Morning broke over Seattle with a crisp clarity that felt out of place after the storm. Sunlight poured through the HQ atrium's glass ceiling, refracting in geometric patterns across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of ozone and fresh coffee, the hum of the day's activity already rising. Today wasn't a mission day—it was an orientation into the heart of the IDF's command structure.
Aftan followed Ahmar through the main concourse, boots clicking softly on the tile. The space was vast, alive with motion: squads returning from deployment, tech teams pushing carts laden with shimmering mana batteries, and comms officers weaving through the crowd with data tablets in hand. Holographic mission boards floated above the central hub, their shifting text reflecting off the steel beams. Overhead, banners bearing the eleven unit crests hung between support columns, each rippling faintly in the circulating air.
"This isn't just where we get orders," Ahmar said without breaking stride. "This is where politics shapes the battlefield. Learn that, and you'll survive longer than most."
They passed a glass-walled operations room where analysts hovered over projected maps dotted with rift markers. Aftan caught snippets of conversation—unit rotations, containment field failures, whispers about Nazrat—and felt the weight of the machinery he'd joined.
They stopped before a towering set of bronze doors etched with eleven stylized crests. Each emblem represented one of the Council's captains. The guards flanking the doors wore ceremonial black and gold—an intentional contrast to the field gear most IDF personnel sported. Their eyes tracked Aftan, measuring him as much as their scanners did. Ahmar nodded to them, and the doors opened without a word.
The Council Chamber was circular, its ceiling lost in shadow above the ring of light cast by an elaborate chandelier. Eleven high-backed chairs formed a half-circle around a central holo-dais. Each chair was occupied.
Grandmaster Yosua sat at the center, his presence a calm gravity that drew the eye. "Unit Three reporting for scheduled introduction," he said in a voice like worn granite. "Approach."
Ahmar led Aftan to stand before the dais. One by one, the captains were introduced—not just by name, but by the weight of their gaze and the subtle signals of their posture.
Allen "Cap'n" Sky of Unit One gave a slight nod, his eyes measuring but not unkind. Shiro and Kuro, the twin captains of Unit Two, watched Aftan with mirrored expressions—one curious, one calculating—as though already placing him in a web of contingencies. Kya of Unit Four tapped a data slate against her knee, assessing him with an engineer's precision.
Tyrone Cleats of Unit Five offered a grin big enough to feel genuine, his massive frame relaxed despite the formal setting. Dr. Lucia Vorn of Unit Six peered at him over thin spectacles, eyes bright with scientific hunger. Marcus "Shark" Dae of Unit Seven drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his attention sharp but restless, like a predator in shallow water.
Selene Hart of Unit Eight smiled with a warmth that felt rehearsed, her gaze sliding over him like she was filing away every detail for later use. Yuri of Unit Nine, the man from the Space Needle incident, regarded Aftan with something between curiosity and suspicion. Rajiv Malhotra of Unit Ten inclined his head, hands folded in his lap like a physician awaiting a diagnosis. Kaelen Vos of Unit Eleven simply stared, unreadable, the silence around him heavier than the rest.
"This is Aftan," Ahmar said. "Newest member of Unit Three's Elite Squadron. Second in his class at the Academy. Half-Genshi."
A murmur rippled through the room. Yosua silenced it with a raised hand. "We will see if that makes you an asset—or a liability."
What followed was not an idle formality. Over the next hour, Aftan stood as the Council debated current operations. The discussion was a battlefield of its own: Shiro argued for increased intel transparency, citing recent rift incidents in civilian zones; Kuro countered with the need for secrecy to prevent panic. Selene slipped barbed comments into otherwise benign statements, her tone sugar-coated but her eyes sharp. Cap'n spoke rarely, but when he did, his words cut through the noise and redirected the flow. Yosua presided with the patience of stone, letting the arguments play until they revealed their roots.
Through it all, Ahmar remained silent, observing. When one topic veered toward Unit Three's handling of recent anomalies, Aftan felt the weight of several gazes turn toward him, but Ahmar took the questions, his voice level, his answers precise.
When the session ended, the captains departed in different directions, some pausing to confer in low tones. Ahmar led Aftan back into the sunlight of the atrium.
"What did you see?" Ahmar asked as they descended the grand staircase.
Aftan thought of the careful glances exchanged, the way some captains leaned forward when certain topics arose, and the alliances that seemed to exist beneath the surface. "Lines. Not drawn in sand—etched in stone."
Ahmar's lips quirked. "Good. Remember them. Those lines will decide where you stand when things break. And they will break."
They paused at the edge of the atrium, the buzz of HQ life washing over them again. Somewhere beyond the bronze doors, the Council continued to shape the future—and Aftan had just stepped into their game.