Sector O (2)
// Observation Room of the 'Center'
The hum of machines was unchanged—sterile, steady, indifferent.
Here, in the heart of the 'Center', the control room pulsed with false calm. The white lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off chrome walls and cold floors that reeked faintly of sterilizers barely masking the stench of blood-soaked metal. Nothing ever really changed here—only the numbers.
This was the eye of the storm. The place where men watched what they had unleashed.
And at its center stood the lion-bearded man.
His coat, imperial black with gold-thread trim, clung to his stiff frame. The heavy beard—aged bronze in color, lion-like in shape—curled slightly with sweat. His walking stick, adorned with a snarling lion's head of sculpted gold, rested against him, as ceremonial as it was necessary. His knuckles were white against the grip.
He faced the wall of lights—tens of thousands of color-coded beacons blinking from left to right in real-time.
Red: Dead.
Orange: Dying.
Yellow: Injured.
Green: Alive and well.
And now?
Over ninety percent of them were red.
Tens of thousands gone.
The orange lights blinked frantically, clinging to fading signals. Yellows dimmed into silence. The greens—what remained—were scattered like dust. Barely eighty lights. Flickering.
The soldier at the data console stood, his voice cold through the visor and comms-feed.
"Sir."
"Update on Apex-Class Entities: The Maw and The Tower have both exceeded the twenty-thousand kill mark."
Silence.
The lion-bearded man felt the world tilt slightly.
The soldier continued:
"The Maw's evolution has accelerated. It now crafts full puppet-children from internal organs. Vocal cords reconstructed. Rib cages bent into jaws. The puppets speak in the victim's voice. And it has perfected adult mimicry."
"It calls to its prey as their parents. Mimics cries of help. Entire corridors collapse into it—children walking to their own ends, thinking they're going home."**
A dry gasp caught in the back of the man's throat, but he didn't move.
"The Tower has created a complete zone-hive—walls of bone, blood-soaked rubble fused into new pathways. It's built a labyrinth where sound doesn't escape."
"Its psionic scream now loops through these structures. Victims suffer auditory hallucinations: their own screams, their loved ones begging, dying. Reported symptoms include madness, self-mutilation, paralysis from despair. Entire test groups neutralized before contact."**
The screen blinked.
New reds appeared.
Thirty more.
Gone in the time it took to blink.
The lion-bearded man's back was soaked in sweat. His bladder quivered. His legs wanted to fold.
Twenty thousand each…
He glanced at the other soldiers.
Some didn't flinch. A few looked entertained—their lips twitching at the updates like watching theater.
Only one shook. Just one.
And the lion-man felt something sick and familiar in that trembling.
He wanted to collapse.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
If he fell, he'd be questioned.
If he showed fear, he'd be marked.
Maybe not today. But soon.
So instead, he forced air through his lungs. Straightened his spine.
And spoke a single word.
"…Good."
Any more, and he'd scream.
He couldn't think.
His thoughts spiraled like wires wrapped around a slow suffocation.
To keep his mind intact, he needed to do something—anything.
His hand twitched toward the terminal. Instinct. Distraction. Survival.
Then he saw it.
Monitor: 000001 — Subject Group: "The Opener" and Associates
The leader, marked anomaly, known only as "The Opener", had no record of origin. No family. No confirmed race. Just presence.
Driven more by curiosity than courage, the bearded Man accessed the private dossiers. Maybe knowing who these people were would help him feel human again.
He sat down.
Typed in his ID.
The screen flickered, then loaded:
USER: Newman Julian
CLEARANCE: SIGMA-BLACK
ACCESSING SUBJECT PROFILES…
---
► ID: #087420 — Caelan Verrand
Status: GREEN
Origin: Domum — Abandoned town, 5 km from 'Center' perimeter
Age at Intake: 14
Affiliation: Former Mercenary – The Iron Hearth
Trait Flag: Predator Vision (Enhanced)
Weapon Profile: Twin shortblades | Improvised ranged gear
CAPTURE LOG:
Recovered after an ambush by rival mercenary groups on Iron Hearth outpost. Caelan stood atop 42 corpses—some still twitching. Blood across his face, but his posture held like stone.
Killed two agents before sedatives kicked in. Only stopped when told: "Mission complete."
Behavioral Flags:
Mission-first response conditioning
Imprints squad-like bonds quickly
Protective toward "weaker" units (notably Mira Halwen, Elarin Mintheara)
---
► ID: #002319 — Elarin Mintheara
Status: GREEN
Origin: Heim — Sub-spire settlement
Age at Intake: 12
Race Classification: Half-Elf
Traits: Long-range perception | Natural nightvision | Innate hunting ability
Physical Flags: Subtle ear elongation | Enhanced ocular micro-reflexes
CAPTURE LOG:
Brought in by a merchant affiliated with the Center. Had been raised by grandfather Veihn, an elf and former Heim hunter, after both parents died of an "unregistered unnatural incident."
Captured during a scavenging run—was bound, bruised, and nearly unresponsive.
Medical notes confirm prolonged trauma during captivity.
Psychological Flags:
Quiet but tactically observant
Deep trust bond formed with Luke
Calm until provoked—then lethal
---
► ID: #093144 — Singnet Daresval
Status: YELLOW – Internal Injury: Rib Fracture, shoulder dislocation
Origin: Maison — Industrial sector of the Noble Ring
Age at Intake: 15
Affiliation: House Daresval — One of the Ten Noble Families
Combat Type: Strategic Operator | Low endurance, high stress acuity
CAPTURE LOG:
Selected under the Noble Treaty Quota. Parents traded him to preserve estate holdings. Extracted from personal vault after flooding it with sedative gas.
Screamed about "bloodright" until unconscious.
Psychological Flags:
Projects superiority to mask trauma
Struggles with control loss
Fixates on Luke — intent unclear
(admiration/rivalry blend)
---
► ID: #000981 — Subject Name: Unknown
Alias: "Gray Hair"
Status: GREEN
Origin: Hogar — Now-classified obliterated zone
Age at Intake: Unknown
Biological Class: Unverified — Possible Non-Human
Key Traits:
Immune to fatigue but acts tired.
Neural silence
Radiation-tolerant
Visual pattern: non-registered spectrum
CAPTURE LOG:
Spotted walking barefoot through fallout zones. No signs of starvation or burn trauma.
Said: "I've been waiting." Then boarded transport without question.
Camera feeds failed within hours. Still does not blink.
Behavioral Flags:
Generates unknown EM signature
Sings a low melody no database can trace
Tracks Luke and Elarin with unusual
attentiveness
---
► ID: #074522 — Mira Halwen
Status: GREEN
Origin: Koti — Fringe settlement zone
Age at Intake: 13
Condition Flags: Severe trauma bonding | Emotional mimicry
CAPTURE LOG:
Found kneeling in the blood-soaked ruins of Koti, holding her little brother's severed arm. Silent for 11 days.
Carried willingly. No resistance.
Psychological Flags:
Bonds to protectors—currently Caelan and Elarin
Highly obedient
At risk of emotional collapse if left alone
Instability may trigger aggression when isolated
---
LIVE SYSTEM MONITORING UPDATE
> 'The Maw' Kill Count: 21,642
'The Tower' Kill Count: 20,988
'The Viel'- Dead. Kill Count: 10,890
Number of Human to Human killings:
Unknown....Tallying in progress
Green Signals Remaining: 81
Zone Integrity: CRITICAL
> — AUDIO INTERFERENCE: ACTIVE
— WHISTLE SEQUENCE DETECTED
— WARNING: BEAST APPROACH IMMINENT
Newman Julian the man with a beard akin to a lion's mane leaned back in his chair, heart pounding.
The names were no longer just codenames.
They were kids.
Each of them had stared at death and kept walking.
They are just kids now they were being
hunted again. All these red lights were all just children living their life until one event led to another and they ended up here in this place where death reeks.
Julian stood in silence, the pale glow of the monitors dancing off his exhausted face.
Dozens of red dots blinked. Too many.
Too fast.
The files still burned on the screen—names, scars, blood.
They were all just kids.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning under him.
Helplessness gnawed at his gut like rats in the walls.
I was assigned to the Control Room, yes.
But here, control was only an illusion.
I could watch, log, report.
I couldn't stop anything.
"I'll be retiring to my room," he muttered, voice flat. "Update me when it's over."
The soldiers stationed in the room—black-visored, faceless—snapped to attention like iron snapping against iron.
"YES, SIR!" they shouted in unison, voices echoing off the sterile metal.
Julian said nothing more.
As he turned to leave, the hum of machines behind him grew louder, swallowing the silence.
The door hissed open. Cold air. Steel hallways. No warmth.
Survive...
That one word repeated in his mind like a failing pulse.
Survive, Opener. You and the others. Gods help you all.
And with that final thought, Julian stepped out of the bright, mechanical control room
—into the darkness of the corridor, where no screens could tell him what came next.