Chapter 5: Destination Congo
(1st Person: Zavier)
The briefing room feels heavier than usual.
We're seated around the long obsidian table in the Salt Lake City base—me, Renee, Nate, and Darius—waiting for the holo-screen to flicker on. No one's really talking. Renee's sharpening her claws with a surgical focus. Nate keeps tapping his foot. Darius is leaned back, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like he's already done with the day. Then the screen lights up.
Director Grant appears, suited and polished, flanked by a digital overlay of global intel. His expression is the same as always—controlled, composed, but with just enough tension in his jaw to remind me that the last time we spoke. Next to him on split screen I can see all of Amaia and her team in another location on the call.
"Good morning," he starts flatly.
"I see Zavier's & Amaia's teams are both on this call. Good. I'll keep this brief. You've been cleared for international deployment."
We all sit straighter.
"You'll be teaming with Amaia's unit and several Congolese Apostles for a joint operation targeting a major Orion compound."
He gestures off-screen. Three dossiers slide into view.
"Michel Lusamba – Codename: Mwamba
Jungle terrain expert. He'll serve as your recon anchor and terrain guide."
"Nia Kalonji – Codename: Dakana
Specializes in stealth disruption and sabotage. She'll assist in field maneuvers, not infiltration."
Then, Grant pauses, and his tone tightens.
"There is also an inside agent."
The screen shifts again, revealing a fourth profile—female, late 20s, sharp eyes behind medical glasses.
"Assumpta Mbaki – Codename: Mbali
Deep-cover analyst embedded in Orion's R&D division. She'll serve as your entry point. She has been feeding us data for months and is ready to assist in-person now that the compound's guard rotation has been altered. You'll only have one shot at this. If she's exposed, she dies. Keep that in mind."
We all nod silently.
Grant doesn't blink.
"Now. Team assignments."
He zooms in on the compound schematics—layers of tunnels, labs, and security checkpoints.
"Stealth team will infiltrate the compound's south maintenance tunnel and reach the primary control core. This team will consist of Zavier, Veronica, and Renee."
Renee glances up at me, silent but alert. Veronica nods once, her face unreadable.
"Field team will create a distraction at the north perimeter and suppress enemy reinforcements. Amaia will lead. She'll be joined by Nate, Darius, and Ali."
Nate nods as he juggles a fireball in his hands. "Nice. I'm all for burning down a-holes."
Darius just nods, expression calm but focused. Ali folds his arms with a quiet smirk.
"We'll handle it."
Grant's tone dips colder.
"You are not to improvise. Stick to mission parameters. I'll be monitoring from central HQ. We are trusting you with valuable assets. Don't make me regret that trust."
His eyes linger on me for half a beat too long.
"Move out."
The screen cuts to black.
For a second, no one moves. Then Renee finally says what we're all thinking.
"Professional as hell," she mutters.
"Still mad you made him look weak."
"Good," I reply.
We split off—each heading toward loadout and prep. My comm buzzes—Veronica sending real-time humidity and terrain readouts. Renee's already grabbing infiltration gear. Nate's whistling like he's walking into a party. Darius gives me a simple nod before heading to the dropship. I exhale deeply. We're really doing this.
Orion's about to feel us coming.
We'll meet up with Amaia's team at a base to head out to the Congo region together. As we're getting our things together, I realize I got some time to kill before we head out. I grabbed my phone to message Aiden. I let him know that we're heading to Africa and that I love him. Given the life I live, there's always a possibility I won't come back home. I can't let a day go by without telling him.
"Zavier?"
Someone called out to me. I turned around and saw that it was Renee.
"Z, we're ready. Are you ok?"
"Yea. I was just reaching out to Aiden."
"Everything ok?"
"Yeah. I always make sure I say something to him before we go off on missions."
" Aww. Well, whenever you're done being cute, we'll need to head out."
"Ok. I'm right behind you."
We moved fast. Final checks, gear reloaded, stealth armor fitted, force fields synced. Our squad boarded a transport shuttle from Salt Lake and jetted halfway across the Atlantic, arriving at a secured Apostle waypoint in southern Morocco.
When we touched down, Amaia's crew was already waiting.
I spotted them at the far end of the hangar—Amaia first, standing confident with her arms crossed like she'd been running black ops since she could walk. Christina was leaning against the wall beside her, tossing a drone core up and down in her hand like it owed her money. Ali stood with one arm slung around Amaia's shoulder, quietly reviewing terrain data on a wrist display.
We walked over as a unit, but Renee broke into a grin halfway there.
"Well, look who remembered to wear matching outfits," she called out.
Christina rolled her eyes.
"Just because we don't dress like it's a sponsored brawl doesn't mean we don't have drip."
Nate laughed.
"You bringing that sass into the field too, or saving it for downtime?"
"I bring it everywhere," she fired back.
Darius chuckled low. I saw Veronica nod toward Amaia in quiet greeting, and Amaia gave one back—cool, controlled. That was her way. I stepped in closer, arms out.
"Group hug?"
"Group restraining order," Amaia said dryly—but she didn't move when I ruffled her hair.
"Aw, you missed me."
"I missed my peace."
Christina cracked up, and I caught the way Ali smiled without looking up from his screen. He only looked away when Amaia nudged him.
"Jet's almost ready," she said.
"Christina uploaded the last terrain patch and humidity profiles. We should be good on aerial cloaking. Pilot says we'll break atmosphere in six minutes."
I nodded, impressed.
"Efficient."
"Learned from the best," she said.
Then added another comment with a deadpan tone.
"Unfortunately, you're also the one who taught me to ignore sleep."
The boarding ramp hissed open. We moved like clockwork—our teams split between sides of the aisle in the Apostle-grade jet. Black metal, armored seats, filtered pressure for high-atmo drops. Amaia and Ali sat across from each other, subtle glances exchanged like no one was watching. Christina sat next to Veronica, already showing her something on a flickering holopad. Nate took a spot beside me, and Darius leaned into the seat behind. I sat back, strapping in as the jet hummed beneath us. Despite the chill vibes, my mind is still on the mission. I know we're in for some uncomfortable sights cuz organizations like Orion always love to do sick shit to people for their own gains. Just trying to prepare myself for what we might see. The power source. The mission. The risks. We didn't know what we were walking into yet.
But we had each other. And if Orion was hiding something this important? They were about to lose it
The hum of the jet settled into a low, steady drone beneath us—white noise for nerves and half-formed thoughts. Most people would be mentally prepping for war.
We were arguing about anime.
"I'm just saying," I started, gesturing like a man making an irrefutable court case.
"Bleach fell off. Post-Soul Society arc? Slid harder than Nate on a freshly waxed floor."
Nate just gasps at the mention.
"Wait, what did I do to catch a stray shot?"
Amaia, seated across from me, narrowed her eyes like I just insulted her mother.
"You're ridiculous. Bleach had some of the best worldbuilding—top-tier drip, peak character design. You're really gonna disrespect the captains like that?"
Christina leaned over from her seat next to Veronica.
"Facts. And don't act like you didn't scream when Ichigo went full Hollow for the first time. Not to mention Bleach was among the few animes at that time that actually knew how to draw black people."
"Ok I can give you that, but the plot needed CPR," I shot back.
"Meanwhile, One Piece and Naruto were cooking for an entire generation."
Ali looked up from where he and Nate were swapping playlist recommendations.
"Okay, but none of y'all are mentioning Death Note or Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. Those are the real heavyweights."
Amaia and Christina said it in unison:
"Different tier."
"Death Note is philosophical warfare, not shonen hype." Amaia added.
"And Brotherhood is a whole therapy session in alchemy form," Christina finished.
Ali held up his hands, smirking.
"Okay, okay. I'll take the L."
Darius—quiet until now—chimed in with calm authority.
"Dragon Ball Z."
Every single one of us turned and gave him the look. Even Renee lowered her claws just to squint at him.
Christina takes her glasses off to look at Darius with one of the most disappointed looks I've ever seen on her.
"Bro. Really?"
I just shamed my head at him.
"You really have the general public answer?"
Amaia just let's put a deep sigh.
"You read the sparknotes, huh?"
Darius raised an eyebrow.
"I grew up on it."
"Like I give a damn!" I said with my best Chris Tucker impression to add some flare to it.
In the corner, I caught Nate flicking a tiny flame off the tip of his finger while Renee leaned in, clearly amused.
"I'm just saying," Nate whispered to her.
"If I had to pick a favorite anime girl…"
"You'd still be wrong," Renee interrupted, smirking without looking up.
He chuckled.
"You don't even know what I was gonna say."
"Doesn't matter. You were gonna be wrong."
They really love hiding it but everyone within 100 miles knew they were absolutely together. They just hadn't caught up to it yet.
The laughter started to fade, replaced by the familiar weight that came right before a mission. Veronica leaned back in her seat, fidgeting slightly with the clips on her utility belt.
"I'm not gonna lie…" she said quietly.
"This is my first time being led by Zavier on a live field op."
I turned to her, eyebrows raised.
"You worried I'm gonna screw it up?"
"No," she said too quickly, then corrected herself.
"I mean… I'm worried I will. You're kind of a big deal. I don't wanna be the one who slips up."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"V, the only way you'd let me down is if you started monologuing mid-battle. You've trained for this. You've got skills most Apostles would kill for. I picked you for this team because I know what you bring. And I've got your back."
She didn't say anything right away—but her eyes softened, and her fingers finally stopped fidgeting.
Darius looked across at Amaia, arms folded.
"Not gonna lie, feels weird being led by someone who probably still has high school friends who haven't aged out of TikTok."
Amaia raised an eyebrow.
"You saying you don't trust me?"
"I didn't say that." He shrugged.
"Just admitting what it is. But… I've seen what you do. You've been in the game longer than a lot of so-called veterans. So yeah. I'll follow your lead."
She nodded once, without ego.
"Then I'll earn it."
"Amaia's got you," I said, giving him a solid pat on the shoulder.
"She's one of our best. Just try not to slow her down."
Right as I said that—buzz. My phone vibrated in my hand. Instinct made me glance at the screen without thinking. Big mistake. First thing I saw?
Skin.
Then black lace.
Then cheeks.
I damn near dropped the phone.
It was a picture from Aiden—of Aiden. In that lingerie set I definitely told him it was my favorite. Just sitting there in bed, back arched, like a damn temptation demon. The caption?
"In case you need some extra motivation. Come back in one piece, babe 💋"
My soul left my body.
I stiffened up like a statue, trying not to let the phone slip out of my hands. My face was already heating up, and I could feel Amaia looking at me sideways.
"You good?" she asked.
"Uh—yeah. Just… holding in a sneeze."
They didn't buy it. I didn't buy it. God didn't buy it.
I locked the screen and cleared my throat, doing my best to act normal while my brain was screaming.
Really, Aiden?! Mid-flight? This man sent me a whole thirst trap while I'm sitting next to the team like I'm not one eyebrow twitch away from folding. That smile… those eyes… and those damn thighs—
I exhaled hard through my nose, trying to stay composed.
Focus, Zay. Mission first. Later… he's gonna pay for that.
I swallowed, nodded to Darius again, and forced myself to stay in the moment. But the damage was done.
And the image was burned into my brain.
The jet's hum settled into a low, steady drone as we glided over the endless stretch of rainforest. Below us, the green ocean of the Congo basin unfurled, broken only by wisps of mist rising like smoke signals from the canopy.
Then came the shift.
The engines dropped pitch—subtle, but unmistakable. Every Apostle on board instinctively snapped to quiet. No more joking. No more banter.
We were close.
The descent was smooth. From above, the regional Apostle outpost looked like a military ghost town swallowed by the jungle—low structures camouflaged in moss tones, relay towers poking through the foliage like silent sentinels.
When the jet touched down, the hatch hissed open—and we stepped into the dense, sweat-slicked air of the Congo.
"God," Nate muttered, wiping his brow.
"We landed in a rice cooker."
Renee barely blinked. "That's adorable. I call this foreplay."
Across the tarmac, two figures in Apostle gear waited—firm postures, no wasted movements. The Congo squad.
The first stepped forward. Tall, powerful, presence carved straight out of the jungle. A retractable spear rested across his back, and streaks of war paint marked his face.
"Michel Lusamba," he said.
"Codename: Mwamba. Terrain expert and your recon lead. You follow me, the jungle will treat you like family. You wander off…"
He let the sentence hang.
Amaia offered a respectful nod.
"We'll follow."
Next, a shorter woman stepped forward—built stocky, with braided hair and a bodysuit threaded with stealth mesh. Her sharp eyes scanned us like she was already assigning our likelihoods of survival.
"Nia Kalonji. Codename: Dakana. Stealth disruption, sabotage. I'm not here to play, or fix your mistakes. Stick to mission parameters."
Renee smirked.
"She gets it."
As we shook hands and exchanged nods, a fourth voice chimed in from a high platform overhead.
"Glad you all made it down in one piece."
We looked up—Christina stood at a console balcony above, hands on her hips, drone pads humming quietly around her.
She grinned.
"I've already patched into satellite feeds, ciphered local signals, and cross-referenced Orion's last data packet. I'll be your eyes and voice from base. Don't break anything expensive, and I won't have to hack anyone's spinal implant."
Amaia looked up, amused.
"She's the voice in our heads now."
"She's always been the voice in your head," Ali muttered.
Christina shrugged.
"Just call me Oracle… or Beyoncé. Either works."
We followed the Congolese squad into the compound. The jungle swallowed the sunlight behind us, and the moment we crossed into the war room, the mood changed.
The walls glowed with digital terrain maps. A 3D schematic of the Orion blacksite hovered over the main table, flickering softly. Two mission routes were already highlighted in orange and green.
Mwamba took the lead, expanding the projection.
"Intel confirms the facility was once a biotech front—now restructured for blacksite experiments, weapons research, and Variant trafficking."
He zoomed in on a secured core near the base's rear.
"And this… is what they call the 'power source.' We don't have visuals, but our insider says it's key to their next-gen development pipeline."
Dakana spoke next.
"That insider is Assumpta Mbaki—codename Mbali. She's been embedded for over a year, collecting data and positioning herself to help you infiltrate. The guard rotation changed this morning. This is our best window."
Mwamba pointed to the southern access tunnel.
"Stealth team—Zavier, Renee, Veronica—you'll enter here. Mbali will link with you mid-infiltration and guide you to the power source. Get in. Get out. Leave no footprint."
I gave a crisp nod.
"Understood."
Christina tapped something on her console above.
"I'll be tracking interior heat signatures and drone loops. You'll have real-time updates—unless something fries. If it does, pretend I'm still in your ear and keep moving."
Dakana turned to Amaia's squad.
"Field team—Amaia, Darius, Ali, Nate—you'll establish a soft perimeter just outside the northern ridge. You remain in stealth until one of two conditions is met."
She held up two fingers.
"One: the alarm is tripped.
Two: the power source is secured and being extracted."
Ali nodded his head in agreement
Mwamba stepped in.
"The secure site for extraction is hidden and off-grid. Only we know it. If Orion even suspects where it's going, the entire mission fails. The field team's job is to make sure that doesn't happen. Whatever noise you make—make it count."
Veronica studied the map.
"What happens if Mbali's cover is blown?"
Christina's voice filtered through.
"Then you pivot. Renee takes point. Secondary route is mapped. Mbali dies if she's caught—but if you move fast enough, you can still get the target out."
Amaia leaned over the map, expression focused.
"You all know your comm bands and route tags. Don't fall behind. Don't get fancy."
I nodded.
"We move together until we split. And when it's time to split—we vanish."
Everyone nodded.
Mwamba powered down the map.
"Final checks. You're wheels-up in ten."
The Congo jungle didn't whisper.
It breathed.
Thick and wet, the air wrapped around us like a second skin. Every vine, every leaf, every shadow felt ancient. Not just old—watchful.
Our jet landed in a clearing barely wide enough for the drop. Camouflage netting stretched above us. Moss muffled our steps. The jungle swallowed sound.
Even Ember didn't crack a joke.
Solara and I led the way, our teams tight behind. Waiting at the treeline were the Congolese Apostles—already ghosted into the terrain.
Mwamba rose first, steady and grounded.
"Two clicks from the compound. One patrol, southeast—lightly armed. We move quiet."
Dakana cracked her neck and disappeared before anyone could blink. No noise. No shimmer. Just gone. Ten seconds later, a faint grunt. One body down. She returned, brushing a leaf from her shoulder.
"Route's clean."
Ferra blinked.
"Okay… damn."
Mwamba activated his wrist grid, a holographic scan blooming above the foliage.
"Heat signatures mapped. Tunnel's under the ridge. We'll give Z-Force a clean entry."
Drago asked,
"You need anything reinforced?"
"Not yet," Mwamba said.
"Save it for the call."
Mwamba advanced—no powers, just poise. Spear in one hand, curved terrain reader in the other. Like the jungle shaped him itself.
Two fingers up. A signal.
"Ridge watch," he ordered.
Aquamenté flowed into liquid, weaving beneath roots, then reformed behind a stone wall. Thumbs-up.
Osiris pressed his hand to the rocky slope. His body shimmered, skin hardening into mineral armor.
"Nothing's getting through me."
Drago pulled moisture from the air. A plasma disc shimmered into life in his palm.
"Perimeter's up."
Ember sent a small flame into the mist—just enough to cast a haze across our flank.
"Let 'em aim through that."
Solara crouched near a moss-covered boulder, green chi flickering like a slow heartbeat across her fingers. Focused. Waiting.
Then her voice.
"Feels still. Too still."
Christina buzzed through our earpieces.
"Confirmed. Six heat sigs. Thirty meters. Armed. Standard patrol."
Solara raised her hand.
"Copy. Mwamba?"
He was already moving. The patrol never knew. Christina alerts me through the comms on what's up next.
"Z-Force, you've got a six-minute window. Cameras are looped for thirty seconds. Move now."
Ferra grinned, crouched.
"No pressure."
Aquamenté reappeared beside me.
"Tunnel in sight. No hostiles."
Dakana handed me a pulsing red beacon.
"This will lead you to Mbali. She'll meet you past the weapons wing. Stay off the main halls."
I nodded.
"We've got it."
Solara turned to her team.
"Hold your sectors. Go loud only if the alarm trips or the asset moves."
Mwamba looked at me with that still intensity.
"If you're caught, they'll send everything. If you fight—make it count."
Ferra and Aquamenté nodded. I gave a quiet breath.
We moved.
The jungle vanished behind us, swallowed by cold, artificial air.
Fluorescent lights pulsed dimly overhead. The air stank of antiseptic and ozone—and something beneath that. Something rotten, covered up but still alive.
We were inside.
Ferra crouched beside me, sniffing once, eyes darting. Aquamenté dissolved ahead, slipping through the cracks. No cameras tracked us. Christina's override was holding.
I tapped my comm.
"We're in."
Christina responds.
"Copy. Twelve minutes before the next sweep. I'm patching Mwamba into your HUD."
I hear the channel switch and Mwamba speaks to me.
"Head left. Maintenance leads to lower R&D. Two guards on a loop. Stay unseen."
We followed.
The silence was worse than noise. Every step down a corridor felt like trespassing into something wrong. Aquamenté cracked a door from the inside. Ferra dropped a guard in seconds—silent, efficient.
We pushed on with Christina feeding us intel.
"Room 8-A. Start recording."
Inside: horror.
Variants strapped down—unconscious, twitching, some barely alive. Tubes drained something black and iridescent from their bodies into humming skeletal machines.
Ferra's voice went low and sharp.
"They're experimenting… on so many people…so many kids."
Aquamenté stared, pale.
"What is this place?"
I pulled out Christina's custom phone. Sleek. Silent. I activated scan mode—capturing IDs, chemical readouts, vitals. One terminal blinked:
DM-Core Frequency: Stable
The dark matter shimmered. Not liquid. Not tech. It pulsed—like it was breathing.
"Where's it coming from, Christina?" I asked.
From the tapping on the keyboard I can hear in my ear, I can tell Christina is trying to find the answer before she speaks.
"Still tracking… but it's not harvested. It's centralized. Controlled. It feels organic."
"Central vault. Wing D9. No registry," Mwamba added.
"Whatever it is—they built the entire lower compound around it."
More corridors. More sins.
Weaponized suits spliced with Variant biology. Crates labeled VOMEGA. Diagrams of new tech—dark matter rounds, skeletal armor with neurological ports.
We documented everything.
Ferra used the vents—took another guard from above.
Aquamenté locked one in a cryo-chamber mid-patrol. They she slipped past him by turning herself into a puddle was graceful.
I threw a cloaking field around us as a turret spun by. Clean. Cold.
Then, a shape.
A figure emerged from behind a junction—lab coat, sleek gear, precise movements. Her face was set, not shaken. Like someone who'd learned how to survive hell with her sanity intact.
"You're early," she whispered.
"You're Mbali," I said.
"Codename only." She eyed our tech.
"You brought the gear?"
I raised Christina's scanner.
"Encrypted. Live uploads."
Mbali led us into a disguised sanitation room. She killed the cams with a flick of her wrist. Inside, she pulled her visor off, and finally let herself breathe.
"Fifteen months in this nightmare. I've seen trafficking, forced fusions, and prototype testing on unwilling Variants. But what's worse is how they talk about it. They worship Dark Matter—treat it like it's the next step in human evolution."
She exhaled sharply.
"To them, pain is just the cost of progress. They don't just study it—they believe in it. Like it's divine. Like they're chosen to rewrite what it means to be alive."
Ferra's claws flexed slightly.
"That's not science. That's a cult."
Mbali nodded grimly. "Exactly."
Ferra gritted her teeth.
"And who's behind all this?"
"Cassius Garcia," Mbali said, voice like a blade.
"Lead researcher. Brilliant. Cold. He does this for the thrill. Calls suffering a necessary step in 'refining evolution.'"
Aquamenté muttered out loud.
"Psychopath."
Mbali didn't argue.
"He's not on site today, but the vault is. They call it 'the power source.' No names. No files. Just sealed doors and fear."
"You ever see it?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No. But… everything routes back to it. Every power spike, every shipment. It's not just storage—it's the origin point. And it feels alive. I don't know what's behind those doors. No one does."
She handed me a blinking beacon.
"This syncs with Christina's grid. Follow the coolant line reroutes I disguised. It'll take you to Wing D9. Once you're inside—you're on your own."
"What about you?"
Mbali checked her wristband.
"I'll trigger a fire drill. It'll give you a window and scramble internal comms. But I can't guarantee what happens after."
"You're not getting left behind," I said.
She didn't smile. Just nodded.
"What if the power source isn't tech?" Aquamenté whispered.
Ferra chimed in to add on to the question.
"What if it's alive?"
I gripped the beacon.
"We'll find out."
And as we slipped back into the corridor, headed toward the vault…
…that pulsing dark matter still echoed in my head. Like something waiting. Like something breathing.
The further we moved, the colder the air became. Not temperature-wise—just the energy. Like even the walls were holding their breath.
Christina's voice came through the comms, low but urgent.
"Wing D9 security systems are on an independent loop. Thirty-second blackout windows every seven minutes. You're two away. Get into position."
We crouched behind a sealed maintenance hatch overlooking a side corridor. A single camera swept past every twenty seconds—its hum slicing through the silence like a blade.
Aquamenté knelt beside the door, her fingers stretching with a ripple of water gathering from her palm.
"Lock's hydraulic," she whispered. "I can manipulate the inner valves."
I nodded towards her.
"Do it."
I watched as her body shifted—her legs anchoring, the rest of her torso melting to water from the waist up. She flowed into the panel seam, finding the internal pressure lines. With a subtle twist of liquid force, the latch gave way with a dull click. She reformed beside us, already steadying her breath.
"Clear."
Ferra bared her claws slightly.
"Getting better every op."
We slipped inside.
The hallway to Wing D9 was narrow and dimly lit—just enough to see the sheen of polished floor panels and the reinforced vault door looming ahead. Two guards stood at opposite ends of the room, each armed with pulse rifles and tac-visors.
I held up a hand, telling the team to wait. Christina's voice buzzed again.
"You've got two bogeys just past the door. Minimal movement. If you're fast, they won't have time to trigger an alarm."
Aquamenté and Ferra exchanged a glance. Then they moved.
Ferra dropped to all fours, sprinting low like a predator in full hunt. Aquamenté launched a burst of water from both palms—twin jets slamming the nearest guard into the wall with a watery thud. The second turned—
Too late.
I yanked him down with a force field snare, pulling his legs out from under him. Ferra was on him before he could scream—one hand over his mouth, claws drawn, eyes flashing. He slumped silently.
No alarms. No warnings.
I moved forward, sweeping the field out over the walls to detect any last-minute triggers. Nothing pinged.
"Door's sealed tight. This is the final checkpoint."
I turned to the others.
"Once we breach, there's no turning back."
Aquamenté nodded, forming a dense pressure sphere in one hand—just in case.
Ferra crouched low, poised.
"Let's see what Orion's so desperate to hide."
I raised my hand and sent a controlled force field pulse through the lock mechanism. It clunked once—then again—and hissed open by degrees. Behind that door lay the unknown. Something powerful. Something alive. And we were seconds from meeting it.
As the door hisses open with a sound too smooth to be mechanical. For a second, none of us move. Then the temperature shifts. It's not cold. Not warm. Just wrong. The kind of sensation that makes your inner ear twitch and your balance tilt slightly, like we just stepped into a room where physics was reconsidered.
I take a cautious step in. My force field hums low—automatically adjusting, as if my body senses something it doesn't know how to fight. The chamber opens into a dome-shaped vault. Smooth obsidian walls ripple with thin, branching veins of purple-blue light—like dark matter given circuitry. It pulses slowly, rhythmically. Like a heartbeat.
Aquamenté steps beside me, eyes wide, cautious.
"This… this isn't a lab."
"No," I mutter. "It's a cathedral."
At the center of the room, suspended in anti-gravity stasis, floats a black prism. Each side glows faintly from within—light bending around it like it's eating the air. Four anchored pylons tether it to the chamber floor, thrumming with cosmic energy and V-tech wiring. Each pulse carries a sound, a faint one. A hum. A whisper. A breath.
Ferra crouches beside one of the pylons, her nose twitching, her pupils shrinking to slits.
"It's alive," she says low. "There's something in there."
Aquamenté moves to another side, brushing her fingers along a monitor. It glitches and warps just from her proximity, static crawling across the display.
"This thing's… interfering with electronics," she says. "But not like tech. It's biological."
I tap my earpiece.
"Christina. Mwamba. We're in Wing D9. You're going to want visuals on this."
I lift the specialized device. Start scanning.
The walls register no heat signature. But the prism does—an unstable, shifting thermal read that keeps pulsing outward like sonar. Christina's voice buzzes in—tight, analytical.
"What are you seeing?"
"Dark matter-infused chamber. Central prism stabilized by gravity pylons. The power surges are coming from inside the containment."
Mwamba's tone is wary.
"Describe the interior."
I zoom in.
"Can't get a clean read yet. Light inside the prism is refracting. But whatever's in there—it's… breathing. We can feel it."
Aquamenté calls over.
"Z—these monitors are filled with readings. Everything references something labeled 'Subject S.' No name. Just tags like 'DM Core Sync,' 'Cosmic Fracture Sensitivity,' and 'Emotional Pulse Interference.'"
Ferra stalks around the other side, head low. Her voice is taut.
"I smell pain."
We all pause.
"What?" I ask.
She lifts her head, ears twitching slightly.
"Not fear. Not blood. Just… sorrow. It's coming from the prism."
I walk closer, force fields still low, scanning every inch of that gravity-suspended prism. My HUD flickers as we breach its perimeter.
Another reading blinks across the screen:
"WARNING: Sync Fluctuation Detected — Subject S experiencing elevated neurological activity."
I frown.
"Christina, this 'Subject S'—can you pull any visuals from their security systems?"
"Trying. But there's layered encryption over this chamber's feed. Garcia put in double failsafes."
"Of course he did," I mutter.
Ferra stiffens beside me.
Her voice drops to a whisper.
"Z… that's not a machine in there."
I turn toward her.
"What?"
She doesn't blink.
"It's a person."
The words hit the air like a gunshot in a cathedral.
Silence hangs.
Then the prism pulses again—brighter. And through the bend of light inside, we catch the outline. Faint. Small. Curled in the center of the structure. Not floating like a weapon. Curled like a child.
Aquamenté takes a step back.
"Oh my God…"
I don't say anything. I just exhale, low and heavy. My gut already knew. But now? Now it's real. And whatever's inside that prism isn't a thing. It's someone.
Ferra's whisper doesn't leave the air—it sticks to it.
Aquamenté takes another step back, hands tightening into fists.
"They're… using a person to power this?"
No one answers. We all just stare.
The prism pulses again—its glow intensifying not in aggression, but in rhythm. Like it's syncing to something alive. Something awake.
My HUD flickers again. New data filters in from Christina, crackling through encrypted static.
"Got a partial feed—external only. I'm seeing nerve-synced tubing, spinal implants, oxygen regulation. There are biometric relays I've never seen before—this isn't tech meant to contain someone. It's harvesting them."
Ferra growls low.
"I'll tear this place apart."
"Not yet," I say, too fast, too sharp. "We don't know what'll trigger an alert. Or worse—what they've wired into her."
Her.
I said it before I processed it.
And no one corrected me.
Because we all saw the same thing in that silhouette. The smallness. The way it was curled inward—not contained like a threat, but cradled like… like someone in pain. Someone left behind.
My force fields hover around the edges of the prism, probing for weak spots. But everything about this containment structure screams fail-deadly. One wrong move and she could be vaporized—or worse, absorbed further into the dark matter lining her cage.
"Christina," I mutter, voice low. "This is a living kid. We need override access now."
Her breath crackles through.
"I know. I know. But I can't punch through Garcia's firewalls without pinging the core system. I need time."
We don't have time.
Mwamba breaks in through comms.
"Z-Force, report."
I answer with what I can manage.
"We've found the source. But it's not a source—it's a girl. Young. Probably under twelve. Locked in some kind of gravitational prism lined with live dark matter. She's alive… but I don't know how."
Mwamba is silent for a moment. Then his voice returns, quieter.
"Understood. Confirm target viability. Do not engage containment systems until Christina gives the go."
Copy that. I move closer. Just close enough to see a hand through the prism wall—small fingers curled loosely near her face. A slow rise and fall of breath. Barely perceptible. Then her head shifts. Only slightly. Like she feels us.
Ferra takes one step forward and drops to a crouch. Her voice is soft now—softer than I've ever heard it.
"She's scared."
I nod once.
Then finally, I say it out loud.
"She's not just powering this base."
I stare at the dark matter veins pumping through the room like arteries.
"She is the power."
And in that moment, everything changes.
"Z-Force?" Christina chimes in. "You're a-go. All of the fields are coming down."
The prism finally unlocked with a faint hiss. The gravity field lowered just enough for us to approach the containment platform. Now we finally see her. Dark-skinned. Melanated like onyx and starlight. But the weird thing is that she didn't look broken. Not in the way we feared.
Her skin, while pale in energy glow, was clear. Clean. Almost untouched. Not a single visible bruise or scar. Her hair was coiled and neatly arranged, her body clothed in a modest, sanitized gown. And somehow, that disturbed me more than any wound ever could.
Because when kids get trafficked—when people are used the way I've seen in this world—they don't look like this. They look hurt. Dirty. Beaten down. But this? This was someone being maintained. Groomed, even. And that thought made something cold crawl down my spine.
Were they forcing her to bathe? Were they doing it themselves?
I shut that line of thinking down fast. I didn't want to know. I really, really didn't want to know.
But what we could see was enough.
Her body shimmered faintly—like light was breathing underneath her skin. Her eyes, even closed, twitched beneath her lids, fluttering with starlight. Tiny freckle-like constellations trailed down her forearms, each one glowing softly like cosmic fireflies frozen in her flesh.
She looked like a princess made of night sky.
And she was trapped.
Ferra whispered to us.
"There's a collar. Look—along her neckline."
Sure enough, just beneath the gown, a metallic band hummed faintly with red circuit lines. Christina's voice came through our comms.
"That's a dampener collar. It's tuned to the frequency of her V-organ. Keeps her sedated and her output neutralized. They use it to suppress reactive power surges."
Aquamenté looked around.
"You mean if she gets scared, the room responds?"
"Exactly," Christina confirmed. "Her power isn't just cosmic—it's emotional. Fear, pain, hope... anything that spikes her nervous system translates into volatile dark matter fluctuation."
And as if to prove that point—the girl stirred.
Her head lifted slowly. Eyelids heavy. Her muscles tensed as she leaned back against the prism wall, away from us. It was barely a motion—more of a twitch than anything—but enough to shake the room.
The walls dimmed slightly. A faint rumble passed through the floor beneath us.
Not an attack. Not a defense.
Just fear.
"Wait," I said quickly, motioning to the others.
Ferra and Aquamenté held position, giving me space.
I took a single step forward, hands open.
"Hey... it's okay. We're not here to hurt you."
She didn't understand. Her eyes locked onto me with a mix of confusion and survival instinct. There was no comprehension—just that tired look I'd seen in so many war zones. Like her soul had folded into itself.
I dropped to one knee. Tried a softer tone.
"I know you're scared. But we're here to help. I promise."
But I knew, deep down, this wasn't going to come from me.
So I turned to Renee.
"Ferra," I said quietly, "she needs you."
Renee stepped forward slowly, hands lowered. Powered down from her animal form into her human form.
"Hey sweetie," she said gently. "It's okay. My name's Renee. That's Zavier, and this is Veronica. We're with the Apostles. We're here to get you out of here."
The girl didn't speak—but her eyes blinked, sluggishly. Trying to register the voice. The kindness. The possibility.
But that spark dimmed fast.
She finally whispered, voice hoarse and soft.
"Someone said that before…"
Renee froze.
"What do you mean?"
"They said I'd be safe," the girl muttered.
"Said they'd take me out of here. But it didn't work. They didn't make it. Nobody ever does. I don't wanna believe it again."
Aquamenté placed a hand to her chest.
"You don't have to believe us right away. But please let us try."
"We're not leaving you," I added, my voice tight.
"No matter what happens."
Seniyah stared at us.
Then whispered to us.
"I don't have a family. They killed my father. My mother died before all this. My aunty... I don't know. Maybe she's gone too."
Renee dropped to her knees beside me.
"Then we'll be your family. You're not alone anymore. You hear me? Not ever again."
That got her. Her lip quivered, her shoulders sagging just slightly. She didn't collapse into tears. She just exhaled. The kind of breath that doesn't belong to someone that young.
"I want to leave," she said. "But... I want to go with her." She looked at Renee. "You feel like someone who... understands."
Renee didn't hesitate.
"Then I'll carry you myself if I have to."
Christina's voice came through again.
"I'm disabling the collar. Hold position."
A few seconds passed—and the faint red light on the collar dimmed, then flickered out. We all watched it fall away from her neck like dead weight. The air changed.
Her fingers twitched, then slowly reached for Renee's hand. And we were there. Not as soldiers. Not as heroes. Just people.
Renee stepped closer.
"We'll protect you. No one's laying a finger on you again."
I didn't say much. I couldn't.
I just stared at this little girl who'd been made into a battery—this princess made of starlight, imprisoned like a weapon. And all I could think was:
She should've been home. She should've been free. And the fact that she wasn't? That's on all of us. But I was going to do something about it. Now—she had us.
And she was never going back in that prism again.
Renee had the little girl cradled gently on her back, arms tucked beneath her as securely as a harness would allow. The girl's limbs barely moved. Her breath was soft, slow, laced with that residual haze of whatever Orion pumped into her to keep her pliant.
"Got her," Renee whispered, her voice a mix of grit and care. "She's light. Like she barely exists."
"She will," I said. "Just give her time."
Before we headed out, there was still one thing we needed to know. I turned to the girl, voice gentle.
"Hey. Do you mind telling us your name?"
She blinked slowly, her lips parting as she tried to speak. The words came out soft, unsteady.
"S… S… Seniyah."
"Thank you, Seniyah," I said. "That's a beautiful name."
Renee smiled, her voice warm as she leaned her head gently toward the girl.
"Thank you for trusting us, Seniyah. We'll keep you safe."
"T… Thank you…"
She nestled her head against Renee's shoulder, the tension in her body softening. A small breath escaped her lips—like she finally let go of something she'd been holding in far too long.
Renee glanced at me, and the look on her face nearly broke me. She blinked fast, holding back tears, then squared her shoulders and nodded, shifting back into her animal form.
"Alright," she said quietly. "Let's get her out of here."
Aquamenté cleared the hall ahead, checking corners with quiet, fluid grace. Ferra had her claws halfway drawn, backtracking through our original route like a predator keeping her cub safe. Every few seconds, I flicked my wrist-display—Christina's overlay syncing our movement, heartbeat by heartbeat, to a narrow escape path.
"Evac vector confirmed," Christina's voice came through. "Tracking your exit route. Mbali's feeding recon from the upper floors."
Over comms, Mbali's voice crackled to life. She was breathing harder now. "Heads up. Something's wrong."
I paused.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm watching from the security booth on Tier 3. There's a sniper shifting position—long-range specialist. Female. Her name is Arlena Vos. Callsign: 'Clipse.' I've seen her shoot birds out of the sky through tinted glass. She's good. Scary good."
My gut dropped as Mbali continued.
"She's looking toward the south quadrant—vault access."
"Does she know?"
"I don't think she knows," Mbali said, tense.
"But she senses. She always gets twitchy when things feel off. She's glancing too much, checking perimeter feeds. And…"
There was a long pause.
"She just looked directly at Camera 7… the one I looped for your breach."
The line went dead for two seconds.
Then:
"Alarm's triggered. Whole base just lit up red."
Christina cursed under her breath on the open line.
"Evac path's compromised. All hands—fallback vector rerouting."
Ferra hissed.
"Damn it. We were this close."
Lights around us began to blink—scarlet, pulsing like veins under skin. Sirens stayed low for now, but the hum of boots moving in formation was already building. The jungle outside hadn't even stirred yet. But inside?
Inside was about to burn.
I looked back at Renee, still holding Seniyah like she mattered more than the world.
"New plan," I said. "We move fast, we move smart, and we protect the girl at all costs."
Aquamenté flexed her hands, water swirling faintly beneath her palms.
"Time to make noise?"
"Only if they make it first."
Mwamba's voice broke in, dead calm.
"Z-Force… you've just become the storm."