Chapter 2: The Tool That Thinks

Kaiden awoke in silence.

No alarms. No fluorescent lights. Just the low, rhythmic thrum of distant machinery—like insects crawling through pipes, gnawing behind stone walls.

He lay still, staring up at the ceiling. Cracked rock. Exposed piping. No sterile white paint. No hospital. Not even a morgue.

He wasn't on Earth anymore.

His limbs felt heavier—weighted and foreign, not from fatigue, but imbalance. There was a wrongness in how he existed now. Like his thoughts had more weight than his body.

He sat up slowly.

No restraints. No guards.

His right arm clanked against the floor.

The memory struck like a slow wave. The train. The screech. The flash of light. And then… them. Voices calling him a weapon. Not a man. Not even a person.

He looked down.

Jagged metal connected where muscle once lived. Tubes fed into him like roots into soil. Steam hissed gently from a valve near his shoulder. His left leg exhaled compressed air as he shifted it.

Kaiden didn't scream. Didn't cry.

There was no panic.

Just… study.

He moved his fingers. The mechanical digits obeyed—too smoothly. Unnatural. No nerves. Just servos and current.

He stood, testing his balance. The leg joint clicked twice before settling. Stabilizers kicked in. Barely.

Across the room, a steel wall gave a faint reflection. Not a mirror—just a warped panel polished from years of use.

He walked over. Stared.

Half his face remained intact. The other half had been replaced—blackened iron, exposed wire, small tubes pulsing faintly. His left eye was gone. In its place: a lens glowing a dull red, shifting with each micro-movement of his head.

He blinked.

The lens blinked with him.

"Is this better?" he muttered to himself, voice dry, mechanical around the edges.

A thought whispered in the hollow of his mind:You always wanted control… Didn't you?

The door slid open behind him.

Kaiden turned.

The demon commander stepped into the room, cloak trailing behind him like smoke. Robes thick with metallic thread. Two robed assistants followed, carrying scrolls and small mechanical boxes pulsing with arcane circuits.

"Weapon K-01," the commander said, voice flat. "Still operational. Good."

Kaiden's jaw tightened. "I'm not your damn weapon."

"No," the demon replied, calmly. "Not yet. That's what today is for."

Kaiden's expression didn't waver. "What now? More wires? Another hole drilled into my spine?"

"A trial. Calibration. If you function correctly, you will be assigned. If not—"

His eyes glanced to a chute in the far wall—black, rusted, stained.

Kaiden didn't flinch.

He didn't need to.

The training chamber was round, lined with stone and iron plating. Smoke drifted faintly from vents in the floor. Runic torches lit the perimeter in uneven flickers.

Four demon soldiers stood waiting inside. All different in shape, but similar in attitude—casual arrogance, the kind born from long survival and short tempers.

"That the tin scrap we're testing?" one snorted. He was broad-shouldered, wore mismatched plate over leather, and had a crooked scar across his jaw.

"Looks like someone tried to forge a scarecrow," another muttered. "Maybe it'll fall apart if we breathe too hard."

Kaiden stepped into the ring.

He didn't speak.

Didn't sneer.

He simply rolled his shoulder. The joint clicked harshly. His left leg groaned like old machinery. He moved with stiffness, like someone walking in a borrowed body.

The commander lifted a clawed hand. "Spar. Non-lethal. Unless he proves defective."

The big demon stepped forward, cracking his neck. "I'll make it quick, machine-boy."

Kaiden moved first.

His balance was off. His left foot slipped slightly, causing him to lurch forward clumsily. The demon soldier capitalized—driving a fist into Kaiden's chest. The impact rang metal, echoing in the chamber like a struck bell.

Kaiden stumbled back, teeth gritted. Systems spiked—warnings flickered behind his eye. His core whirred louder.

Another blow came.

Kaiden caught it.

Metal fingers wrapped around flesh. Joints locked tight.

Snap.

The soldier screamed. Kaiden twisted the arm, spun, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The demon collapsed, gasping on the floor.

Silence. Tension.

Kaiden stood tall, panting. Not from exhaustion, but from his systems overclocking.

A final spark flickered from his shoulder. His arm twitched.

The demon commander raised a hand. The match was over.

The other soldiers moved to retrieve their injured comrade.

Kaiden didn't turn to them.

He just stood there, breathing shallow, eyes locked ahead.

"Acceptable," the commander muttered. "Crude, but effective."

He approached Kaiden, eyes flicking to the glowing veins beneath his skin.

"You will join a patrol unit. If you survive long enough, upgrades may be considered."

Kaiden's lips curled slightly. "Lucky me."

The demon didn't react. "We don't care if you're lucky. Only if you're useful."

He turned.

One of the assistants stepped forward, dropping a bundle into Kaiden's hand.

A cloth. Deep red. Stitched with a black emblem.

"Squad 7," the robed figure said.

Kaiden looked down at the patch.

Not a promotion.

Not a rank.

Just branding.

Later, alone in a dim storeroom, Kaiden sat on a bench of rusted iron.

He turned his arm in the dim light. Watched the reflection flicker in the bolts.

He flexed his hand. Opened. Closed. Again.

"I'm not your tool," he whispered.

Then again. Colder.

"I'm not your tool."