Consciousness returned like a wave crashing over him, sudden and disorienting. One moment Elijah existed in that limbo state—trapped in teenage flesh, strapped to a chair, torture-sound assaulting his senses—and the next, he was back, fully present, aware of his adult body and its surroundings.
He blinked rapidly, his vision swimming, the world refusing to come into proper focus for several long seconds. His hands were gripping something—leather, worn smooth, familiar contours his fingers knew by touch alone even if his mind couldn't immediately identify them.
Steering wheel. He was holding a steering wheel.
The G-Wagon. He was in his G-Wagon.
He blinked again, harder, forcing his eyes to adjust. The parking structure around him gradually resolved from blurry shapes into concrete pillars, painted lines on asphalt, rows of parked vehicles catching the dim overhead lighting.
His apartment building's underground parking. How had he gotten here?
The last clear memory he had was being in his apartment with Janet, confronting her about the bracelet, choking her, then that terrible sound starting in his ears and—
Nothing. Blank space where memory should be.
Except his body was here, in the parking garage, and from the position of the G-Wagon—backed into a parking space, engine off, keys in his pocket—he'd apparently driven here with some level of competence.
*I was in that chair. Trapped. Seeing and hearing myself fight but not controlling it. My body was operating on instinct while I was locked away in some manufactured prison.*
The realization brought a wave of nausea so intense he had to swallow hard several times to keep from being sick right there in the driver's seat. His body had been a puppet, performing actions he hadn't consciously directed, guided by enhanced senses and training he didn't remember having.
He looked at his hands on the steering wheel and saw they were shaking. Not just trembling—actively shaking, the kind of involuntary movement that came from a nervous system pushed well past its limits. His fingers twitched, his wrists wobbled, his arms felt weak and unreliable.
Fatigue hit him then, crashing down with the weight of an avalanche. It started in his core—a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that radiated outward. His muscles felt like they'd been worked past failure, every fiber screaming in protest. His eyelids were suddenly impossibly heavy, gravity pulling them down with irresistible force.
He wanted nothing more than to lean back in the seat and sleep for about three days straight.
But he couldn't. Not here. Not now.
He fumbled with the keys in his pocket, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. It took three tries to get the key into the ignition, and when he finally managed it and turned it, the engine's rumble seemed far too loud in his ears, echoing off the concrete walls of the parking structure.
His foot found the brake pedal—at least he thought it was the brake pedal; his depth perception was off, everything seeming both too close and too far away simultaneously. He shifted into drive, or tried to, grinding the gears slightly before finding the right position.
The G-Wagon lurched forward as his foot slipped off the brake, and he overcorrected, stomping down too hard and bringing the vehicle to a jerking stop that threw him against the seatbelt.
*Come on, Elijah. Basic driving. You've done this thousands of times. Just... focus.*
He eased off the brake more carefully this time, letting the vehicle roll forward at idle speed. The parking structure exit ramp curved upward in a gentle spiral, and he took it far too slowly, the G-Wagon crawling like he was taking his driver's test and terrified of failing.
His hands kept slipping on the steering wheel—not because it was slick, but because his grip strength was failing, his muscles refusing to maintain consistent pressure. He'd correct by gripping harder, then his hands would cramp, then he'd relax them too much, then repeat the cycle.
The exit gate was open—apparently the parking structure operated on some kind of sensor system—and he rolled through it into the night beyond.
The street he emerged onto was in the industrial district, a part of the city that most residents forgot existed because it served function rather than form. During the day it would have been busy with commercial traffic, but at this hour—he glanced at the dashboard clock and was surprised to see it was past midnight—it was nearly deserted.
The dominant feature of the area was the factory that occupied an entire city block to his right. The building was massive, utilitarian architecture from an era when buildings were designed to house machinery rather than impress visitors. Brick walls rose four stories, broken by regular intervals of windows—most dark now, but a few showing the dim glow of security lighting or overnight maintenance crews.
Large industrial ventilation units jutted from the roof, and even from inside the G-Wagon with the windows up, Elijah could smell it: fresh bread, pastries, the warm yeast-and-sugar scent of commercial baking happening on a massive scale.
The factory's sign, mounted on the front of the building and illuminated by spotlights, read: **NORTHSIDE COMMERCIAL BAKERY - Est. 1987 - Supplying Quality to the Region**.
Along the street front, loading docks were built into the factory's facade, and even at this late hour, activity continued. A refrigerated truck was backed up to one dock, its rear doors open, and workers in white uniforms and hairnets were loading it with crates. Through the open truck, Elijah could see rows of packaged goods—sandwich bread in plastic sleeves, boxes of dinner rolls, industrial-sized containers of bagels.
Another truck, this one smaller, was parked at a different dock, being filled with what looked like pastries and dessert items—the kind of deliveries that would arrive at grocery stores and restaurants before dawn so they'd be fresh for morning customers.
Small businesses had clustered around the factory like remora around a shark, feeding off its presence. A convenience store occupied a corner lot, its bright fluorescent lights spilling out through large windows, the universal signal of "open 24 hours." Next to it, a bakery outlet—presumably selling factory seconds and overruns at discount prices—was dark now, but its window displays showed racks of bread and pastries behind security grating.
Across the street, a small café that probably did brisk business during factory shift changes sat dark and closed, chairs stacked on tables visible through the windows.
The streetlights in this area were more utilitarian than decorative—tall poles with sodium vapor lamps that cast everything in that distinctive orange-yellow glow that made colors look strange and shadows look harsh.
The street itself was wider than residential roads, designed to accommodate the trucks that were the lifeblood of this district. The pavement showed wear—cracks and patches, some areas worn smooth by years of heavy vehicles, others showing the rough texture of recent repairs.
Elijah navigated through this landscape with the careful concentration of someone who knew their abilities were compromised. He stayed well below the speed limit, gave himself extra distance between his vehicle and the few others on the road, and tried desperately to keep his thoughts organized despite the fatigue that kept trying to pull him under.
"What the heck is happening?" he muttered to himself, his voice rough and strained in the quiet interior of the G-Wagon. "It turns out Janet is also part of that weird cult, or whatever they are. The sudden vision I had in the bathroom—she must have had something to do with it."
He paused at a red light—the only car waiting at an intersection where cross-traffic was nonexistent—and rubbed his face with one hand, trying to stimulate some alertness.
"But this director she keeps talking about... I think it might be that lady in charge of WELB 7 news. And like, if I remember correctly, Halvern owns that station. Augustine might also be connected to all of this somehow."
The light turned green, and he accelerated too quickly, then too slowly, his foot unable to find a consistent pressure. The G-Wagon jerked and surged, his driving increasingly erratic as fatigue made his movements less coordinated.
"Just what is this chip that Janet claims was planted within my skull? And when did that happen?" He was talking faster now, thoughts tumbling out in a stream-of-consciousness flood. "It couldn't have been when I was young and still in Crestwood, could it? Then maybe while I was in Delvin Orphanage? No, no, that doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense."
He shook his head, immediately regretting it as dizziness washed over him, making the streetlights blur into smears of orange light.
"For now, I need to find a place to hide. Then perhaps I will come up with a solution to get myself out of this mess."
His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration startling him badly enough that he jerked the wheel, sending the G-Wagon veering toward the center line before he corrected. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline providing a temporary boost to his flagging awareness.
He pulled over to the curb, the G-Wagon mounting it slightly before settling, and fumbled for his phone with hands that felt like they belonged to someone else. The screen was too bright in the darkness of the car, making him squint.
Caller ID: Owen Kessler
Elijah hesitated for just a moment, then answered, bringing the phone to his ear. "Owen?"
---
Outside Crestwood Police Department headquarters, Owen stood on the front steps, the building's facade lit by security lights that created dramatic shadows across the classical architecture—columns, stone steps, and the department seal carved into the lintel above the entrance.
The night air was cool, almost cold, and Owen had his jacket collar turned up against it. He'd been inside for most of the evening, dealing with the bureaucratic fallout from his viral video incident, and stepping outside had been a relief even if the reason for the call was anything but relieving.
"Elijah, listen to me," Owen said, his voice tight with urgency. "Something is currently being aired on the news, and you're not going to like it. Like, really not going to like it. You need to see this right now."
He could hear the confusion in Elijah's voice when he responded. "What are you talking about? What news?"
"Just—look, I can't explain it properly. You need to see it yourself. Check VTube, WELB 7's channel. Do it now."
There was a pause, some rustling sounds, then Owen heard the distinctive sounds of someone navigating their phone—taps, swipes, the quiet audio of a video starting to play.
And then silence. Long, heavy silence that stretched on until Owen had to check his phone to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"Elijah? You there?"
---
Elijah stared at his phone screen, his thumb having moved of its own accord to open the VTube app, to navigate to WELB 7's channel, to click on the video at the top of their feed.
The video quality was good—professional news footage, not amateur cell phone recording. The timestamp in the corner showed it had been uploaded less than an hour ago. The view count was already in the hundreds of thousands and climbing rapidly.
The footage showed the interior of Lare Biogenics—he recognized the distinctive architecture, the high ceilings, the particular shade of industrial gray they used on the walls. It was one of the secure laboratories, the kind that required multiple levels of clearance to access.
And there, on screen, was a figure.
They wore dark clothing—black jeans, a black hoodie with the hood pulled up and forward, obscuring most of their face. The person moved with purpose and confidence, clearly familiar with the layout, heading directly to a particular workstation.
On that workstation, secured in a containment unit with multiple locks and security measures, was the Aethernova Core. The footage showed the figure bypassing the security with practiced ease—entering codes, using what looked like a keycard, moving through the protocols like someone who had legitimate access.
The figure removed the Core from its containment—Elijah could see the shimmering reddish-black hues even through the video, the way the light played across its surface—and placed it into a black duffel bag with careful, reverent movements.
And then, as the figure turned to leave, it happened.
The hood slipped. Just slightly, just for a moment. Perhaps two seconds of footage, maybe less. But it was enough to expose part of the person's face to the camera.
The left side of the face became visible—the angle of the jaw, the curve of the cheek, the line of the nose. Not enough to be completely certain for someone who didn't know the person, but absolutely unmistakable to anyone who did.
It was Elijah's face. His jawline, his features, his distinctive profile.
The video paused on that exact frame, zooming in, enhancing the image, circling the exposed portion of face with a red outline. Then it continued, showing the figure pulling the hood back into place and exiting the laboratory, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
The video ended, transitioning to the WELB 7 news desk, where an anchor—perfectly coiffed, expression serious and professional—stared into the camera.
"Breaking news tonight from Lare Biogenics, a subsidiary of Halvern Consortium. Security footage obtained by WELB 7 appears to show Elijah Marcus, a junior researcher at the facility, stealing what experts are calling one of the most significant technological breakthroughs of the decade."
A graphic appeared next to the anchor—Elijah's employee photo from Lare Biogenics, side-by-side with a still from the security footage, the red circle highlighting his partially exposed face.
"The device, known as an Orrhion Core, was designed by renowned physicist Dennison Rodman and represents years of research into sustainable energy production. The core, valued at an estimated fifty million dollars, disappeared from the facility late last night, and Marcus has not been seen since."
The screen transitioned again, now showing a bulletin in bold red letters:
**WANTED: ELIJAH MARCUS**
**Theft of Proprietary Technology**
**Considered Armed and Dangerous**
**Contact Crestwood PD with any information**
Below that, in smaller text: *The Orrhion Core, designed by Dr. Dennison Rodman, represents cutting-edge technology in energy condensation and storage. Its theft poses not only economic damage but potential security risks if the technology falls into the wrong hands.*
Elijah's thumb hovered over the screen, frozen, his mind unable to fully process what he was seeing.
His voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper, but carried the weight of absolute incredulity and rage.
"What the actually fuck."
The profanity felt inadequate, too small a word to contain the emotion behind it.
"I'm the one who created it," he continued, his voice rising. "I built it. It's my work, my design, my months of effort. And who the hell is this Dennison Rodman fellow? What is all of this?"
He scrolled down to the comments section of the video, against his better judgment. They were exactly what he expected:
*"Always the quiet ones you have to watch out for"*
*"50 million? Hope it was worth throwing your life away buddy"*
*"Halvern Consortium better step up their security if some junior researcher can just walk out with their most valuable tech"*
*"He doesn't look dangerous in his employee photo but you never know anymore"*
Thousands of comments, all condemning him, all assuming his guilt, all... all because of video footage that he absolutely did not remember creating.
*But then again,* a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, *you don't remember building the Core either. You don't remember most of the last several months clearly. How do you know you didn't steal it?*
"No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "It's that director. I'm guessing everything happening is because of that person. This is all manufactured. The video, the story, the whole narrative. It's them."
He sat in his G-Wagon, parked on a street in the industrial district, holding his phone, staring at his own face being broadcast to hundreds of thousands of people with the word "WANTED" stamped across it.
The phone buzzed—Owen calling back, probably wondering why Elijah had gone silent mid-call.
Elijah looked at the screen, his thumb hovering over the accept button.
*If I tell Owen where I am, if I explain what's happening, will he believe me? Will anyone believe me? And even if he does, even if he wants to help, their phone lines could be monitored. This director, whoever they are, they have resources. They faked this video, they planted a chip in my head, they've been manipulating me for who knows how long.*
*Telling Owen where I'm going would be leading them right to me.*
He let the call go to voicemail.
The phone buzzed again immediately—another call from Owen, more insistent this time.
Elijah stared at it, at the screen showing his friend's name, his hand trembling not just from fatigue now but from the weight of the decision.
Then he rolled down the window, drew his arm back, and threw the phone as hard as he could.
It arced through the air, tumbling end over end, catching the orange streetlight as it spun. It landed somewhere in the shadows between buildings, the sound of its impact lost in the ambient noise of the factory and the distant traffic.
Gone. His connection to his old life, to people who might want to help, to anyone who knew him as anything other than "WANTED."
He rolled the window back up, put the G-Wagon in drive, and pulled away from the curb. His driving was still uncertain, still compromised by fatigue, but purpose now drove him forward.
*Find somewhere to hide. Figure out what's real and what's manufactured. Find this director and make them pay for what they've done.*
The G-Wagon's taillights disappeared around a corner, heading deeper into the industrial district, into the parts of the city where security cameras were sparse and questions weren't asked.
Behind him, the factory continued its overnight operations, trucks continued their deliveries, the city continued its endless cycle, completely indifferent to one man's sudden fall from grace.
---
Elijah's Apartment
12:47 AM
The apartment looked like a tornado had passed through, or perhaps more accurately, like a violent confrontation had occurred followed by a hurried and incomplete cleanup attempt.
Furniture was overturned—the couch on its side, cushions scattered across the floor. The coffee table had been shoved against the wall, one leg broken, leaving it tilted at an awkward angle. The entertainment center's door hung open, the television screen cracked in a spiderweb pattern that suggested impact with something heavy.
In the kitchenette, cabinet doors stood open, their contents partially removed and then abandoned as if someone had been searching for something specific and given up. The knife block was empty, its contents scattered across the floor—five knives in various locations, some showing small dents or scratches that suggested they'd been used for something other than food preparation.
The floor was a mess of scattered objects, overturned chairs, and in several places, dark stains that could have been blood or could have been something else. The walls showed scuff marks and small dents, the kind that came from bodies being slammed against them or objects thrown in anger or desperation.
And sitting on the overturned couch—the only piece of furniture that had been righted, though not returned to its proper position—was Janet.
She looked like she'd been through hell. Her usually neat hair was disheveled, falling in her face, tangle suggesting she'd been pulling at it or it had been pulled by someone else. Her clothes were rumpled and torn in places—her blouse had a rip along one sleeve, her skirt was twisted around her waist, her stockings had runs in multiple places.
Her face showed the aftermath of crying—red, puffy eyes, tear tracks down her cheeks, mascara smeared in dark streaks. Her neck bore bruises in the clear pattern of fingers—Elijah's fingers from when he'd choked her—the marks purple and angry-looking against her pale skin.
She sat slumped forward, elbows on her knees, face in her hands, the picture of complete defeat and distress. Her shoulders shook occasionally with silent sobs, her breathing hitching in that distinctive way that suggested crying had been going on for a while and had exhausted itself into this quiet despair.
The apartment door opened without knocking—whoever was entering had a key or didn't care about such niceties as privacy.
Four people walked in, their footsteps loud in the quiet space, their presence immediately dominating the room.
Janet's head snapped up at the sound, her red-rimmed eyes widening. She pushed herself off the couch, standing on shaky legs, her mouth opening to speak—
The sharp CRACK of a slap cut off whatever she'd been about to say.
The middle-aged woman who'd struck her stood close, her hand still raised from follow-through, her face twisted with fury and contempt. The force of the blow sent Janet stumbling sideways, her hand flying to her cheek, her body losing balance and going down. She hit the floor hard, landing on her hip and shoulder, a small cry of pain escaping her lips.
The woman who'd struck her was Clara—the same Clara from the secret meeting room, though without her carefully maintained composure. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving with sharp breaths.
She was dressed more casually now than in the business attire from earlier—slacks and a simple blouse, comfortable shoes designed for practical movement rather than professional appearance. Her hair, which had been in that neat bob, now showed signs of being hastily arranged, a few strands out of place.
Janet remained on the floor, one hand pressed to her cheek where a red handprint was already forming, the other braced against the ground. She looked up at Clara with an expression that mixed fear, shame, and something that might have been defiance if it had any strength behind it.
One of the other three people who'd entered—an old man, heavy-set, with distinctively Polynesian features—stepped forward and spoke in a gravelly voice that carried the weight of years and authority.
"Calm yourself, Clara." His tone was almost lazy, unconcerned with the violence that had just occurred. "You don't need to waste yourself on a doll you failed to train well."
He was shorter than average, maybe five-foot-eight, but built like someone who'd been powerful in youth and had let that power settle into comfortable bulk in age. His face was weathered, lined with deep creases that spoke of decades in the sun, and his hair was steel gray, cropped short. He wore casual clothes—a loose-fitting shirt, cargo pants, sandals—the kind of outfit that suggested someone who no longer cared about impressions.
This was Mata'vao, clearly, though looking very different from the doughy, uncomfortable figure in the expensive suit from the meeting room. Here, in practical clothes, in a space where pretense wasn't required, he looked more comfortable, more himself.
Clara's head snapped toward him, her teeth literally grinding together audibly, the muscles in her jaw bunching with the force of it. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body rigid with suppressed rage.
"You, Mata'vao," she said, her voice tight and controlled but shaking slightly at the edges, "you know, you really have a knack for pissing me off. This stunt my people just pulled has put us on the map to be looked over by the other big fish. We were supposed to be subtle, to operate under the radar, and now—"
She gestured violently at the destroyed apartment, at Janet still on the floor, at the general chaos surrounding them.
"—now we have a target escaping, security footage being broadcast, police involvement, and attention from all the wrong people. Do you understand what you've—what we've—compromised here?"
Mata'vao's weathered face split into a grin that showed several gold teeth among the natural ones. "Relax, relax," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "That brat still has the neural Orrhion chip within him, which has the GPS functionality. Even if he decides to hide, he can't go too far. My people will go and find him. This is a temporary setback, nothing more."
He turned to look at the other two people who'd entered with them—a younger Samoan man and woman, both probably in their late twenties or early thirties, both built like people who made their living through physical capability rather than office work.
The man was perhaps six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, with thick arms and a chest that strained against his t-shirt. His face was impassive, professional, the look of someone who'd done this kind of work many times before. He had traditional Polynesian tattoos visible on his arms—geometric patterns that spoke of heritage and identity.
The woman was shorter but no less imposing—muscular in a way that suggested serious training, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her face angular and hard. She wore practical clothes—dark jeans, a fitted jacket that probably concealed weapons, boots designed for running or fighting.
They both nodded at Mata'vao's look, a silent acknowledgment of orders received and understood.
Without a word, they turned and left the apartment, their footsteps fading quickly as they headed to wherever their vehicle was parked, presumably to begin tracking Elijah using whatever GPS signal his implanted chip was transmitting.
The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving just four people in the destroyed apartment: Clara, Mata'vao, Janet still on the floor, and the calm-looking female who'd been with Mata'vao but hadn't spoken yet. She was older—probably in her fifties—with graying hair and a face that suggested she'd seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore. She stood slightly behind and to the side of Mata'vao, her posture relaxed but alert, her eyes constantly scanning the room, cataloging details, assessing threats.
Clara crossed her arms over her chest, her earlier fury banking slightly into something more controlled but no less intense. "You know what makes me worried, Mata'vao?" Her voice was quieter now, more contemplative, which somehow made it more unsettling. "This Orrhion Condensate that the higher-ups have given all their bets into—this entire project, this tournament they keep mentioning, this grand plan that's supposed to change everything. Do you think it will work? Or will it just fail spectacularly?"
She paused, then continued, her eyes meeting his directly.
"Because to me, all of this is just a bubble ready to pop and blow up in all of our faces. We're putting too much faith in unproven technology, in theories that sound good on paper but haven't been tested in real-world conditions. And when—not if, but when—this bubble bursts, we're all going to be caught in the blast radius."
Mata'vao's expression shifted, the casual amusement fading into something more serious, more reverent. His eyes took on a distant quality, looking not at Clara but at something beyond her, something only he could see.
"Relax," he said again, but this time his tone carried weight, conviction, the absolute certainty of a true believer. "The Sage is a brilliant mind which no one currently in the world can be in equal footing with. His intellect, his understanding of principles that others can't even comprehend... that's why the other side—the opposition—they don't dare to launch an all-out attack on us. They fear him."
His face transformed as he spoke, taking on an expression of religious devotion, of worship bordering on fanaticism. His eyes brightened, his mouth curved into a smile that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with zealous faith.
"I revere his judgment. His intellect. His vision for what we can become, what humanity can become, if we just follow his guidance, his plan, his path to enlightenment and evolution."
He pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart, the gesture unconscious and deeply sincere.
"The Sage sees what we cannot. Understands what we cannot. And if he says the Orrhion Condensate is the key, if he says the tournament will separate the worthy from the chaff, if he says this boy—this Elijah—is important enough to preserve and observe, then I believe him without question, without doubt, without hesitation."
Clara stared at Mata'vao as he spoke, her expression cycling through several emotions—confusion, skepticism, and finally something close to disturbed unease.
She'd worked with fanatics before, with true believers who'd surrendered their critical thinking to charismatic leaders, but seeing it so nakedly displayed, so completely unashamed, still managed to unsettle her.
Mata'vao's face remained locked in that expression of devoted worship, his eyes still seeing something beyond the physical room, his hand still pressed over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to something greater than himself.
And Clara, watching him, felt a cold certainty settle in her stomach.
This is going to end badly, she thought. When faith replaces reason, when worship replaces wisdom, when people stop questioning and just follow... that's when everything falls apart.
But she said nothing, because what could she say that would penetrate that kind of devoted certainty?
So she just stood there, arms crossed, staring at a man lost in religious fervor for a "Sage" whose identity and true nature remained shrouded in mystery and legend.
On the floor, Janet continued to hold her bruised cheek, watching this exchange with eyes that showed she'd learned the most important lesson of all in this organization:
Keep your head down, do what you're told, and pray you're not the next one to be made an example of.