front of him with her sidearm already drawn. Her stance was calculated, military. Too clean for this district.
Mike paused, watching her.
"You're not street."
"Neither are you," she replied.
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you?"
"Your extraction."
Before he could argue, gunfire erupted behind them. Cultists—hooded, masked, whispering in tongues—emerged from the smoke with curved blades and stun rifles.
"They're not supposed to be this close to the metro grid," Mike muttered, ducking behind a dumpster.
Eleanor took cover beside him. "They're evolving. You can either brood or shoot."
He grinned faintly, and pulled out a prototype pistol with a hot red coil.
"Let's see if they've evolved past pain."
The Escape
The fight was quick and dirty.
Cultists dropped in flashes of fire and blood. The two moved like they'd trained together for years—watching each other's blind spots, flanking in sync. At one point, Eleanor shoved him out of the way of a plasma bolt.
Mike didn't thank her. But he noticed.
They ran for the extraction van parked outside a collapsed factory wall—its sides marked with the red CPOA insignia.
A young recruit waited behind the wheel.
Lucas.
"You two done flirting or do I drive through them?" he shouted.
Mike dove into the back. "Drive through."
The van roared as it smashed through crates and cultist flesh alike. Lucas whooped like a madman.
"Told them I should've been on recon!"
Eleanor smirked. "Still think you didn't need help?"
Mike looked at her. The moment lingered.
"...You're alright."
The Induction
Two days later, they sat in a briefing room at CPOA HQ—walls reinforced with AI-grade steel, security drones buzzing softly in the corners.
Director Ysara stood at the head of the table. Cold. Sharp. Always in black.
"Agent Callahan. Agent West. Cadet Virek. That wasn't a coincidence."
She tapped on the holo-map behind her. Red blips bloomed across it—cult activity rising across the continent.
"You three work well together. Too well. We're activating Task Force Echo."
Lucas blinked. "That a promotion?"
Ysara didn't blink. "That's a war."
Mike leaned forward. "What's the real reason we were all put together?"
Ysara's gaze flicked to him—for a moment, almost unsure.
"Because you're not normal."
He said nothing. But somewhere deep down… he already knew.
Gravemarch's Shadow
It was that assignment that led to the ancient ruins beneath Gravemarch. The blood rituals. The Hive remnants. The city on fire.
The dream still haunted him. The altar. The voice. The symbol burning into his skin.
And the memory of Eleanor standing beside him, saying:
"You're not who I thought you were."
Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he never had been.