Rest?
One Week After the Thinning – Facility SIGIL-9, Isolation Wing
The hiss of decompression fills the air.
Steam pours from the seams of the recovery pod, followed by a faint click as its thick alloy doors slowly slide open. Inside, surrounded by warm mist and pulsing medical conduits, Luke sits upright—his breathing calm, but his eyes still sunken from exhaustion.
He swings his legs over the edge of the pod and sets his bare feet on the cold metal floor.
A week…
A week of testing, poking, whispering.
No sunlight. No contact. Just injections
and questions.
The tests had a single purpose: to confirm whether prolonged exposure to The Maw, The Tower, and especially The Veil—all now confirmed slain—left any biological contamination or anomalous residuals in his body.
Other than his spirit fraying at the edges, the reports returned clean.
"No corruption… no infestation… not even a whisper of beastrot."
"You're clean," they said.
"You're safe to re-enter human society."
Funny. I don't even feel human anymore.
Luke flexes his new arm—the flesh-colored bionic replacement that now completes his silhouette. The seams are almost invisible. The nerve feedback is uncanny.
But what still unsettles him most—is the touch.
He clenches his new hand slowly into a fist. He feels the warmth of the air… the faint brush of fabric. Not as imitation—but as if his body truly owns it.
And worse—he remembers the surgery. Vividly.
No sedation. No silence.
Only Doctor Murrel, that wild-haired bastard, grinning wide as he barked mid-
operation:
"ANESTHESIA IS FOR THE DEAD! YOU WANT TO LIVE? THEN STAY AWAKE!"
"MOVE AGAIN AND I'LL STRAP YOUR SPINE TO THE WALL!"
"A SMALL STEP FOR THE CENTER—A GIANT LEAP FOR PRIDE!"
Luke scoffs aloud, leaning against the wall of the empty room.
"Just thinking about it makes my head hurt…"
Still, without that psychotic surgeon, he wouldn't have survived. And now… now he can do this.
SNKT.
Three claws extend from beneath the skin-like knuckle ridge—each black, serrated, glistening faintly with synthetic sheen. He retracts them.
SNKT.
SNKT.
Wolverine... but cheaper. And real.
Luke flexes his arm again—his new arm, if he could even call it that.
It moves with perfect precision, each motion as natural as breathing, yet undeniably alien. He raises his hand and focuses.
SNKT.
The claws eject with a metallic thrum,
sliding out from under the knuckles like surgical instruments from hell.
But they aren't just claws.
Each one is long and needle-thin, with a cylindrical base, and an edge honed so finely it catches the sterile lights of the facility with a glint of death. The tips taper into fine points—not meant for flesh, but for punching through steel plating, for severing bone like butter.
They hiss faintly with each movement, the internal pressure mechanisms adjusting to his grip and intent.
Not just for slashing. These are for puncturing, stabbing, digging into armor and bone.
These aren't claws.
They're execution tools.
He retracts them with a slow breath.
SNKT.
CLACK.
The sheathing noise is smooth—too smooth, like machinery trying to mimic a predator's instinct.
They feel too natural. Too responsive.
It's like they want to be used.
Luke rubs the forearm, feeling the unnatural warmth of it.
The outer plating was molded to resemble his own skin tone, and even the faint pulse
that ran through it mimicked a heartbeat. But beneath the facade…
He knew what it was made from.
Beast tendons. Monster nerves. Tech stolen from the mind of madmen.
This arm doesn't belong to me.
But it listens to me.
He looks at it once more—fascinated, horrified, empowered.
And that's enough. For now.
The arm is a monster.
And yet it's his monster now.
He sighs, voice hoarse.
"Any time now, the Sigma-Black freaks should arrive to take me somewhere…"
Then he leans back, closing his eyes briefly. Names. Titles. Ranks.
I grilled every tech, every nurse, every dumb rookie who came near my bed. It took a week, but I pieced it together—the military structure of this hell.
---
The Center – Command Hierarchy and Officer Ranking System
Luke mentally recites what he learned, engraining it like it's battlefield intel:
---
➤ RANK I: Sovereign Seat
Title: Grand Executor
Access: Absolute. Only one seat exists at a time.
Role: Oversees global operations of the Center and reports directly to the World Ascension Council. Only rumor speaks of who holds it now.
Rumored Holder: Codename: "The Harrower"
---
➤ RANK II: SIGMA-BLACK Authority
Title: Division Lord / Head Overseer
Access: Controls entire facilities (like SIGIL-9). Handles priority assets and classified research. Can appoint soldiers to bear the SIGMA-BLACK sigil.
Known Holders:
Doctor Murrel Mercy (Head of Bio-Conversion & Beast Integration)
Commander Tess Lioren (Tactical Warfare Doctrine)
Newman Julian (Overseer of affairs)
There could be many more holders but the ones I annoyed only have limited information.
---
➤ RANK III: OBSIDIAN Command
Title: Sector Marshal
Role: Oversees combat zones and internal troop movements. Often wears visored armor.
Authority: Can issue full extermination orders on survivors deemed threats.
"Basically glorified warlords."
---
➤ RANK IV: BLACKWING Division
Title: Warden / Retrieval Captain
Role: Elite units who extract high-priority subjects (like me).
Gear: Clad in black neuro-reactive suits, they rarely speak—and even fewer survive missions.
"The silent bastards who carried me out."
---
➤ RANK V: FIELD OFFICERS
Title: Operatives / Enforcers
Role: Run tests, administer drugs, monitor rooms. The ones I annoyed daily for information and just like that knight who I first met at the coliseum.
Luke's Thought: "Easy to bully. They cracked quick."
---
Everyone above Rank IV treated me like glass. Everyone below? Like a loaded weapon.
His thoughts trail off.
Then…
CLANK.
HISS.
The door to his chamber unlocks.
Heavy boots approach.
Two Blackwing agents step inside. Helmets down. Guns magnetically holstered.
One speaks:
"Subject Opener. You're to report to the Ascension Hall. Priority audience granted."
Luke cracks his knuckles.
The metal and sinew of his new arm flex
together, humming faintly with restrained power.
"...About damn time."
He steps forward, the claws retracting.
Eyes forward.
Mind scarred—but sharp.
If I'm now the Center's weapon…
Then I'll aim myself wherever I damn well please.