Chapter 104: Security Protocols
The Manager walked through the underground corridors in confidence and his footsteps echoed off polished marble floors as motion-sensor lights activated in sequence, illuminating his path through the secure wing that existed on no official blueprints.
He was dressed simply—dark slacks, a fitted black shirt, comfortable shoes with a simple black mask covering his entire face.
The conference room was already occupied when he arrived. Twelve men and women in tactical gear stood at attention around the long table—security captains, each commanding teams of six to ten operators.
These were the professionals who made the Crucible possible, who kept the island secure and ensured no contestant ever escaped and no outsider ever discovered what happened in that jungle hell.
The Manager's eyes swept across them taking in their faces and posture. Most stood with military discipline. A few showed signs of fatigue—understandable, given they'd been working long shifts preparing the island facility.
His gaze paused on the one captain.
The captain who'd commanded the Natasha cleanup operation. He nodded slightly.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." The Manager moved to the head of the table, "Thank you for assembling on short notice. We have forty-five hours until Season Seven begins, which means we have forty-five hours to ensure absolute security. No mistakes. No oversights. No repetition of past failures."
He pressed a button on the table, and a holographic display materialized above it—a three-dimensional map of the jungle island, showing terrain, camera positions, patrol routes, and facility locations.
"The primary site has been upgraded," the Manager continued, manipulating the display to zoom in on different sectors. "We've added three new observation towers along the western perimeter, doubling our camera coverage in the dense jungle sections. The coastal approaches now have active sonar detection—anything larger than a dolphin gets flagged immediately."
He highlighted a series of new structures along the beach. "Underground containment cells have been reinforced with titanium-composite doors. Even if Croc has another episode—which the neural implant should prevent—he won't be breaching confinement. The backup sedative system is automated and redundant.
One of the captains—a scarred woman with a Russian accent—raised her hand. "What about air approach? Last season we had that plane do a flyover. Pilot claimed he was lost, but—"
"Addressed," the Manager interrupted smoothly. "We now have portable EMP devices positioned at four points around the island. Any unauthorized aircraft entering our airspace gets its electronics fried. The wreckage sinks in deep water, and we classify it as another tragic accident in dangerous tropical skies."
He smiled thinly.
"The insurance companies are getting tired of paying out on 'navigation failures' in this region, which is exactly what we want. The fewer pilots willing to fly here, the better."
He manipulated the display again, showing the contestant staging area. "Your teams will be responsible for different security zones. Alpha Team handles the containment cells and contestant management. Bravo Team secures the observation facilities where our clients will be stationed. Charlie and Delta Teams patrol the perimeter—land and sea respectively. Echo Team remains on standby for rapid response."
The Manager's expression hardened. "Your duties are simple but absolute. No outsiders get in. No contestants escape. You maintain constant communication—check-ins every thirty minutes without fail. Any abnormality, no matter how minor, gets reported immediately. A broken camera. An unusual sound. A bird flying in a pattern that seems wrong. I don't care if it sounds paranoid. You report it."
He paused, letting that sink in, then continued in a colder voice. "Last season, we had a security failure. A contestant—escaped during a supply helicopter operation. That failure occurred because Captain Reeves and his team got complacent."
Several captains shifted uncomfortably. They all knew what had happened to Reeves' team.
"I dealt with that failure personally," the Manager said, his voice carrying an edge. "Captain Reeves and his entire squad have been... retired. Permanently. Their families received generous death benefits and plausible cover stories about a training accident. The bodies were cremated before anyone could ask questions."
He let that threat hang in the air for some time before continuing.
"I tell you this not to frighten you, but to emphasize stakes," the Manager continued. "The people we work for—the clients who pay millions to watch the Crucible—they demand perfection. They demand security. They demand discretion. When we fail to provide those things, we become liabilities. And liabilities get eliminated."
He looked each captain in the eye, one by one. "You are the best operators I could hire. You're professionals. You understand operational security. But professional competence is the minimum standard. What I require is perfection. Paranoid, obsessive, unyielding perfection. Because the moment you get comfortable, the moment you assume something is safe, that's when failures happen."
One of the younger captains—a former Navy SEAL—spoke up: "Sir, what about the witness? The one who escaped last season. Has she been neutralized?"
"She has.We had a team handled it two hours ago. The witness and all evidence have been sanitized. That loose end is tied."
The younger captain nodded, satisfied. The other captains seemed to relax slightly.
"Good," the Manager said. "Now, final operational details. Supply runs to the island begin in thirty-six hours. Contestant transport follows six hours later. All personnel will be in position by T-minus twelve hours. Once the games begin, we maintain total communications blackout except for encrypted security channels. No personal phones. No unauthorized transmissions. Nothing that could be traced or intercepted."
He deactivated the holographic display. "You have your assignments. Return to your quarters and brief your teams. I want status reports from each captain in six hours confirming that your personnel are ready, equipped, and understand their responsibilities. Questions?"
Silence.
"Dismissed."
The captains filed out in order, their boots echoing on marble as they departed for their respective quarters throughout the resort complex. Within minutes, the conference room was empty except for the Manager.
He stood there for a moment, reviewing mental checklists. Security protocols: implemented. Personnel briefed: complete. Equipment verified: in progress. Clients confirmed: all eight attendees locked in for Season Seven.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
The Manager left the conference room and made his way through the secure corridors toward his private quarters. The elevator ride was smooth and silent, and when the doors opened, he found exactly what he expected to see.
Standing outside his door was a man who looked like he'd been carved from slabs of muscle and wrapped in electrical hazard warnings.
Six-foot-four, easily two-hundred-fifty pounds, with arms covered in burn scars that formed patterns almost like tattoos. He wore tactical gear modified with rubber insulation at the joints and collar, and his eyes—when they turned to acknowledge the Manager—crackled with faint blue light.
The Electrocutioner. Real name: Lester Buchinsky. Former electrical engineer turned metahuman enforcer after a laboratory accident left him able to generate and control high-voltage electricity.
"Evening, boss," Buchinsky rumbled, his voice carrying a slight electronic distortion—a side effect of the constant current running through his nervous system.
"Status?" the Manager asked, approaching the door.
"Quiet. No contacts. Perimeter sensors show negative for intrusion." Buchinsky's scarred fingers drummed against his thigh, sending small sparks arcing between his knuckles. "You expecting trouble?"
"I always expect trouble," the Manager replied, pressing his thumb against the biometric scanner. "That's why I hired you."
Buchinsky grinned, showing teeth that looked slightly charred. "Good policy. Especially with the kind of money flowing through this operation. Lots of people would love to get their hands on information about your clients."
The door clicked open, and the Manager stepped inside. "Which is why you're out here. Anyone unauthorized tries to access this room, you make sure they don't leave capable of sharing what they learned."
"Don't worry, boss. I'll light them up like a Christmas tree." Buchinsky's hands sparked again, electricity dancing between his fingers. "Just say the word."
The Manager had hired metahuman security three years ago after a close call when a rival criminal organization tried to infiltrate one of his operations. Normal guards, no matter how well-trained, had limitations. They could be overpowered, surprised, or outmaneuvered by sufficiently skilled opponents.
But a metahuman? That changed the equation entirely. Buchinsky could generate enough voltage to kill a man instantly, could sense electrical fields from nearby devices, and could discharge area-effect attacks that would drop multiple opponents simultaneously. He was expensive—but worth every penny for high-value security needs.
"Get some rest if you can," the Manager said. "We have a long forty-five hours ahead."
"I'll catnap standing up. Old military habit."
The Manager closed the door, activated the internal locks, and finally allowed himself to relax slightly. The suite was spacious but utilitarian—a bedroom, bathroom, small office space, and sitting area. He kept personal effects to a minimum here. This was a workspace, not a home.
He moved to the bedroom, loosening his shirt collar as he went. The briefing had gone well. Security protocols were solid. Buchinsky was on guard. The clients were satisfied with Season Seven preparations.
Everything was under control.
The Manager sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his shoes, and checked his encrypted phone one last time. No urgent messages or emergency alerts. Just routine status updates from various team leaders confirming their readiness.
Good.
He set the phone on the nightstand and laid back on the bed.
The room's climate control hummed softly. The Manager closed his eyes, allowing exhaustion to finally pull him toward sleep.
Security was tight. Personnel were professional. The operation was on schedule.
Nothing could go wrong.
---
Above him, in the darkness of the ventilation shaft that ran through the ceiling, something moved.
It was small—no larger than a human eyeball. Fleshy tentacles extended from its spherical body like the legs of a spider, gripping the metal surface as it detached itself from a motion sensor embedded in the duct.
The creature—if it could be called that— slid forward and paused as it reached the vent grating connecting to the Manager's room, peering down through the narrow slats.
Without hesitation, the biomass scout that Alex had created and deployed during his infiltration of the resort compressed itself, squeezing through a gap in the vent grating.
The eyeball-creature dropped from the ceiling and landed soundlessly on the floor. The tendrils flexed once, absorbing the impact, then pulled it upright.
It then immediwtely scurried toward the bed and began climbing the bed toward the Manager.