"Get in line, please!"
The voice cut through the confusion like a whip, echoing across the polished white hall packed with dazed cadets. Orders, movement, and uncertainty all tangled in the air.
Tarrin found his place in the queue, eyes sweeping the sterile space. Gleaming walls, clean lines, not a speck of dust in sight.
'Not exactly the war-torn hellhole I imagined the mainland would be.'
A few minutes passed, then it was his turn.
He stepped up to the desk and slid his military ID under the reinforced glass with practiced ease.
"Tarrin Vex, Thirty-First Battalion, correct?" the woman asked, not looking up.
Her voice was clipped and cold, the kind that didn't care if you lived or died, as long as you did it on schedule.
Tarrin gave a single nod.
That was enough.
Fingers danced across the keyboard, each click deliberate.
Then: "Transport Team Nine. Departure at sixteen-hundred, Eastern Gate. Be on time. Remaining instructions have been sent to your Telcom. Next."
Dismissed just like that.
He stepped aside, blinking once as the next name was called.
Efficient, he thought. Almost unsettlingly so.
As he moved out of the way, he pulled out his Telcom. A fresh message blinked at the top of his inbox. He opened it, scanning the contents. His eyes stopped at one phrase:
Cerevault Installation – Mandatory
Tarrin stilled.
Then it clicked.
'Right. The little piece of tech they cram into your skull. Spatial storage... and probably rigged to blow your head off if you go rogue. Mankind's finest achievement.'
His lips curled into a faint smirk.
'Can't wait.'
After they were processed, the misfit squad gathered outside the registration hall. Tarrin scanned the group, brows raised slightly when he spotted Lucas among them.
'When the hell did he end up with us?'
Not that Tarrin minded. Lucas was quiet, competent, and—unlike some others—didn't ramble about brain chips at inappropriate moments.
"Alright," Tarrin said, clapping his hands once. "Brain chip first or gear up?"
Riko didn't miss a beat. "You guys ever seen Human Puppet? Swear to the gods, that whole thing was about brain chips. Pretty sure they used 'em to hijack people's minds. You think they can do that here?"
His voice carried a little too loudly across the street, mixing with the ever-present buzz of Genesis-One.
The first city of Isle Zero was alive with motion—soldiers, civilians, automated drones overhead.
Towering buildings stabbed into the sky, some high enough to rival the perimeter wall itself.
Lena chimed in absently, "That movie was great. I watched it with my sister once…"
Her voice trailed off like she'd wandered somewhere she wasn't supposed to go. Tarrin caught the shift and gave her a quick glance. Didn't push it.
"Brain chip it is," he said instead, tone decisive.
His gaze drifted upward, tracing the skyline.
'Safest place on the Isle, supposedly. Genesis-One. Not breached in nearly a century—or so the news keeps screaming. Doesn't mean shit if you're walking into hell right after.'
"How far is it?" Lena asked, fiddling with her Telcom.
Jayden opened his mouth like he had the answer locked and loaded—only to catch twin glares from Riko and Tarrin that shouted in unison: Not you. Never again.
Lucas, still glued to his Telcom, finally looked up. "Still in the Centre. About six blocks."
Tarrin pointed a finger like it was a command. "Mr. Guide. Lead the way."
A short walk and a few stairs later, the squad found themselves seated outside an office on the fourth floor.
The building pulsed with motion—young cadets shuffling in and out, officers barking instructions, screens flickering with data.
The usual chaos of orientation season, happening like clockwork every three months.
Tarrin leaned casually over the reception counter, resting one elbow like he owned the place. "Hey, downstairs told us this is where we get fitted for the Cerevault. That right?"
The receptionist—a young woman in a sleek uniform—nodded smoothly. "That's right. May I see your military ID, please?"
Her tone was polite, professional. But her gaze lingered just a touch too long on his face, like she was reading a page of a novel she wasn't ready to put down.
Tarrin didn't miss a beat. He brought up everyone's IDs from his pocket and flicked them across the counter with a practiced swipe—everyone's except Celith's.
She didn't need one. Elites had their own tech. Something proprietary, encrypted. Naturally.
"Alright, Private Vex. Doctor Zäyer will see you in about fifteen minutes," the woman said, eyes still tracking him for a heartbeat too long.
Her voice was calm, but the quick processing time came as a small relief.
Tarrin gave a curt nod and slid the IDs back into his pocket. "Appreciate it."
He dropped into the chair beside Riko, already bracing himself. He knew the look on that idiot's face too well—like a dog who'd just spotted an open fridge.
Sure enough, Riko leaned in, mouth twitching. His gaze flicked to Celith, then back. And then came the comment, delivered with faux innocence and full confidence.
"Bro, why do you always gotta make every receptionist we meet melt into their pantsies? Like, I get it—you're pretty—but damn. Contain yourself."
Tarrin didn't answer right away. He was already glancing at Celith before Riko even finished talking. She met his gaze, eyebrow raised. Deadpan.
He whistled once, shrugged like it was nothing, and redirected his eyes toward the office door ahead.
'Cool. Composed. Professional.'
Even if inside, he was already plotting how to slap the grin off Riko's face later.
After a few more wordless exchanges and too many glances at the ticking clock, the office door finally creaked open.
An older man peered out, his silver-streaked mustache curled with precision, as if his grooming standards hadn't changed since the last war.
"Private Vex, please step inside," he said briskly.
Tarrin rose without hesitation and followed him in.
The office was sparse—clinical and cold, all brushed steel and white light. He hadn't even made it to the chair before the doctor began rattling off instructions.
"Alright, Private. Step through that door on the left. Sit down in the chair. The machine will handle everything else."
No greeting. No explanation. Just automation disguised as professionalism.
The doctor gave Tarrin a quick once-over before continuing, "Just a formality, but have you ingested any substances in the past twenty-four hours? Stimulants, enhancers, narcotics?"
Tarrin blinked. That was... a question. Still, he kept his answer clean. "No, sir."
"Good. Proceed."
Without another word, Tarrin stepped into the adjacent chamber. The air inside was colder, humming with the low pulse of active tech.
A reclined chair waited at the center—half medical bed, half execution seat. He sat down, the mechanical frame clicking shut around him like a puzzle piece.
Great. Another machine trying to burrow into my head. Let's just hope this one doesn't come with a flatline or a philosophical meltdown.
A voice crackled from the overhead speaker. "You may feel a slight sting. Please remain still."
A mechanical arm whirred into motion.
Then—sting. A brief, sharp bite near his temple. Then... nothing.
No pressure. No visions. No divine voices whispering in his skull.
That's it?
"Now," the voice continued, "please locate the ceramic mug on the table to your left. Pick it up and think about storing it inside your Cerevault."
Tarrin reached for the mug. It felt heavier than expected, solid in a way most things weren't. He focused, willing it to disappear—
—and it did.
The weight vanished, a strange sensation crawling up his arm and into his skull like a ripple of essence being pulled into a drain.
Fancy tech. Creepy, but fancy.
"Good. Now try releasing it."
He thought about the mug again—and with a faint pulse of essence, the weight returned. It materialized in his hand in a flicker of light.
"Storage and retrieval functions are active. That will be all, Private Vex. Full instructions have been sent to your Telcom. You're dismissed."
Tarrin stood, rubbing his temple once before stepping out of the chair.
Just like that, it was done. One invasive brain implant richer—and one step deeper into this twisted machine they called the military.
While the others took their turn getting their brains branded, Tarrin leaned back and checked the message flashing on his Telcom. The specs of the Cerevault scrolled across the screen in a sleek list of parameters and safety warnings.
Thirteen square feet of spatial storage? What a bloody bargain. Might as well toss a small corpse in there if needed.
One by one, his squad filtered back from the procedure. Most looked fine. Only Lena seemed off—shoulders stiff, eyes not quite focused. Tarrin clocked the discomfort and quietly tucked it away for later.
The elevator chimed as it descended, a brief silence stretching between them.
"So... what's the next stop? Lunch?" Jayden asked, shattering the quiet like a rock through glass.
Riko shifted, clearly trying to disappear into the corner. Tarrin didn't let him.
"Well, we could've made it in time—if our resident street legend hadn't spent half an hour trying to store a mug like it was quantum physics."
Riko snapped to attention, wounded pride already loading his defense. "Hey, not my fault they gave me some off-brand knockoff. Thing practically glitched in my hand."
"Right. Definitely the device. Totally not user error." Tarrin didn't even bother hiding the smirk.
"After you left," Lena chimed in, her earlier nerves seemingly burned off in the fire of group teasing, "the doctor looked like he lost half a mustache."
Riko turned toward her, eyes narrowing with theatrical betrayal. The look he gave her said it all: Even you?
The rest of the trip blurred into a mix of banter, half-serious threats, and everyone flicking through maps on their Telcoms like they were cramming for a final exam.
"Finally," Jayden muttered behind him, half out of breath. Tarrin didn't respond. His eyes were locked on Celith.
She hadn't needed to pick up a thing—no waiting in line, no scans, no standard-issue gear. Her armor was custom-forged, sleek with an unmistakable sheen of essence-treated alloy. The sword at her hip wasn't standard, either. Not even Riko had a weapon like that, and he'd been bragging about his connections since day one.
The squad stepped into the vast storage depot, the air thick with the scent of metal, oil, and old concrete.
Overhead, ceiling fans buzzed with a dull hum, stirring the warm air but doing little to ease the tension.
Rows of weapons lined the walls—rifles, blades, and essence tools sorted with near-obsessive precision.
The options weren't endless, but there was enough variety to make a choice feel personal.
They moved down the aisles in a quiet line, scanning their ID tags at the intake station before reaching the racks.
Each of them picked out their gear with quick, practiced hands: one standard-issue firearm—non-negotiable—a blade of choice, and a few spare cartridges pulsing faintly with essence.
A crate near the exit held sealed ration packs, stamped with deployment markings. Everyone grabbed a few without thinking. They wouldn't last long, but it was better than nothing.
No speeches. No warnings. Just gear up and move on.
"Well, this one was weird," Riko muttered, glancing around the depot like it was booby-trapped. His new gear vanished into the Cerevault with a soft shimmer of light.
Jayden followed suit, the motion crisp, yet still unfamiliar. His eyes, however, kept darting toward the corners of the room.
"Nothing screwed up," he whispered, finally allowing his shoulders to relax.
"Don't jinx it," Tarrin said, slinging his sword into the new scabbard with a practiced flick of the wrist.
An hour later, the eastern gate loomed ahead like the open maw of a beast.
Massive iron pylons lined the road, forming the barrier between Genesis-One and the wilderness beyond. It was there that the battalion stood—no, not just theirs.
Three more battalions had gathered, rows upon rows of fresh faces in grey military coats and matte-black armor, shoulder patches marking their units.
A sea of hundreds of soldiers, all awaiting deployment.
The air buzzed with nervous chatter, the occasional barked command, and the quiet hum of engines and drones overhead.
Tarrin stood near the front with his squad, trying not to look like he was sizing everyone up. But he was. So were the others.
Soldiers across battalions exchanged quick, assessing glances. Some had the hard edge of experience in their eyes. Others looked like they barely knew which side of the rifle to hold.
"Guess this is the real welcome party," Riko muttered, hands in his pockets.
"You'd think they'd serve drinks," Jayden replied, dry.
Lena didn't say much, just stared out at the only thing that could be seen behind the wall, the gray unfeeling sky.
Tarrin adjusted his uniform. "Get used to it," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone. "This is home now."
Then the horns sounded—low, thunderous, and final.
The gates began to open.