CHAPTER 24 — THE SEED OF REBELLION
The door hissed shut behind Elias Thorne with the sound of a verdict.
A sharp metallic click followed, sealing him inside the small observation cell—no wider than a storage closet. The walls were cold steel, brushed with antiseptic white. A single strip of pale light glowed overhead, bathing the room in a sterile silence.
There was no bed. No chair. No mirror.
Only a vent, a small camera blinking red in the corner, and the quiet hum of machines below the floor.
He was alone.
But not forgotten.
---
Elias sat on the floor, back straight, breathing steady.
From beyond the door, the murmur of boots and muffled voices passed at intervals.
He counted time in heartbeats.
He studied airflow from the vent.
He memorized each sound: the pressure valves, the guard rotations, the vibration pattern in the walls.
He wasn't waiting for rescue.
He was planning a revolt.
---
Twelve hours passed before the door opened again.
A technician entered. Young, nervous, with a data pad clutched in gloved hands.
Behind him, two guards in full armor flanked the doorway.
The technician cleared his throat.
— "Subject Thorne. You're scheduled for transport to Lab 3 for preliminary scans."
Elias didn't speak.
He stood slowly, gaze locked on the nervous young man.
The guards motioned.
He stepped forward without resistance.
---
The corridors of the facility were silent and spotless.
Elias noticed everything:
Security badges. Hidden turrets. Ventilation patterns. Camera blind spots.
But most of all—he noticed the faces.
Some looked away in fear.
Others in curiosity.
One or two... with hesitation.
Cracks in the armor.
Seeds.
---
Lab 3 was a circular room with mirrored glass on all sides.
In the center, a tall machine like a vertical coffin—lined with cables and needles—waited.
Voss was there.
Of course.
Wearing a white coat, hands clasped behind his back, he smiled when Elias entered.
— "Comfortable accommodations?" he asked, mockingly.
Elias said nothing.
— "Don't worry. This isn't a full procedure. Just a diagnostic. I want to understand what makes you tick... still."
Voss circled him slowly.
— "It fascinates me how stable you remain. Eighty years, and your cells continue to adapt. You might be the last true success of Prometheus."
Elias met his gaze.
No hate. No fear. Just clarity.
— "You turned people into weapons. That wasn't success. It was slaughter."
Voss chuckled.
— "Perspective. You call it horror. I call it progress."
---
The machine scanned him for nearly an hour.
Elias endured it in silence.
No pain.
Just humiliation.
He was cattle now.
But cattle had teeth.
---
After the session, Voss offered him something unexpected:
— "Work with us."
Elias raised an eyebrow.
Voss continued:
— "You're not just a subject. You're a survivor. With your help, we could rebuild the project the right way. You want to end this cycle of chaos? Help us create the next generation—perfect, eternal, controlled."
Elias almost laughed.
— "Immortality isn't salvation. It's a slow death."
— "Then you have nothing to lose."
— "Except my soul."
Voss didn't flinch.
— "We have others, Elias. You're not the only one."
That was when Elias leaned forward, voice low:
— "Then you'd better kill me before I find them. Or before they find me."
---
He was returned to his cell.
But now his mind spun faster.
There were others.
He'd always assumed he was the last. The only one to endure the treatments.
But if there were more…
Allies.
Liabilities.
Hope.
---
That night, he began testing the vent.
Loosening screws with a chipped plate.
Measuring angles.
He couldn't escape alone.
Not yet.
But maybe he didn't have to.
---
The next day, the guards changed.
New faces.
Younger.
Untrained.
One of them stared too long—blue eyes flicking toward Elias, then down.
Guilt?
Doubt?
Another crack.
He said nothing.
But he remembered the name on her badge: L. CHAMBERS.
He would speak to her soon.
---
That evening, Elias was escorted through another corridor.
He passed a windowed chamber where the air smelled of rust and blood.
Inside were more containment pods—occupied.
Bodies floating in green fluid.
One of them opened his eyes.
Elias stopped.
A face he recognized. Scarred. Older.
Isaac Moreau.
One of the test subjects from Phase IV.
Presumed dead.
But clearly—just shelved.
---
When the guards pulled Elias away, he filed everything in memory.
They were keeping them.
Reviving them.
Using them.
---
Back in the cell, he scratched symbols into the steel with a piece of wire.
Not for art.
For strategy.
For timing.
---
The following morning, chaos erupted in the kennel.
Barking. Shouting.
A klaxon sounded in the distance.
Grimm and Ash.
Elias knew that sound—knew their fury, their precision.
They had started something.
A distraction.
A message.
---
The hallway lights flickered.
In the pause, he slid the vent cover off.
Crawled two meters in and listened.
Voices.
Guards.
But one voice was different.
A whisper.
— "You don't belong here."
He turned.
The young guard—Chambers—had opened the side panel.
She tossed something through the bars: a keycard.
— "Midnight. Hall 9. Service duct. Don't trust the medtechs."
And she was gone.
---
Elias clutched the card, heart pounding.
Not from fear.
From readiness.
The rebellion had begun.