Chapter 19: Back At HQ

  Crazy Joe’s body y still.

  The wide-eyed expression of desperate pleading had frozen on his face long before the blood stopped pumping from his neck.

  The st pathetic gurgles had faded into the crumbling ruins like whispers swallowed by time.

  Sym wiped his sword clean on the man’s coat without ceremony.

  He crouched down slowly, eyes sharp, hands methodical as he rifled through Joe’s clothes. His gloves came away stained with grime and dried sweat. He moved quickly, but not carelessly.

  From Joe’s coat, he pulled two folded wads of notes, sealed in cracked rubber bands. Maybe two thousand total. Not much by upper zone standards, but here? In Zones 9 and 10? That was wealth.

  He stood, scanning the scene one more time.

  “Log the area,” he murmured. “Mark every turn on the route we took. I want this entire network mapped, piece by piece.”

  “Confirmed,” Sage replied. “Mapping active. Reconstructing the route in real-time. Underground architecture added to secure memory bank.”

  Sym gave a final gnce toward the dark, deeper tunnels beyond. Part of him ached to keep going.

  There was more here. He could feel it. Secrets buried in the bck. Things the Order didn’t want found.

  He gnced at his inner clock, Sage’s overy showing how te it had become.

  He had to be at HQ tomorrow; in addition, zone 10 at night was quite dangerous.

  As if reading his thoughts, Sage spoke again.

  “Warning. Corruption levels in ambient air are spiking. Temporal alignment with sunset appears to trigger heightened emission from unseen sources. This zone becomes significantly more dangerous after dark.”

  Sym tensed slightly. “Living creatures?”

  “None detected in immediate range. But the environment itself is reacting. Recommend immediate surface retreat.”

  He nodded once.

  No time to search Crazy Joe’s hideout. That would have to come ter. For now, survival came first.

  He turned and began retracing his steps through the forgotten pathways, Sage marking every twist and junction behind him in quiet, ghostly lines on his HUD.

  As he climbed the old well’s inner dder, the temperature shifted.

  The air felt thicker.

  The weight of something unseen pressed against his skin.

  He emerged into the abandoned house just as the st gray rays of daylight slipped from the sky.

  Outside, Zone 10 had turned sick.

  The light was fading, but not like a normal sunset; it was more like something was consuming the color from the air.

  The red mist clung to the corners of buildings like tumors. Every step toward the district boundary felt like walking through mosses.

  Even the few twisted silhouettes of the locals, hunched and slow, with hollow eyes, looked more haunted than usual.

  Sym didn’t waste time.

  He moved fast.

  Sage monitored his vitals,

  And then, finally, the border into Zone 9.

  It wasn’t much safer, but it felt like breathing clean air again compared to the oppression of what he’d just passed through.

  By the time he returned to Richie’s, the night was fully wrapped around the settlement like a noose.

  He shut the door to his room behind him and leaned against it, breathing once.

  Long.

  The new question boiling quietly in his chest:

  What lies in the second yer below?

  Morning came like a rusted bde; dull, heavy, and cold.

  Sym stood outside the PRG’s headquarters, staring up at the looming box-like structure that jutted awkwardly from the ground like some malformed chunk of architecture.

  Its surface, built from composite steel and tarnished copper panels, steamed faintly in the morning chill.

  He adjusted the strap of the greatsword across his back. The weight of what he’d done st night, and what he’d found, still hung in his chest like an unspoken truth. But today wasn’t about secrets.

  Today was about training. Teamwork, they called it.

  Sym didn’t like the sound of that.

  As he entered, the familiar hiss of the building’s internal pressure system activated, sealing the doors behind him.

  The HQ was dimly lit, lined with pipes, cables, and monitors that flickered with graphs, vitals, and unreadable system data. Everything had a feeling of utility first, like an old war bunker never meant to be a home.

  The assistant was already waiting for him in the entry corridor.

  She wore the same professional smile as always, thin and polished.

  “Good morning, Thirty-Three,” she said cheerfully, already turning to lead him. “We’re gd you’re on time. The other Awakened have arrived earlier. Today you’ll be introduced to your team. You'll go through an ability overview and then into a basic training simution together.”

  Sym didn’t respond, but followed silently.

  As they walked, she continued speaking in the same ft tone, her words crisp, efficient, and memorized.

  “There’s been a slight change in the PRG’s deployment schedule,” she said. "Originally, your field deployment was set for the next cycle. However, due to mounting pressure from above, we’ve been advised to advance your timeline. The Order is requesting more active gate clearance.”

  Sym raised an eyebrow at that.

  “Pushing us out faster?”

  She nodded, completely unfazed.

  “Correct. But do not worry, we will still ensure your squad meets minimum survival standards before you’re sent out. We’ve adapted our curriculum accordingly.”

  Minimum survival standards. That didn’t inspire confidence.

  Sage spoke in his mind, already parsing implications:

  “PRG’s accelerated timeline is likely not due to confidence in subject performance. More likely: external pressure, resource demand, or political incentive. Survival of participants is not their top priority.”

  Sym grunted softly under his breath.

  Figures.

  They reached a steel door fnked by two wall-mounted sensors. With a hiss and a blink of red light, the door slid open, revealing a wide room designed as a training chamber.

  It had an arena-like quality to it: rubberized floors, overhead rigs for old drones and projectors, target dummies at the far end, and weapons racks along the walls.

  Inside, the rest of the Faux Squad were already waiting.

  The assistant turned and handed him something, a folded set of gear. Dark blue leather, stitched tightly and reinforced at the joints with brown outlines. On the back and front, the number 33 had been embzoned in white thread.

  “A combat uniform,” she expined. “Standard PRG design. Durable but flexible. Made for early-stage Awakened who haven’t developed gear-compatible skills.”

  Sym accepted it, feeling the texture. It was decent quality, but nothing extraordinary.

  “Sage?” he asked silently.

  “Basic equipment,” came the reply. “No hidden augmentations, no system-binding. Functionally identical to civilian-grade light armor. Protective rating: minimal.”

  He nodded, unsurprised.

  “You’ll suit up here,” the assistant said. “Once ready, you’ll proceed into the inner chamber where Captain Evin will lead your squad through a controlled simution. Good luck.”

  She turned to leave, heels clicking across the floor with mechanical finality.

  Sym looked down at the armor in his hands.

  The wide chamber buzzed faintly with artificial light.

  The ceiling loomed high above like the ribcage of a dying machine, its vents hissing softly as the room's systems simuted a battlefield climate.

  The six members of the Faux Squad stood in a loose formation near the center, each wearing their light armor bearing the numbers they'd been given.

  Sym, Thirty-Three, stood at the back.

  At the front of the room stood Captain Evin, arms folded, axes gleaming at his hips, his stance loose and casual.

  His presence reeked of superiority, the kind of zy arrogance born not of strength, but of institutional favor.

  He smirked as he surveyed the group, as if each of them were nothing more than defective tools he was being forced to sharpen.

  "Let me be clear," he began, his voice echoing off the walls, low and theatrical. "You’re not real Awakened."

  He let the silence hang, heavy and condescending.

  "You’re faux," he continued, gesturing zily. "Knock-offs. Bottom-shelf lottery winners. I don't care how rare your skills seem, or how ‘special’ you think you are. Your power isn’t reliable."

  He stepped forward slowly, passing them like a bored instructor addressing a css of delinquents.

  "Outside that Gate?" he said, jabbing a finger toward the distant sealed vault door at the edge of the room.

  "You’ll find creatures born from nightmares, warped by the corruption that bleeds out of the world’s wounds. You'll find death waiting in the dirt, and worse, madness. Even the Obelisk's reach doesn’t stretch far once you're outside."

  His voice dropped an octave.

  "And if your powers fail out there?" he paused mockingly.

  "Then you die. Fast, if you're lucky. Ugly, if you're not."

  Sym didn’t flinch. He noted the reaction of the others: Sandra tensed. Caleb smirked nervously. Elen looked down. Burt didn’t move. Trey’s eye glowed faintly, scanning everything.

  Evin gave them a tight grin.

  "But... with training," he said, voice mock-encouraging, "even you rejects can become useful meat shields."

  That earned him a few side-eyes.

  Sym said nothing.

  Evin stepped back and cpped his hands once, sharply.

  "Now. You’ve been issued basic-grade items to help you anchor your skills. These aren't luxury gifts, they’re a test. Gear doesn’t fix you. You fix yourselves."

  "Everyone, take what was assigned to you. Then activate your skills. Let your squad see what they’re working with. Today’s about cohesion."

  He sneered slightly.

  "Try not to disappoint me."

  As the team moved forward, Sym waited.

  He wasn’t eager to show his cards, not yet. His skill, [Boost], was simple enough… but what it did was becoming far more complicated.

  And then there was Sage.

  Sage, who didn’t belong in this world, much like himself.

  "Log the reactions," Sym whispered internally. "Compare activation data. I want full breakdowns of their skill signatures."

  "Already compiling," Sage replied, calm and efficient.

  Sym almost smiled.