《The Iron Mind》 Chapter Zero: The Iron Mind The Iron mind. I developed this as a young child when my mom used to abuse me. I remember crying myself to sleep many times, emotionally crippled, and destroyed. I quickly discovered how hard life can be on your own, but in this I too discovered some truths. ¡°In the end, you only have yourself¡± I told myself at an early age as young at 10 or 11 years old. I hid in the closet and piled clothes on top of myself just to get a nap and sleep away from the drama and violence. I even turned to Satan, though I didn¡¯t know how to do it. I just wanted an escape, I prayed to the devil the way you prayed to the Lord. I prayed that my mother would die or be killed, and if I had to die along with her so be it. I poured full fountain cups of soda into the vents in the car while she was in the store and I was waiting in the hot car outside, hoping the car would blow up on the drive home and end the suffering for us both. In this too I found love, I loved her a great deal at times but I became cold, and emotionally numb. With the death and suicide of close friends at an early age I learned how to deal with death too. All this makes a young man a troubled man, turning to things you should to cope with it all too soon. In this overwhelming ball of vile and disillusioned emotions of hate I discovered something great. My own mind, my solace and my Iron will to push on. I have died and came back from the dead when no-one but myself pulled me back, this statement is true. The will to experience another day but for what purpose? The iron mind was born. Any situation I placed myself in I could conquer. Any argument or external emotion entirely created and controlled by my own indomitable will. I created and destroyed inside of my head, I became my own God. The Iron mind is something I pulled myself into, no-one could break me. Further military training and tragedy had no match against my walls and barriers. I was invincible. Modern technology could not pick up on my lies or deceit even within controlled polygraph environments or interviews. The Iron Mind pulled me though. There was no room for ¡°God¡±. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Now I sit immortalized inside of my head and controlling things you never thought possible. I can teach this to you, the invincible mind, the complete machine. You must listen and be patient. I have seen the future and I have seen the past. We are headed for a fate one not sought out by the masses but by the shadows. You do not yet control your fate or your reactions, no matter how hard you try. The shadows operate this world and I seek to expose them. This tale of the future has any details that will come to pass, you must choose how to react accordingly... To begin thinking I propose two questions. Who is the most powerful man in the world? A man completely control of his emotions. Secondly; who is the richest man in the word? A search engine would provide an answer. However; you cannot see the richest man in the world for he is unknown to you. He creates and destroys as he pleases, his currency is unlimited as is his control. There is no numerical value to his wealth or power, he simply does or does not. He believes himself an almighty being in control of all things on this planet foreign or domestic. Bound by no country or law, lands are simply tools and different locations for his establishments, his banks. This man believes himself a God among men. He believes you are a peasant and you will never know about his black-out projects. The funding for such things lost in world government budgets and wars. You will never know of the secrets he has or the things he will pass on. This man is infinite, for when he passes another equal will take his place. He and I are much the same, except I control my own fate, and now I control yours too. Let me teach you, show you, The Iron Mind. Chapter One: The Hand of God Isle of Proditor, off the coast of Ecuador. 2031 Rushing through the air at 180 mph in a black Skyly AS69, the fireteam sat harnessed in their seats, listening to Sgt. Sharp yell over the roar of the twin solar engines. ¡°You¡¯ll have 72 hours once you leave the drop zone to complete your task! You already know your objective; I need you to prove you¡¯re the best candidate for the program!¡± He turned his head to glance at the monitor and continued, ¡°You have to work as a team to make this a success, but we¡¯ll be observing your scores and judging you individually!¡± He added, ¡°The compound on the island is heavily guarded with android technology. There are no humans on the island, so anyone you see is a non-human. Be advised¡ªthey¡¯ll shoot on sight!¡± Cpl. Dillon Grey listened intently before pressing his earpiece to respond. ¡°Sergeant! What exactly will we be judged on?¡± Sgt. Sharp replied, ¡°The island has extensive video surveillance from space, drones, and cameras in addition to the androids. ¡°Gentlemen, we¡¯ll be evaluating your reaction time, decision-making, and accuracy. Focus on that; the rest of the test is confidential, and I can¡¯t advise on it.¡± The four men exchanged glances as Sgt. Sharp spoke again. ¡°Gentlemen! You¡¯re going in hot, so kick some ass for me! Work as a team, and may the best man win!¡± They unbuckled themselves and focused on the monitor above. Cpl. Grey noticed a flag on Sgt. Sharp¡¯s arm patch and reflected on its significance. This was what he signed up for. He loved fighting, training, shooting¡ªhe loved his country. He was doing this because he loved his job and wanted to advance even further. Cpl. Dillon Grey checked his watch¡ªabout 30 seconds before drop. Nervous anticipation settled in his stomach. This would be the most significant week of his career, and all he had to do was win. Sgt. Sharp¡¯s voice echoed in his earpiece: ¡°Alpha team, drop zone in 10 seconds. Prepare to exit!¡± The team responded in unison, ¡°Prepared to exit!¡± They stacked up at the door, each gripping the shoulder of the man in front. When the monitor made its familiar sound, the fourth man tapped the third, and so on. When Cpl. Grey received the tap, he leaped out of the helicopter as point. He glanced back for a second, catching Sgt. Sharp¡¯s grin, and hoped to see it again when the mission was over. Falling at nearly 120 mph, he observed the island below, noting the trees and the terrain. He couldn¡¯t yet spot any targets but quickly gauged his position and the direction he needed to head. A faint red light and the shadow of a steel monolith on the far side of the island caught his attention. At the same moment, he checked his wrist and deployed his parachute. Dillon didn¡¯t need to signal the team; once his chute was open, they followed suit. That uneasy feeling crept back in as he clutched the straps of his chute. Suddenly, Dillon was yanked upward as his parachute caught air. Holding his breath, he yanked the cord again, then exhaled deeply. He took a moment to admire the sky, noting how the moonlight cast a reflection on the ocean. Aside from the faint red light, the moon was their only source of illumination. Despite the intensity of the mission, Dillon couldn¡¯t help but marvel at the stars above. The ground rapidly approached, and Dillon snapped back to reality. After landing, the team quickly unhooked themselves and packed up their chutes. Cpl. Madamba was the first to finish, immediately digging a hole in the sand with his compact shovel. They had been trained to leave no evidence behind, and a hole was easier to conceal than parachutes. They were on the west side of the island and needed to bury their chutes far from the tide to avoid exposure. The chute material reacted with the soil¡¯s alkaloids, causing rapid deterioration once buried. Dillon spoke quietly into his earpiece, and everyone tuned in. ¡°Listen up; I want to finish this fast. We all need good scores, so let our accuracy do the talking.¡± Cpl. Madamba, finishing his task, retorted, ¡°I don¡¯t know about you guys, but I don¡¯t need this team.¡± Dillon watched as he tossed his earpiece onto the ground and made a ¡°peace¡± sign before walking into the jungle. Dillon was dumbfounded. If they were being judged as a team, how could Madamba just leave? He was about to follow when he noticed Sgt. Williams already speaking to Madamba. The only thing Dillon heard was Sgt. Williams saying, ¡°I need you to stay with us; we don¡¯t know what we¡¯re walking into. You can¡¯t complete this alone.¡± Everyone strained to hear Madamba¡¯s reply, but it was muffled. ¡°I¡¯m not forcing you to stay, but I¡¯d advise sticking with us until you¡¯re confident you can survive on your own.¡± Dillon motioned for Pvt. Stovewall, an exceptional shot with incredible physical endurance, to join him. Unlike the rebellious Cpl. Madamba, Stovewall was quiet and precise. Dillon knew they needed to move quickly, so he whispered to Sgt. Williams. ¡°Let¡¯s get ahead of the game. If he¡¯s alone, he can travel faster.¡± Sgt. Williams replied, ¡°He¡¯ll die alone too.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Pvt. Stovewall added. Dillon motioned them forward. ¡°Moving out. Stovewall, rear security. Williams, keep an eye out for cameras and drones. Avoid them at all costs. I¡¯ll handle navigation and traps.¡± ¡°Roger that,¡± Williams and Stovewall replied in unison. As the team advanced into the night, Dillon¡¯s eyes adjusted to the darkness. The moon was still the brightest object in view, though clouds were beginning to roll in. The wind smelled like rain, but they didn¡¯t have time to worry about shelter. The jungle was humid, and they moved slowly and carefully through the terrain. Dillon couldn¡¯t afford to fail the mission. Though his goal was to win, he wanted the team to succeed as well. But his mind kept wandering to Madamba. Would he be okay alone? The team had been informed that the androids on the island were equipped with non-lethal munitions, but that didn¡¯t mean people hadn¡¯t died here. Dillon¡¯s team was equipped with old M16-style rifles, relics from the early 21st century. The advanced weapons of today would outshine them, but Dillon didn¡¯t mind¡ªhe was an excellent shot with his .556 chambered rifle. Their gear included an advanced laser system and flip lights, along with NVG monoculars for their Kevlar-printed helmets. Flip lights amazed Dillon; they were the size of a scrabble tile, completely transparent until activated, and then they illuminated an area with visible or infrared light. He didn¡¯t know how they were powered, but it was the coolest tech he¡¯d seen this year. Their jungle camouflage uniforms, assault vests, and small explosives were typical for this kind of mission. Dillon wondered why they needed plate carriers if they were only facing non-lethal rounds, but assumed it was part of their endurance training. Dillon used hand signals to point to a series of large spikes jutting from the ground. They were made of concrete or a similar material and stood about eight to ten feet high. He motioned for the team to follow as they crept forward, discovering more spikes along the way. What were they? The moonlight was now faint, filtered by trees and clouds. The wind rustled through the leaves, sending a chill down Dillon¡¯s spine. Without warning, Pvt. Stovewall signaled a halt. Dillon, sensing they were being funneled into a choke point, felt uneasy. A rustling sound came from behind them. Stovewall motioned for a visual check of the path they had just traveled. Dillon folded down his NVG and activated his monocular, now unable to see without it. The familiar neon green illuminated everything. Stovewall¡¯s eyes were lit up. The rustling grew louder, and light rain began to fall. Dillon smelled a storm approaching. The team was on full alert. Sgt. Williams moved behind a large tree for cover. Dillon felt it too¡ªsomething was coming through the brush. He took cover behind a fallen log and some brush. Stovewall found a nearby tree for cover as well. Dillon motioned for the team to assault forward, keeping low as he bounded ahead. He paused to take cover again, watching as Sgt. Williams moved ahead of him. The trio focused on the threat ahead. ¡°AHHHH!¡± ¡ª Blinded! Dillon dropped to the ground. He heard screaming. A flashlight flashed across his line of sight again, blinding his right eye connected to the monocular. How long would it take for his vision to return? The light had caught Williams too. Gunfire erupted from behind him. Dillon went prone, freezing in place. Were they surrounded already? ¡°GET DOWN!¡± Whose voice was that? Footsteps pounded closer. He finally recognized Pvt. Stovewall, rushing forward and firing his rifle. Dillon instinctively jumped up, joining the assault, with Williams close behind. More shots rang out. The blinding light that had been sweeping over them suddenly jerked upward, pointing toward the sky. They pushed forward, Dillon¡¯s breathing heavy. He could hear the ocean now. But where was the enemy? As they charged, something wet brushed against Dillon¡¯s face, but he kept moving. Reaching up to touch his face, he looked down quickly, blood. ¡°FUCK!¡± He screamed. *THUD* He fell into a hole. His left leg slipped into the hole, while his body lurched forward. Dillon¡¯s face slammed into the ground. ¡°Oh,¡± he moaned, the monocular digging painfully into his eye socket. He had fallen at running speed, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. Gasping, Dillon clutched the earth, watching as his fireteam charged ahead. Dirt dug under his fingernails as he clawed forward. Pain radiated through his right bicep and leg. He glanced at his arm¡ªa stick, about the size of a banana, jutted through his camouflage, blood staining the fabric. His leg throbbed. Gritting his teeth, Dillon forced himself up, crawling out of the hole. ¡°Fuck!¡± he spat, blood dripping from his mouth¡ªhe had bitten his tongue hard. Adjusting his helmet, he flipped his monocular up and sprinted toward the beach. What he saw before him made gave him the chills. There were two men on the ground dead. A rifle with a mounted flashlight still on, casting a shadow of boots from the two beings standing above the bodies. Dillon was in shock, there was blood everywhere. One man had an earpiece clutched in his hand. Pvt Stovewall turned towards Cpl Grey. "Look." Dillon pointed to where they landed and their parachutes were dug up. The dead man on the ground was clutching an earpiece. The same earpiece Cpl Madamba threw earlier. His fireteam had been tracked from the beginning. It was time for a new plan. Dillon felt a surge of nerves¡ªhe knew they needed to move quickly. This was his first mission as a leader, and it was already going terribly. If he dwelled on it too long, it would get to him. He had to act fast to get them out of harm¡¯s way. They stood over two dead bodies on the beach. He had many questions, but most could be answered by searching the corpses. ¡°Listen up,¡± he said. ¡°Search the bodies. Check their weapons and see what kind of ammunition they¡¯re using.¡± While his team searched the bodies and their gear, Dillon kept watch. Sgt. Williams knelt beside one of the bodies, his weapon slung behind him as he worked. Dillon watched as Williams racked the enemy¡¯s weapon and ejected a round onto the sand. Grunting, Sgt. Williams said, ¡°5.56 NATO. Same ammunition as us, boss.¡± Dillon stood there, bewildered, as Pvt. Stovewall added, ¡°These are humans. No other intel from the bodies.¡± Noise in the distance startled Dillon. ¡°Move, move now!¡± he barked. The team bolted into the jungle. ¡°Weren¡¯t these supposed to be androids?¡± he thought as his heart pounded faster. They were sprinting through the jungle, retracing their earlier path. Dillon flipped his NVG down and turned it on, but the night vision flickered. He smacked it, trying to get it working again. They were nearing the holes from before¡ªthis was a bad time for equipment failure. ¡°Hold up,¡± Dillon choked out. The team slowed, everyone dripping with sweat from the intense jog. ¡°So,¡± Sgt. Williams panted, ¡°Humans tried to kill us.¡± The wind howled through the trees, picking up speed. Sgt. Williams looked at Dillon for confirmation. Dillon nodded. ¡°We were told there would be no other humans on this island.¡± He motioned for them to keep walking. Pvt. Stovewall checked behind them and said, ¡°We can¡¯t say for sure they tried to kill us.¡± Dillon turned to him. ¡°Why is that?¡± Stovewall spat on the jungle floor, his face flushed and breathing heavy. ¡°I shot first.¡± Sgt. Williams muttered, ¡°Then who did we kill?¡± A feeling of hopelessness washed over Dillon. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and he couldn¡¯t stop it. ¡°I think sticking to the plan is our only option,¡± Dillon said. ¡°But if we treat the next encounter like they¡¯re androids, we could risk killing someone else.¡± Pvt. Stovewall replied, ¡°If someone¡¯s in the way of my mission, I¡¯m taking them out.¡± Sgt. Williams shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m with Cpl. Grey on this. What if the next people we kill are human?¡± ¡°I was told everyone on this island was an android,¡± Stovewall said. ¡°In my mind, I¡¯m shooting androids.¡± Dillon shot him a look. ¡°That¡¯s messed up, Stovewall.¡± Sgt. Williams added, ¡°If we focus on the task and don¡¯t check the bodies, we¡¯ll never know.¡± Dillon asked, ¡°Is not knowing better than finding out?¡± Pvt. Stovewall shrugged. ¡°If we¡¯re killing humans, what changes? We¡¯ve got no way out for three days.¡± Sgt. Williams looked at him thoughtfully. ¡°What if they lied to us about more than just who¡¯s on this island?¡± Dillon considered this for a moment before replying, ¡°There are too many variables. We don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. We need to get into the monolith and get out of here.¡± Pvt. Stovewall smirked. ¡°No checking the bodies?¡± ¡°No one checks the bodies,¡± Dillon said firmly. ¡°Let¡¯s just get the hell out of here.¡± They trudged on into the dark of the night, uncertain of what the mission still held. Dillon doubted himself, but his focus remained on the mission. He had never been in a situation like this before. When he first arrived, he felt safe. He knew it would be physically and mentally demanding, but originally he had imagined it would be fun¡ªspending a few days shooting human-looking robots on an island with his comrades. But the fun was gone now. He was starting to wonder if he would make it home. The safety net he thought he had had disappeared. For the first time in his life, Dillon felt truly vulnerable. Still, he was determined to protect his comrades and himself as best he could. As they moved deeper into the jungle at a slow pace, the wind howled and rain began to pour down in sheets. They had packed light, but each of them carried GORE-TEX camouflage tops in their packs. Dillon¡¯s legs were soaked and cold, his trousers clinging to his skin. The freezing water ran off his rain gear and into his boots. ¡°Get your rain gear on, boys,¡± Sgt. Williams said, pulling his top from his assault pack. Dillon reached for his own gear, but Pvt. Stovewall spoke up. ¡°I didn¡¯t pack one.¡± Cpl. Grey slapped his forehead. ¡°What the hell¡¯s wrong with you, Stovewall?¡± Sgt. Williams laughed. ¡°If he doesn¡¯t have one, I don¡¯t have one.¡± He took off his rain gear and stuffed it back into his pack. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do that,¡± Stovewall said. ¡°I didn¡¯t think it would rain.¡± ¡°It¡¯s my bad,¡± Cpl. Grey said. ¡°Well, we live and die as a team. If you don¡¯t have one, we don¡¯t either,¡± he replied. Sgt. Williams slung his pack over his shoulder and kept moving. ¡°You owe me a hundred push-ups when this is over, Stovewall, you hear me?¡± he laughed. Pvt. Stovewall smirked. ¡°Got it, Sgt. My apologies, gentlemen.¡± They moved on together, laughing about their miserable situation. Dillon stepped into a puddle of mush and grimaced¡ªhe absolutely hated the feeling of wet socks inside his boots. Every step was careful, visibility was poor, and progress was slow. The rain had quickly turned the area into a swampy mess. The island was large enough to create its own weather patterns. Jungles work like that¡ªduring the day, water evaporates into the air, and at night, it condenses and rains back down. They weren¡¯t paying much attention to the wildlife, but Dillon had already spotted several snakes. ¡°Fuck snakes,¡± he thought. His night vision flickered off again. Dillon smacked it, but nothing happened. ¡°Hold up,¡± he called. The group stopped. ¡°Let¡¯s take five and keep going. We should be about a klick out from the monolith if my estimate¡¯s right,¡± Sgt. Williams said, hunkering down against a tree, sitting on a large root. His head hung low, rain pouring off the brim of his boonie hat. Pvt. Stovewall took a knee and scanned the area ahead. ¡°We¡¯ll probably start seeing a lot of hostiles soon,¡± he said over the roar of the thunder. Sgt. Williams glanced up. ¡°I wonder how Madamba¡¯s ass is doing.¡± Dillon, looking up into the jungle canopy, replied, ¡°Honestly, if he ran into the same thing we did, he could be dead by now.¡± Sgt. Williams lifted his head. ¡°He¡¯s not that lucky. If I see him, he¡¯s going to wish he was in hell with his back broken.¡± Dillon smirked. ¡°Goddamn, Williams.¡± Sgt. Williams laughed, and Pvt. Stovewall chimed in. ¡°I¡¯m wondering why we haven¡¯t seen any drones or cameras yet.¡± Dillon frowned. ¡°I can¡¯t say. This is nothing like what I expected.¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°Gentlemen, when we encounter hostiles, take them out fast. I¡¯ll take point, Williams left flank, Stovewall right flank and rear.¡± Pvt. Stovewall stood up. ¡°Ready when you are.¡± Sgt. Williams stood, flipped his monocular down, and adjusted his gear. ¡°Feeling like Clint Eastwood, boys. Let¡¯s get this show on the road.¡± They stepped off in unison, pushing through the brush and enduring the rain. Suddenly, Dillon stumbled forward¡ªthe jungle stopped abruptly. One moment he was surrounded by trees, and the next he found himself in a massive clearing, with what looked like a road leading up to the monolith. He quickly stepped back into the trees, using hand signals to stop the others. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect that,¡± he muttered. Pvt. Stovewall stepped up. ¡°We¡¯ll have to find another way up.¡± Dillon nodded. ¡°No way we can just walk up through this clearing.¡± Sgt. Williams pointed toward the road. ¡°That looks like the road leading to the entrance. I bet it runs all the way to the coast from the monolith.¡± Dillon considered. ¡°If it leads to the east beach, there might be heavy traffic over there.¡± Pvt. Stovewall added, ¡°This island could be an observation post. We should avoid both sides of that road.¡± Dillon studied the scene, thinking. The monolith sat on a naturally elevated part of the island. He estimated it was about half a klick up, which meant avoiding the road would mean tackling a steep climb on the backside¡ªalmost like scaling a half-kilometer cliff without climbing gear. That might be their best option. Pvt. Stovewall zoomed in with his monocular, scanning the entrance. ¡°I don¡¯t see anyone. Just a few cameras and a faint red light. I can¡¯t get a clear focus on anything beyond that.¡± Sgt. Williams shifted from behind a tree, focusing on the building. ¡°I don¡¯t see a way inside either, but we¡¯ll have to get up there at some point, right?¡± The distance between them and the monolith was about a kilometer at a 45-degree incline. Dillon realized their best bet was to travel along the edge of the clearing, circling behind the monolith. That area was likely to have minimal surveillance, and they might even find a place to rest¡ªsomething they all desperately needed. They had been working non-stop for 10 hours, burning far more energy than they had planned, and they had little food to sustain them. Dillon knew if he was feeling sluggish, the others must be too. ¡°We¡¯ll follow the clearing northwest until we reach the back side,¡± he said. Sgt. Williams nodded. ¡°It¡¯ll be daylight soon. I reckon we set up camp down there as well?¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Dillon replied. ¡°Let¡¯s rest and move again when we have the cover of night.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Pvt. Stovewall said. Dillon moved on, taking extra care to stay a bit farther from the edge of the clearing. If there were as many cameras as they¡¯d been told, it was possible he¡¯d already been spotted when he accidentally stepped into the open. He didn¡¯t know what they were up against and was playing things by ear, trying to make the best decisions he could. At this point, it was about leadership. He was their leader, but together they made the decisions. Casually walking through the jungle, Dillon was soaked in sweat and rain. Stopping, even for a moment, would feel amazing. He caught his eyes closing for longer than they should have a few times, as if he was falling asleep while marching. The fatigue was starting to take its toll, especially since they had to stay alert the entire time. They moved past some bushes and a few more holes, keeping communication to a minimum. There was always the possibility that some of the cameras or surveillance systems could be triggered by sound¡ªand, for all they knew, humans might be around as well. The uncertainty weighed on him. The trees grew taller, and the ground turned to mush. ¡°Tired of my feet being wet,¡± Sgt. Williams grumbled. The usually quiet Pvt. Stovewall chuckled. ¡°Ha-ha, me too, Sergeant.¡± They pressed on. The only thing to do in a situation like this was to embrace the suck, as the saying goes. It had been about forty minutes since they first spotted the clearing, and Dillon figured they should be close to the backside of the monolith by now. But it was hard to tell¡ªeverything looked the same. He checked his wrist compass to make sure they were on the right heading. His arm hurt; the stick from the fall last night had pierced him pretty well. No first aid beyond tearing part of his shirt and wrapping it around his bicep to keep it from rubbing against his uniform. Good thing they¡¯d be out of here in just over two days¡ªhe¡¯d definitely need antibiotics by then. They continued through the brush, trudging past trees and bushes, the ground soaked beneath them. Dillon had to admit it¡ªhe was getting complacent. He just wanted to rest. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled into a branch. ¡°Fuck!¡± he muttered. Suddenly, Dillon noticed movement ahead and jolted to attention. He raised the signal to stop. Everyone knew what that meant: if he wasn¡¯t speaking, the stop signal meant something was ahead. Fatigue vanished from his mind, and time seemed to slow. Dillon crouched and peered through the brush, shifting his head to the left to get a better view through a clearing in the jungle. Two men stood with their backs to him, talking and pointing at something ahead. Dillon looked to his right and noticed that instead of the clearing, there were rocks, and the ground elevation had risen. They had reached the backside of the monolith! He didn¡¯t have time to think. If those two men turned around, they would be sitting ducks. Dillon glanced at Pvt. Stovewall and gave the signal. In an instant, they moved as one. Despite the exhaustion, they were a unit. They executed a forward assault, springing from their cover and firing on the two men. Dillon didn¡¯t hesitate. He fired a bullet into the man on the left, then the one on the right. He planned to perform a box drill¡ªshoot left, then right, then back to the left, finishing on the right. But there was more gunfire than just his. The two men dropped so fast, he didn¡¯t have time to shoot again. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Before he could process what had happened, four more enemies emerged, taking the place of the ones they¡¯d just taken down. The brief moment of victory evaporated. The two men had been pointing at a fireteam further out of view. Now that team was rushing toward Dillon and his men. There was no time to plan or issue orders. Dillon and his team kept advancing, shooting as they moved. Time froze for Dillon in that instant. He could see the screaming faces of the four men charging at him, smell the sulfur from the bullets flying out of their rifles. The humid air and rain poured down over all of them, soaking everything. Dillon didn¡¯t see his enemies as just soldiers; he imagined one as a father of three, another as a man just starting his career, a good friend. In his mind, Dillon had nothing to lose. He simply had to shoot faster than they did. He had to kill them, regardless of the situation they were all trapped in. Dillon had no one waiting for him back home, but he was determined to protect his comrades. He managed to pull the trigger twice before it happened. In perfect synchrony, two things occurred: Dillon shot both of his targets in the face, and then he hit the ground, blacking out. BANG¡ªthe ringing in his ears was deafening. His vision blurred. Bullets¡ªhe couldn¡¯t see! He tried to speak, but no sound came out. He was being dragged. Confusion flooded his mind. Why couldn¡¯t he talk? SMACK¡ªsomething struck his head. It burned worse than anything Dillon had ever felt. ¡°AHHHHH!¡± he screamed, clutching his face. He felt his rifle sling dragging behind him, snagged on something as it tried to fall from his body. His vision cleared only slightly, revealing bodies strewn before him. Sgt. Williams lay sprawled in a pool of blood. Who was pulling him? A familiar face¡ªPvt. Stovewall was speaking, but the words were a blur. Dillon tried to focus, reading his lips. ¡°CORPORAL GREY, YOU¡¯VE BEEN HIT. WE¡¯RE TAKING SHELTER NOW.¡± Oh fuck, had he really been shot? His mind was numb and dazed. He forced himself to stand, but his legs gave out and he fell again. He saw Pvt. Stovewall firing his rifle. Dillon was shaking uncontrollably, his body weak and fragile. His head rang so loudly, and his balance was off. He tried to look behind him, turning his whole body because his head wouldn¡¯t move properly. He was trapped in a daze, confusion clouding everything. His senses slowly returned, though one eye wasn¡¯t working. Dillon blinked hard and saw a mass of bodies in the jungle. The four men who had rushed his team lay where they had fallen, but two more were dead behind Sgt. Williams. He thought he saw Sgt. Williams gasping for air, but there was only blood covering his face and pooling around him. A hand reached up, eyes wide, and then dropped limply as Williams¡¯ head slumped. He was dead, staring blankly at the ground with blood dripping from his mouth. What had happened? Had they been surrounded this whole time? Dillon barely managed to follow Stovewall up the rocks he had noticed earlier. Reaching up, he touched his face and realized there was a patch over his right eye. That¡¯s why he couldn¡¯t see. Stovewall was speaking again, blood dripping from his fingers. ¡°Lucky to be alive, CPL. Can you hear me?¡± Stovewall was dragging Dillon, helping him move. It was a struggle. Dillon grunted in response¡ªtalking was too difficult. He could think the words, but they wouldn¡¯t come out when he tried to speak. Frustration boiled inside him. ¡°We were hit from behind! You took a bullet to the temple! It exited through your right eye¡ª¡± Dillon¡¯s mind buzzed with panic. ¡°You fucking kidding me?¡± he slurred, his voice barely audible. They climbed higher, through scattered trees and brush, with Dillon dragging himself up with all his might. He had to get up¡ªhad to figure out what was happening. Pvt. Stovewall supported him, saying, ¡°I patched your skull and eye with medclot. You¡¯re lucky. I¡¯ve seen bullets do strange things, but by all rights, you should be dead.¡± Dillon¡¯s thoughts were sluggish, but he managed to ask, ¡°Williams?¡± Stovewall shook his head. ¡°We finished off the targets in front of us, but the two in the back shot you both before I could get to them. We didn¡¯t stand a chance.¡± Blood was still leaking down the side of Dillon¡¯s head. The medclot patch had cauterized the wound, chemically burning the area to stop the bleeding. The crack in his skull, extending from his eyebrow up past his ear, was being held together by the clotting agent. It was literally holding him together. They continued climbing up the rocks that made up the backside of the monolith. About ten minutes into their struggle, Stovewall froze. ¡°Corporal,¡± he whispered, motioning for silence. Stovewall had been dragging Dillon up, his arms hooked under Dillon¡¯s armpits while Dillon locked his hands together in front of his chest. It was an effective method, but both were exhausted. They lay flat at the sound of movement below. There was nowhere to hide. Dillon looked straight down, but it was hard to make out what was happening. He saw four figures investigating the scene below. He didn¡¯t dare move¡ªthey weren¡¯t in any condition to fight. Dillon¡¯s body hadn¡¯t regained its strength, and Stovewall was spent. They watched as one man, in particular, searched the bodies. He racked a rifle and held up a round, showing it to the others. Dillon¡¯s mind raced. That¡¯s what we did! Are these people a fireteam? Are they the robots? What¡¯s going on here? The group inspected the bodies and then moved off as quietly as they had arrived, heading in the direction Dillon¡¯s team had come from. A weight lifted off Dillon¡¯s chest. He exhaled deeply, relieved. They continued climbing until they reached a flat spot. ¡°We¡¯ll rest here for the rest of the day,¡± Stovewall said. ¡°It¡¯s out of view.¡± By now, Dillon¡¯s senses had mostly returned, and he could move on his own, albeit slowly. As he thought about what had happened, he asked, ¡°What do you think we¡¯re doing here?¡± Pvt. Stovewall paused, then answered, ¡°We¡¯re here for a training exercise.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t training,¡± Dillon replied. ¡°People don¡¯t get killed during training.¡± ¡°Sgt. Williams had three children. He was a good man.¡± Dillon took a breath after his long-winded sentence, realizing he had snapped. He needed to dial it back, but losing a teammate hurt more than he anticipated. Pvt. Stovewall spoke again, ¡°I suspect we¡¯ve been misled since before our arrival. That much we can deduce.¡± Dillon replied, ¡°Do you think those were humans down there?¡± Stovewall shook his head. ¡°We¡¯re not checking bodies, Corporal Grey. Remember?¡± His face showed worry. ¡°It¡¯s getting to me. I¡¯m strong. I¡¯m good at what I do.¡± He paused, ¡°But how do you not focus on it?¡± They were sitting on the ground, using their packs and blouses for cushioning. Stovewall sat cross-legged, drinking from his canteen. He took a long swig and spoke plainly, ¡°I numb myself, Corporal. I trick myself into believing what I need to.¡± Dillon, making a pillow out of his blouse top, asked, ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Stovewall looked up at the sky and replied, ¡°I was told everyone on this island was an android. In my mind, I¡¯m shooting androids.¡± Dillon smirked. ¡°You said that earlier.¡± Stovewall nodded, ¡°It works for me. It¡¯s my excuse.¡± They both sat in silence, exhausted, staring into the trees. ¡°I guess,¡± Dillon said finally. ¡°I¡¯ll take first watch. You get some rest.¡± Stovewall shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s fine. I plan to do some local reconnaissance while you recover. Go ahead, Corporal.¡± Dillon looked relieved. ¡°Suit yourself. Wake me in four.¡± He was asleep before his head hit the ground. Dillon¡¯s eyes shot open. Screaming. He sat up, frantically searching for his rifle. Panicked, he scrambled to his feet. SPLASH. Deep breath. ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± he yelled, glaring at Pvt. Stovewall. ¡°Did you throw water on me?¡± Stovewall, looking amused, replied, ¡°You started screaming and woke yourself up.¡± Dillon blinked, checking himself. ¡°I was screaming?¡± Stovewall nodded. ¡°Affirmative.¡± Dillon sat back down, shaking his head. ¡°Goddamn, I¡¯m losing it, aren¡¯t I?¡± Stovewall looked at him with concern. ¡°Your head looks pretty messed up.¡± Dillon sighed. ¡°We need to get off this island. I feel like shit, and I have more in¡ª¡± He trailed off, staring at the ground. ¡°More in¡ª¡± He struggled to finish his sentence. ¡°More injuries!¡± he shouted, frustrated. Pvt. Stovewall patted him on the shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ve got news.¡± Dillon glanced up. ¡°What do you have?¡± ¡°I found our route into the monolith,¡± Stovewall said. Dillon smiled weakly. ¡°What did you find?¡± Taking a deep breath, Stovewall explained, ¡°We¡¯re about 50 feet up these rocks, and the cliff isn¡¯t our way up.¡± ¡°Then what is?¡± Dillon interrupted. ¡°There¡¯s a convenient ladder. Looks like there¡¯s an electrical building nearby, and the ladder goes up the side of the cliff. It¡¯s steep, but I think it¡¯s our best shot.¡± Dillon, dusting himself off, replied, ¡°It¡¯s too convenient. There¡¯s gotta be something bad about this plan.¡± Stovewall shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m certain there is. But it¡¯s still our best shot.¡± Dillon nodded. ¡°Get some rest. We¡¯ll head out tonight and hopefully finish this.¡± Stovewall shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t need rest. Let¡¯s go now.¡± Dillon frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t agree. You¡¯ve been up as long as I have, and I know you¡¯re tired.¡± Stovewall grinned for the first time since the mission started. ¡°When I was six, my grandpa put me in a box for five days.¡± Dillon looked bewildered. ¡°What?¡± Stovewall laughed, ¡°I¡¯m just kidding. It was only three days.¡± Dillon laughed too, though unsure if it was a joke or not. ¡°Alright, man. If it¡¯ll stop you from telling me fucked-up stories, let¡¯s go.¡± They both chuckled and packed their gear, heading up the embankment. Pvt. Stovewall was right¡ªthe electrical building wasn¡¯t far. It was a small metal shack, about fifteen by fifteen feet. They had made good progress for having been on the island for just two days. A metal ladder was drilled into the cliffside, extending about a hundred feet up to what was likely the backside of the monolith. They approached the building cautiously, searching the area. The sun was setting, casting a bright orange hue across the treetops. The sky was clear, and a small breeze carried the fresh scent of the ocean. ¡°Building clear,¡± Stovewall said after opening the door to reveal only circuit boards and monitors inside. Dillon walked around the back, scanning for any signs of activity. He found nothing. He stood for a moment, watching the sun sink into the horizon. The orange glow was peaceful, and he allowed himself a brief respite from the stress. But a low buzzing sound from the shack snapped him back to reality. Stovewall nodded toward the ladder. ¡°Let¡¯s head up.¡± Dillon nodded in agreement. ¡°Stovewall, when we get to the top, I have no plan. You know that, right?¡± Stovewall nodded. ¡°We don¡¯t have time for a plan.¡± Dillon reached out for a fist bump. Stovewall obliged. They climbed the ladder, inching higher in the dark. The cold metal rungs bit into Dillon¡¯s hands, and when he looked down, his stomach dropped. He froze for a moment, the height unsettling him, but then he pressed on. As they neared the top, Dillon paused, this time on purpose. ¡°Stovewall,¡± he whispered. ¡°Yes, Corporal?¡± ¡°You¡¯re a good man.¡± Dillon finished the last few rungs as quietly as possible, steadying his rifle so it wouldn¡¯t swing and make noise. Dillon peeked over the top and saw an unimpressive steel wall and a white door. The entire outside of the structure was either blue or black¡ªhe couldn¡¯t quite tell. Either way, it stuck out like a sore thumb. The door was solid, with no windows, and looked like solid steel. Stovewall got up, and they stacked on the door. He slowly turned the handle, but it was locked. They had some small explosives with them, but Dillon wasn¡¯t sure if this was the right way to enter. ¡°Should we try to sneak around to the front?¡± he asked Pvt. Stovewall. ¡°There will probably be an easier entrance, but more people. Your call.¡± Corporal Grey thought for a moment. ¡°If we want to get off this island quickly, we need to finish this now.¡± Stovewall nodded and began taking out two small shape charges from his pack. He placed them on the hinges of the door, which were luckily visible. In some high-security buildings, the hinges are concealed, making entry more difficult. They stacked on the door, and BOOM¡ªthey rushed in. They entered a stairwell, with concrete stairs leading both up and down. No alarms went off, surprisingly. ¡°Let¡¯s go up. What we¡¯re looking for isn¡¯t on the ground floor,¡± Dillon whispered. They moved quickly and efficiently, climbing the stairs. Every movement hurt Dillon¡ªhis bicep was still injured from the first day, and his head was pounding. He felt feverish, like he needed to lie down. He probably had something worse than a concussion, but now wasn¡¯t the time to think about that. At the top of the next flight of stairs, they stacked on the door. Dillon tested the handle. ¡°It¡¯s unlocked,¡± he whispered. Again, no windows. Anything could be waiting on the other side. They were in too deep now to turn back. Pvt. Stovewall gripped the handle, nodding the silent countdown. ¡°One, two, three.¡± Dillon rushed in first, with Stovewall close behind. ¡°Oh no,¡± Dillon muttered. ¡°We¡¯re not the first ones here.¡± Stovewall chimed in. They were looking over a large, dimly lit warehouse-like room filled with tables and machines. It looked like a place where machines were built. There was an ominous feeling in the air as they moved forward cautiously, scanning every corner. Stovewall covered the left side, looking under tables, while Dillon scanned the right, his focus drawn to the bodies on the floor. There had been a fight here. But these weren¡¯t humans¡ªthey were the androids they were supposed to be fighting. Dead, bullet-ridden androids lay strewn across the floor. They bore human-like faces with blank expressions, but Dillon thought he could see a flicker of pain in their features. They moved through the room with care, clearing it methodically. Dillon pressed his earpiece. ¡°A team must have cleared this out already.¡± Pvt. Stovewall, still searching, replied, ¡°We need to hurry. If we fall behind, we might not make it off this island.¡± Dillon agreed as they neared the end of the room. ¡°Let¡¯s keep going. What we¡¯re looking for should be on this floor.¡± They came upon a large automated door¡ªthe type that lifts like a garage door when you press a button. Time was running out, and they sped up, searching for the switch. Dillon didn¡¯t know the layout of this place; he only knew the floor they were supposed to be on. But with everything that had changed, was it really going to be that easy? He couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the bullet-ridden androids. Had a team already come through here? If so, why had they left? What had they been after? There was no time to figure it out¡ªDillon flipped the switch, and the door began to slowly rise. They stayed off to the side¡ªstanding in front of the door as it opened would have made them easy targets. Dillon¡¯s heart pounded as the door rose. It was just him and Stovewall now¡ªwhat could they do if there were more enemies waiting for them? He looked over at Stovewall, and when the door reached head height, they both popped out from their cover, charging forward. More robots lay before them, riddled with bullet holes, spent shells scattered across the floor. This room was smaller than the last, filled with pallets, boxes, and other things you might find in a factory. Dillon assumed this was where the androids were built. Who built them? he wondered as they moved through the pallets, searching quickly. They reached another door¡ªit was locked. Dillon reached into his bag for more shape charges, but as he crouched down, he lost his balance and fell, his hand banging against the door with a loud thunk. Pvt. Stovewall rushed over. ¡°You need to rest, Corporal?¡± Dillon¡¯s eyes were closed, but he was still conscious. ¡°I¡¯m fine. Crouching made my vision get hazy for a second. I¡¯m good now.¡± He picked up the charges and set them on the door. They stepped back and prepared for the breach. ¡°Stovewall,¡± Dillon said, pausing before continuing, ¡°I¡¯ve known you for a while now. There¡¯s no one I¡¯d trust more to get through this.¡± Pvt. Stovewall nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve learned a lot from you. Let¡¯s finish this and give Sgt. Williams a proper burial.¡± Dillon nodded, lighting the fuse. Boom¡ªthe door was down. Dillon rushed through the doorway first, with Stovewall right behind him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. A team was waiting for them. Four men in assault gear were positioned strategically¡ªtwo directly in front of Dillon, using pillars for cover, and the other two on either flank of the door at a 45-degree angle. Dillon knew the second he entered that this was the point of no return. They were trapped. But instinct took over, and he pulled the trigger, sending rounds toward his first target. Pvt. Stovewall fired at the man on the right flank. At that same moment, Dillon was struck in the chest by multiple rounds, the impact throwing him backward. His rifle flew from his grasp as he fell toward the ground. Stovewall fired again, but was hit several times, one round tearing into his leg. He went down screaming. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion for Dillon. He could think clearly, and in those moments, he knew it was over. Bullets whizzed past his head, and he knew his time was up. Dillon hit the ground hard. BANG BANG¡ªhe took another hit, though he wasn¡¯t sure where. His left arm wouldn¡¯t move. With the last of his strength, he lifted his rifle in one hand, trying to aim at the second target. Stovewall, lying on his side and pinned under his rifle, managed to fire as well. Together, they eliminated the man in front of them. But then, just as that happened, Stovewall took a round to the neck. He collapsed immediately, blood spraying across the crates to the right of the entryway. A surge of rage welled up inside Dillon. His left arm was useless, and he could barely feel what his body was doing. The pain, frustration, and anger overwhelmed him. Dillon screamed, pulling the trigger with all his remaining strength, but his shots went wild. He had to save his friend! But the enemy had a clear line of sight on him, and they fired. His face exploded, opening a cavity in the front of it. His nose was hanging on by a thin piece of skin, dangling down and touching his face. His eye was gone, brain matter and blood made a cloud of pink mist as he fell forward. Stovewall had made his last shot, and saved Dillon¡¯s life. However, Dillon could not save his. Relief struck Dillon for a moment; he crawled backwards and dropped his rifle. He drug himself across the cold concrete floor franticly towards his last friend. He was okay right? They would all be okay He was grunting making his way over to Stovewall with haste. He shook Stovewall by the arm, he was propped up against the crate with a blank expression on his face and his mouth was open. ¡°Hey!¡± Dillon kept shaking him. ¡°Private?¡± ...¡°Private¡±... ¡°Stovewall?¡±... He began crying now ¡°You answer me right god damned now Stovewall!¡± tears streaming down his face ¡°Stovewall! Damnit Stovewall!¡± he was shaking him vigorously now, his limp body rocking back and forth. ¡°Stovewall.¡± He paused ¡°Stovewall?¡± He fell forward sobbing, holding his friend. Shaking him. ¡°It¡¯s not your time!¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t your time!¡± he sobbed. He continued like this for some time until the pain in his body beckoned him back into the real world. Dillon was in bad shape. He pushed Stovewall¡¯s body aside, desperate to access his pack. Grabbing more medclot, he threw it on the ground and then slowly began removing his vest. His right arm throbbed, and his left arm hung useless. The bullet must have hit him hard. Every breath was a struggle, and pain shot through his chest. His head felt like it was splitting apart. Dillon was shaking, clammy, and knew he had to act fast before shock set in. It was almost impossible to undo the straps with his trembling hand. He managed to slip his left arm out of the vest with excruciating pain and used it to remove his right arm. Once free, he carefully peeled off his shirt and blouse, all while blood steadily dripped from his right arm onto the floor. His entire right side was drenched in blood, and the wound was worse than he expected. He felt along his arm to locate the injury, wiping tears from his eyes as he worked. AHHHHHHH! He found the missing chunk of flesh and the hole where the bullet had torn through. His arm burned as he probed the wound, fingers feeling inside the hot, bloody cavity. The bullet hadn¡¯t exited, lodged just inside his arm. He gritted his teeth and pulled it out, throwing the slug to the ground with a scream. AHHHHHHH! ¡°Motherfucker!¡± Tears streamed down his face as he slapped the medclot onto the wound. The chemical burn seared into his skin as the wound cauterized, stopping the blood loss. He took a deep, choppy breath, pressing the medclot firmly to his shoulder. The next problem was his chest. He smeared blood over his ribs, feeling the bruised and broken bones beneath. The bullets had cracked his advanced plate carrier and fractured his ribs. Breathing hurt, standing hurt, everything hurt. Dillon leaned against a crate, exhausted and overwhelmed. His heart hurt worse than any physical wound. He glanced at his friend¡¯s body and chose not to check it. There was nothing left for him to find. Forcing himself up, he groaned in pain. At least his legs were still working. Stumbling over to a water fountain on the wall, he took a long drink. The cool water felt soothing as it slid down his throat¡ªhe had been burning up inside. He drank until his insatiable thirst was satisfied. Light-headed and emotionally numb, Dillon wiped the tears from his face. He stared at the pool of blood coming from the men who had ambushed them. ¡°This is my fault,¡± he muttered. His mind replayed how he had fallen and hit the door while setting the charges. That must have alerted them. He knew now he was responsible for Pvt. Stovewall¡¯s death. He felt hollow. The weight of everything crushed him¡ªhis body was broken, and his heart even more so. But then he noticed something that might help. A pistol strapped to the belt of the first man Stovewall had shot. A small turn of luck. Moving slowly, he stepped over to the body and began unbuckling the man¡¯s duty belt, careful not to look at his face. He couldn¡¯t bear to see it. Dillon strapped on the pistol and discarded his rifle ammunition, replacing it with the man¡¯s pistol rounds. Just as he adjusted the holster, the body twitched. Without hesitation, Dillon drew the pistol and fired. A single shot to the face caved in the man¡¯s skull, leaving him unrecognizable. Dillon checked the pistol, ensuring it was functioning and counting the rounds. It was time to move. He crept away from the bodies toward the next door, holding his ribs the entire way. He wasn¡¯t searching for anything anymore. There was no point. He reached the door, and to his surprise, it was unlocked. Dillon opened it to find the room he had been searching for¡ªa control room, filled with monitors and controls for the cameras and security systems. On the table in front of him lay the item so many people had died for: a flag, the symbol of his country. What it had once meant to him, though, was gone. Dillon picked up the flag and stepped toward the control panel, hoping to find a way out. ¡°That¡¯s mine.¡± A familiar voice made his heart drop. Dillon turned to see Corporal Madamba standing there, rifle slung in front of him. ¡°You¡¯re in rough shape,¡± Madamba said with a nod. ¡°Now put the flag down. I¡¯m getting out of here alive.¡± Dillon¡¯s hand went to his pistol, his voice shaking with anger. ¡°Everyone¡¯s dead. Everyone¡¯s dead, and you want this?¡± Madamba laughed. ¡°I saw Sgt. Williams die.¡± Dillon¡¯s fury erupted. ¡°You did nothing?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been watching you from the start,¡± Madamba said. ¡°I¡¯ve seen every move you made.¡± Dillon drew his pistol, and Madamba lifted his rifle. ¡°If you think I won¡¯t kill us both, you¡¯re crazier than I am!¡± Dillon shouted, his voice full of authority now. ¡°We can leave here together, or we¡¯ll shoot each other. It¡¯s your move.¡± Madamba, still aiming his rifle, replied, ¡°You¡¯ll kill me anyway. I can¡¯t trust you.¡± Dillon¡¯s hand shook under the weight of the pistol. ¡°Yeah, like I¡¯m the one who can¡¯t be trusted! What kind of shit is this? You watched your team die? These were good men! We trained as a team. We are a team! These guys have families!¡± Madamba laughed again. ¡°Put the pistol down.¡± Though Dillon didn¡¯t realize it, in the past five minutes, something inside him had shifted. His worries, his doubts, his fears¡ªall of them had flown out the window. He didn¡¯t care anymore. He didn¡¯t care about anything. Dillon was cold, angry, and he had a plan. He leapt forward, dropping his pistol while grabbing Madamba¡¯s rifle in the same motion, deflecting it upwards just as a round fired from the chamber. BANG! Madamba kept pulling the trigger, the shots echoing in the room. BANG BANG BANG Dillon shoved him back, forcing Madamba to the ground. They struggled, with Madamba letting the rifle fall as they grappled. Dillon threw a punch at Madamba¡¯s face, but the pain in his body made him slow¡ªhe was no match for Madamba, who still had full use of both arms. With a swift kick, Madamba knocked Dillon forward, pulling him down and toppling over him. Now on top, Madamba slammed his fist into Dillon¡¯s head, striking the already damaged part of his skull held together by medclot. CRACK¡ªthe blow sent a shockwave through Dillon¡¯s body. Madamba followed up with another punch, this time to Dillon¡¯s face. The anger that had driven Dillon drained painfully out of him. The hit to his head made his entire body shake, as if he¡¯d been shocked by an electric current. He was stunned. His vision blurred. He couldn¡¯t move¡ªcouldn¡¯t fight back. He was going to die. Dillon retreated deep inside his mind, searching for an escape from the pain. In that quiet moment, he heard Stovewall¡¯s voice, the memory of his story about being locked in a box by his grandpa. It was absurd, but it made Dillon laugh. In that serene moment, he remembered what he was fighting for. The rage inside him swelled like a storm, uncontrollable and fierce. He felt it build within him, the kind of anger that could break through any pain, any fear. With newfound strength, Dillon grabbed Madamba¡¯s head and pulled it close, slamming his own forehead into Madamba¡¯s with a vicious headbutt. At the same time, he bucked his knees, using all the power left in his battered body to throw Madamba off him. He bit into Madamba¡¯s lip, ripping it off his face. He spat it out onto the cold hard floor and Madamba clutched his face, he crawled away from the mount and grabbed the flag. Madamba was reaching for the rifle and Dillon kicked him in the side of the head. He jumped on top of Madamba with all his might and started strangling him with the flag. He wrapped it around his neck and used all the strength he had left laying on top of him. He was killing the last member of his fireteam. At the beginning of the mission, the flag he was so proud of was the reason he was heading in to this island, to do his best and come out on top with his team. Now he was using it to kill his once thought friend. Madamba lost strength quickly; even injured Dillon had the size and strength advantage over Madamba. When he passed out Dillon picked up his pistol and shot him in the face. He continued shooting. *Bang. Bang. Bang* He continued *Bang. Bang.* Looking on at the body with a menacing snarl to him. He shot Corporal Madamba in the face repeatedly. 17 rounds of 9MM ammunition were unloaded, along with all his rage. He dropped the pistol and grabbed his flag. He walked out exhausted, much as you feel after you are done running a few miles and going through football practice. Dillon felt cold and angry, but he had a plan. He walked out without a bulletproof vest, without a weapon, and without his camouflage top. The flag draped over his shoulder, he stepped out the front door and walked down the path they had once looked at wide-eyed from the jungle. He made his way to the east beach, where the road from the Monolith led. Sure enough, there was a helicopter¡ªand the long-awaited grin on Sgt. Sharp¡¯s face, the one Dillon had hoped to see. A crowd had gathered around the helicopter, and they clapped as Dillon collapsed onto the ground from exhaustion. The next thing Dillon knew, he was waking up in a hospital. His body ached all over, especially his ribs. He reached up to his face and felt the bandage over his right eye. The sensation was strange¡ªhe couldn¡¯t see out of it, and it felt odd. A corpsman entered the room. ¡°Mr. Grey! Nice to have you back with us!¡± ¡°Where am I?¡± Dillon croaked. ¡°You¡¯re at Camp Renaldo,¡± she said with a smile. ¡°I¡¯ll send Sgt. Sharp in to speak with you. Can I bring you a drink or anything? Are you in pain?¡± ¡°My ribs are killing me,¡± he muttered. ¡°I¡¯ll bring you some pain medication. What can I get you to drink?¡± ¡°Water with lemon, please.¡± She nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll be back in just a moment.¡± Dillon closed his eyes, and what felt like moments later, Sgt. Sharp walked in with a tall man wearing silver glasses and a buzz cut. ¡°Good to see you, Corporal Grey,¡± Sharp said. ¡°This is Captain Streaby, the director of the program.¡± Dillon eyed the captain warily. He looked young, in his early thirties, pale, with green eyes. There was something ominous about his presence, and it made Dillon uneasy. ¡°What program?¡± Dillon asked. Sgt. Sharp and Captain Streaby pulled up chairs beside his bed. Sharp shut the door and pulled the curtain closed before speaking. ¡°While you were unconscious, you underwent multiple surgeries. You sustained three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone and shoulder, a torn bicep, a fractured shin, a concussion, and a broken orbital. Your right eye was shot out, and you had stitches in your tongue.¡± Dillon winced. ¡°What the fuck¡ª¡± Captain Streaby interrupted. ¡°You passed the tests on the island, and we didn¡¯t want to lose you just because you lost your sight. We¡¯ve been developing an experimental optic for synthetic eyes. You were implanted with one. It should be fully functional.¡± Dillon touched the patch over his right eye, feeling the eyeball underneath. ¡°Why?¡± He choked up. ¡°Why did you send us in there?¡± The captain tried to explain, but Dillon cut him off. ¡°No! I WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHY YOU SENT MY TEAM INTO THAT FUCKING DEATH TRAP!¡± He was shouting now, shaking the bed. ¡°TELL ME WHY, DAMN IT!¡± Sgt. Sharp raised a hand. ¡°If you¡¯ll give me a chance¡ª¡± ¡°Go ahead! Let me hear your FUCKING EXCUSES!¡± Dillon yelled. Sgt. Sharp sighed. ¡°You won¡¯t believe me, but it was a simple miscommunication.¡± ¡°MISCOMMUNICATION MY ASS!¡± Dillon screamed, trying to sit up but realizing he was strapped to the bed. Sharp sighed again. ¡°I understand. It just so happened that multiple agencies mistakenly dropped their fireteams on the same day. Because of the secretive nature of the operation, we couldn¡¯t coordinate properly.¡± ¡°You knew!¡± Dillon hissed. ¡°You knew, and my team died!¡± Captain Streaby spoke. ¡°By the time we realized what happened, you had already annihilated two fireteams with remarkable accuracy. So we let you continue the mission.¡± Sharp added, ¡°You succeeded, Corporal. You are accepted.¡± Dillon grabbed the tray and drinks from the medical cart and hurled them to the floor, sending the contents crashing everywhere. ¡°I don¡¯t want your fucking position! My friends died because of you!¡± Sharp remained calm. ¡°I understand your pain. But you still have a contract to complete. If you want out after that, we can discuss it. But for now, you belong to us. You have the Hand of God.¡± Dillon¡¯s face twisted in confusion. ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡± Captain Streaby explained, ¡°The optic in your eye is connected to your nervous system and integrated into our defense network. When you look down a scope and a target enters your field of view, your eye will zoom in, and a signal will trigger your brain to fire. Your hand will pull the trigger without you even realizing it. You¡¯ll be able to perform at levels no one has ever seen before.¡± He sounded almost excited as he spoke. Dillon stared, the weight of the situation sinking in. He was going to run. He would find a way to get out of this, God¡¯s eye or not. Captain Streaby continued, ¡°You don¡¯t have a choice, Corporal. That optic cost a lot of taxpayer money. If you want to keep your vision, you¡¯ll need to finish your contract.¡± Dillon was enraged, knowing now that the optic was likely tracked by GPS. There was no escaping them. He couldn¡¯t even move yet. Sgt. Sharp spoke again. ¡°We chose you because you survived. You made the best decisions possible under the circumstances, and you ranked in the top 3% for accuracy and trigger response. You pull the trigger faster than most people can flip a selector switch.¡± Dillon didn¡¯t respond. It was too much to process. Captain Streaby stood up. ¡°We¡¯ll leave you for now. But before we go, I¡¯d like to present you with this.¡± He held out his hand, revealing sergeant chevrons. ¡°These were Sgt. Williams¡¯ chevrons. I¡¯m promoting you to sergeant. If you accept, you may take these.¡± Dillon thought for a moment. He didn¡¯t care about the promotion, but he wanted the chevrons to remember his fallen friend. He took them from Captain Streaby¡¯s hand, and they left him alone in the room. The next week, the corpsman entered his room. ¡°How are you today, Mr. Grey? I hear you¡¯re mostly healed up now! Does that shoulder still hurt? How¡¯s the new eye?¡± Dillon looked around the room, feeling like a maniac. ¡°I¡¯m doing fine, Ms. Kayer,¡± he grumbled. ¡°The vision is astounding. This thing is amazing.¡± He made eye contact with her, but in that moment, his God¡¯s eye activated. His other pupil contracted and expanded in a millisecond, sending a sharp pain through his head. He winced. ¡°God damn!¡± he muttered. ¡°I¡¯m not used to this!¡± She laughed. ¡°It¡¯ll take some getting used to, but you¡¯ll adjust. I hear you¡¯ll be shipping out tomorrow.¡± He sighed. ¡°It¡¯s been a terrible few months. Thanks for your kindness. I won¡¯t forget it.¡± She smiled flirtatiously. ¡°My pleasure, Mr. Grey. Take care!¡± She walked out of the room in a way that made Dillon want to jump out of bed and follow her. Chapter Two: Kardashev Kardashev University, Near Camp Renaldo, 2031 Belle often found herself daydreaming during class. Her mind would wander back to her childhood, to memories of simpler times. She remembered being a little girl in a picture-perfect family with a white picket fence and a small dog, though she couldn¡¯t even recall the dog¡¯s name anymore. Those were the happiest days of her life¡ªher parents loved her dearly, and she felt secure in that love. She especially loved playing dress-up and having tea parties with her father. She had been so attached to him. He was her hero. One day, her father came home early from work to surprise her mother. However, the surprise turned out to be hers. She was in bed with the priest from their church, and one who had been caught molesting children. Belle¡¯s father had killed the priest, and when the police showed up Belle had walked out of her room. She saw her father in the living room in tears, with a panicked expression on his face. Her mother was crying and she had a gun to her head. Belle remembered crying at the sight of this. She hated it when her parents fought. Her parents were soul mates, they were supposed to be happy. It made her happy. The police busted in the door and her dad said ¡°I love you princess.¡± As he shot her mother the police shot her father to death in front of her, and one man in particular rushed in to pick her up. She hugged him and cried with all her might. She didn¡¯t understand death or what was happening. Eventually, she was adopted by the police officer who had come to her home that day. Unlike the priest she had never trusted, he was a kind-hearted man to his core, a truly good person. He and his wife, unable to have children of their own, took her in and raised her. He taught her about God and the ways of the world, and he became a good father to her. She thought about how fortunate she was to have him in her life, how good of a man he was. The sudden silence in the room snapped her back to the present. Deep breath. The room was quiet while the professor spoke. The professor was a pale man with wild, Einstein-like hair, dressed in blue pants and a white lab coat. He looked exactly like the stereotypical scientist one might imagine. ¡°The Kardashev scale,¡± he began, ¡°is a method for measuring a civilization¡¯s advancement based on its energy output. There are five levels on this scale. Now, before we go into detail, does anyone know where Earth stands on this scale?¡± A blonde-haired woman adjusted her glasses and raised her hand. ¡°Yes, Ms. Kayer, go ahead,¡± the professor nodded. ¡°Earth is currently a Type Zero civilization,¡± she said. The professor motioned with his hands as he replied, ¡°Correct. Now, how do we advance to a Type One civilization? Anyone?¡± Ms. Kayer raised her hand again, and the professor acknowledged her. ¡°Currently, we are in the most dangerous part of the transition to a Type One civilization. The jump from Type Zero to Type One is the most perilous advancement on the scale.¡± The professor interrupted. ¡°Yes, but how do we advance to a Type One?¡± She felt nervous now as the entire class looked at her. Public speaking wasn¡¯t her strength, which was why she had chosen this class. ¡°We have to harness the power of the entire planet,¡± she began, hesitating. ¡°We must be able to collect and utilize all the energy that reaches Earth from the sun. We need to store and use one hundred percent of that energy.¡± The professor smiled. ¡°Exactly right! Now, moving on. We are at a crucial moment in our development where drastic decisions must be made, or we risk destroying ourselves.¡± He paused, looking around the room. ¡°We¡¯ve studied the cosmos, and so far, we haven¡¯t found evidence of any Type One or higher civilizations. However, there should be thousands out there. The problem is that many of these civilizations likely destroy themselves before reaching Type One status.¡± The room was silent, all eyes on him. ¡°We are at a breaking point. We¡¯ve achieved a global language, and our government is mostly unified. We¡¯ve made advances in fusion power, and our technology has surpassed expectations for our place in the timeline. But we face problems in other areas. Weapons of mass destruction, wars, riots, and civil unrest are some of our biggest threats. Integration, however, is our most significant challenge. What do you think the hardest part of integration is?¡± A Black man in the front of the class raised his hand and stood to speak. ¡°Go ahead, Mr. Banks,¡± the professor encouraged, sitting down and rolling his chair closer to the edge of the platform. ¡°Sir, I believe the hardest part of societal integration is overcoming multicultural barriers. It¡¯s difficult for different races and cultures to come together because of historical conflicts. If we could set aside these differences and focus on becoming a Type One civilization, I think we would already be there.¡± He paused before continuing, ¡°But professor, I also believe that not everyone shares the goal of peace and advancement. That¡¯s part of the problem.¡± The professor smiled, pleased. ¡°Thank you, Mr. Banks. You¡¯ve raised a critical point. These barriers could very well lead to further conflict and destabilization. Your generation, and your children¡¯s generation, will determine whether we succeed in this transition. The world government is making strides toward global integration, but not everyone agrees with these decisions. However, we must trust that the leaders and the great minds advising them are making choices in the best interest of humanity¡¯s survival.¡± He took a sip of his coffee before continuing. ¡°Let me conclude with one final thought before we open the floor for discussion. If you are standing in the way of progress¡ªif you are inciting civil war, committing hate crimes, or indulging in destruction¡ªyou are a terrorist to our civilization. It¡¯s not far-fetched to say that a hate crime is not just an offense against an individual but a crime against humanity. In the eyes of those focused on progress, you are a detriment to society and should be removed. This mindset will cause great conflict in the future. No God or deity will save us if we choose the path of self-destruction.¡± Ms. Kayer raised her hand, but the professor continued speaking. ¡°By this logic, it is also true that no ¡®God¡¯ or ¡®Deity¡¯ can prevent us from advancing if that is the path we choose. If we lose this war with ourselves, there will be no Earth. There will be no one to save us, for each of you holds the power to determine our fate. You must keep these ideals in mind if we are to survive. With that, let¡¯s open the floor to questions.¡± He noticed many hands raised, as expected. The professor pointed to Ms. Kayer. ¡°Professor, I believe that if God wants us to advance to a Type One civilization, we will. If the war to end all wars is inevitable, it must be the judgment day predicted in Revelations. I think the biggest problem we face is our lack of faith.¡± A few people lowered their hands, seeming to sympathize with her view. The professor took a sip from his mug before replying. ¡°We don¡¯t have time to discuss the evidence or lack thereof of a ¡®God,¡¯ Ms. Kayer. What I will say is this: if you think the issue is a lack of faith, I would redirect you to think of it as a lack of integration. Your faith, and religion as a whole, may be seen as an integration problem¡ªone that must be overcome. Keep that in mind.¡± ¡°Professor, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s fair to say religion is a problem, however¡ª¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The professor cut her off. ¡°Next question, please!¡± A red-haired man in the back spoke up. ¡°If you say terrorists are preventing our civilization from advancing, wouldn¡¯t people like Ms. Kayer, who believe in religion, be part of the integration problem? Are they terrorists? Are religions considered terrorist groups?¡± The class erupted into arguments. ¡°You¡¯re a terrorist!¡± someone shouted. ¡°If religion is terrorism, then so is atheism!¡± another retorted. The professor stood up and waved his hands. ¡°Quiet! Quiet! Let me answer the question.¡± The room gradually settled down. ¡°Notice how quickly you all reacted to Mr. Tormen¡¯s question,¡± the professor said, pausing as the murmurs continued. ¡°This is exactly why such discussions can¡¯t take place around the world. If we can¡¯t put aside our beliefs, we can¡¯t engage in meaningful conversation. If we don¡¯t set our personal convictions aside, we can¡¯t examine the issue from a broader, more objective point of view. We must react logically, considering all perspectives, before speaking. That concludes today¡¯s lesson.¡± Ms. Belle Kayer was a full-time student who had just begun serving in the Navy as a corpsman. She also worked at the hospital near her college, located on a military base called Camp Renaldo. Petite at 5¡¯1¡± and 110 pounds, Belle had blue hair, blonde eyes, and a heart full of hope. She dreamed of becoming a doctor one day, and the Navy would pay for her schooling and train her simultaneously, so it was the best option. However, one of her patients at the hospital saddened Belle greatly. He had unusual wounds and mysterious circumstances surrounding his injuries. Belle wasn¡¯t allowed to ask questions about his situation, and her time with him in the room was limited. Still, the handsome man intrigued her. The way he looked at her with his piercing grey eyes sent a shiver down her spine. She couldn¡¯t help but feel drawn to him, though she knew it was unprofessional. She wanted to get to know him better but knew that was impossible¡ªat least for now. As Belle walked home that evening, she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about Mr. Grey. There was one night, in particular, that stuck in her mind. He had been unconscious in a medical coma, and she had volunteered to change his catheters. Afterward, she was supposed to wash him and change his bed linens. When she removed the catheter, he became aroused in his sleep. It was the first time she had encountered something like this, and she found it hard to focus on anything else. As she washed him, she felt herself blush and shivered at the memory even now. The situation felt strangely exciting¡ªtaboo, even. She knew it was wrong to have these thoughts about her patients, but she couldn¡¯t help herself. Belle had never been the type to fantasize about someone in this way, especially not a patient. Yet something about Mr. Grey attracted her in a way she didn¡¯t understand, and it was completely out of character for her. Belle opened the front door of her apartment and walked inside, closing it behind her. The first thing she did after a long shift was shed her work clothes. She took off her shirt, then her bra, sighing with relief. ¡°Oh my god,¡± she muttered aloud. It felt so good to be free of it. Next, her pants came off. She always liked to get comfortable as soon as she got home. She left her silk panties on and blushed as she noticed she was still feeling aroused. ¡°I¡¯ve got to stop thinking about that man!¡± she said to herself, shaking her head. Belle had a paper to study for that night, so she walked over to the kitchen island, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. The fresh scent of her lavender flameless candles filled the room, and she took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind. Opening the fridge, she searched for something to eat. Belle had always been able to eat a lot without gaining weight, which was something she joked about often. On dates, she always felt the need to act coy, ordering small portions to avoid appearing too eager. No one wanted to see someone devour an entire plate of nachos on a first date, after all. Belle opened the fridge and took out some General Tso¡¯s chicken and rice. She heated it up and sat down in front of the TV, eating while the news played in the background. This was her nightly ritual before studying. ¡°There are protests in northern Virginia as families of prisoners express outrage over the changes in legislation. There are fears this may soon spread across the country¡­¡± Belle knew what they were talking about. The U.S. had been trying to reduce its death row population, and the long-standing practice of waiting thirty or more years for execution had come to a halt. The new laws being pushed through meant that, if convicted of a death sentence, prisoners had at most six months before being executed. They were moved into a prison setting where executions happened routinely to reduce overcrowding and, in theory, increase deterrence for severe crimes. Belle thought it was harsh. Many people would be executed without the usual long appeals process. Still, if someone had a 120-year sentence, why should law-abiding taxpayers cover their medical bills for the rest of their life, waiting for the state to eventually carry out the sentence? It made sense in a way, but she also understood why families would be upset. Their loved ones would be executed before having enough time to go through the legal appeals process. It was a rough situation, but maybe this would make the prison system more effective. ¡°Lawmakers say anyone with a sentence over 100 years could be transferred into these new facilities, which they refer to as a ¡®Cleansing¡¯ process. Protesters are comparing the government to World War II death camps, with some even invoking Adolf Hitler on their signs.¡± That was enough for Belle. She turned off the news and finished the last of her chicken and rice. Heading to her bedroom, she left the kitchen light on. The cold tile floor chilled her bare feet as her footsteps echoed in her empty apartment. It was dark in her room, and for a brief moment, she felt scared before flipping on the lights. ¡°Hello, Shadow!¡± she said, smiling. Her cat was sprawled on the bed, arching his back and stretching as she reached down to pet him. ¡°How¡¯s my baby doing? What have you been up to?¡± ¡°Meow! Meow!¡± Shadow replied as if in conversation. ¡°Have you been coloring?¡± she joked. Meow! Belle chuckled and sat down, grabbing her computer. It was time to finish her paper on the Kardashev scale. What a strange class, she thought, especially compared to her medical studies. They always discussed such random topics. She lifted the covers and got comfortable. The small coffee maker on her nightstand hissed as she turned it on, filling the room with the rich aroma of brewing coffee. The only thing she loved more than the scent of vanilla candles was the smell of coffee. She pulled up her documents and moved her toes under the cold sheets, savoring the coolness against her smooth legs. Belle began reading a few articles. Shadow snuggled against her side as she absentmindedly petted him. One of the articles talked about Earth¡¯s struggles to transition into a Type One civilization. ¡°Is this stuff even real?¡± she muttered. It seemed like an impossible goal. How could humans ever control 100% of Earth¡¯s energy or manage natural disasters like earthquakes and hurricanes? Capturing all the energy from the sun felt like an equally ridiculous challenge. While fusion was becoming more widespread, it was still only available in the most advanced countries, and even then, it was only beginning to be understood on a small scale. Belle paused from reading and stared out, thinking. ¡°I believe¡­¡± she said softly to Shadow. ¡°I believe we are all connected in some way. It might be God, or it might not be. Maybe it¡¯s something higher than that¡ªor something simpler.¡± She had read about the concept of a collective consciousness before, but always dismissed it as nonsense. ¡°I¡¯ve never been big into God. My parents were, though. Isn¡¯t that right, Shadow?¡± she said, patting her cat¡¯s head. Her coffee was ready. The aroma filled the room as she sipped the hot drink, trying to figure out how to start her paper. The assignment was to propose suggestions on the major issues humanity faced in becoming a Type One civilization. Then it hit her¡ªthe news. She remembered the protests and civil unrest sweeping across northern America because of the new prison laws. This was a milestone in humanity¡¯s development, but it raised tough questions. Could these changes be justified? Should families just accept them? It was a difficult subject to process, but millions of people were about to be affected by this law. Belle thought about what her professor had said earlier: people who resist or cause problems for societal integration are a detriment to humanity. She started writing her paper, reflecting on how inmates with life sentences were unlikely to contribute to humanity¡¯s progress. Based on her professor¡¯s logic, they were committing crimes not only against their victims but also against humanity itself. If they were removed, society might become marginally better. She considered the possibility that even the families of those prisoners might be partly to blame¡ªexposed to the same environment that led their loved ones to prison. If one family member was convicted of drug use, there was a good chance others were involved in similar behaviors. The statistics were significantly higher for families already touched by the legal system. Her conclusion felt controversial: ¡°If you are in prison with a life sentence and are never getting out, it would help humanity¡¯s progress toward a Type One civilization if you were put to death. Furthermore, if you riot and act out in protest of these changes, you are also a detriment to humanity and should be imprisoned.¡± She felt conflicted, almost appalled, by her own words. But was it true? Either way, it would make for an interesting read for her professor. It took a couple of hours to finish the paper. Finally, Belle set her laptop aside, curled up with Shadow, and drifted off to sleep. Her last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was of Dillon Grey. Chapter Three: The Glass House the glass house The Glass House Caf¨¦, Old London 2047 Many things were happening at The Glass House that day. Dillon was busy hand-drying a coffee mug with a blue microfiber towel, while friends and locals enjoyed their usual drinks. John Belmont, a regular, was on his fourth cup of coffee. Dillon kept an eye on everyone in the caf¨¦: six people sat at the bar drinking tea and coffee, two couples occupied tables, a gentleman in the far corner read his newspaper while having breakfast, and there was a woman¡ªstark naked¡ªin the trunk of Dillon¡¯s car. To the average onlooker, Dillon appeared to be a calm, middle-aged man with two light grey eyes that were almost colorless. He always wore a faint smile and spoke deliberately, a habit from years of training that made him choose his words carefully. There was a quiet confidence in the way he moved, no matter the situation. His past was written in the streaks of grey that now touched his once jet-black hair. Dillon had just finished drying the mug and was about to place it on a silver hook when a man at the bar spoke in a heavy British accent. ¡°Another dark for me, sir!¡± the man called. Dillon gently hung the mug and turned to pick up the regular¡¯s cup. ¡°John, if I didn¡¯t know any better, I¡¯d say you spent your afternoons here to get away from the missus,¡± Dillon said with a creeping smile. ¡°It¡¯s not the missus, it¡¯s the bloody newborn! It¡¯s like he¡¯s paid to annoy the piss out of me!¡± John replied, watching as Dillon refilled his mug for the fifth time. Dillon paused. ¡°Well, mate, you¡¯re going to have to face the news sometime.¡± John sipped his coffee, eyeing Dillon. ¡°What news might that be? That I¡¯ve bloody ruined any chance of sleeping for the next ten years?¡± Dillon chuckled. ¡°Mate, you¡¯ve been here for two hours ¡®getting baby food,¡¯¡± he said, gesturing air quotes with his fingers. John sighed dramatically. ¡°Bollocks! You¡¯re right. She¡¯s going to kick me to the bloody dog house again.¡± He shook his head and set his mug down on a white coaster as Dillon pressed the HOT button in the middle of it, keeping his drink warm. ¡°In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say,¡± John muttered. ¡°Might as well stay and finish the cup.¡± He raised his mug in a mock toast and focused on the television. The news reporter was speaking: ¡°We¡¯re coming to you live from Unicell in London, where there¡¯s been a breakthrough in the technology coming out of their laboratories. Just last week, Unicell was working with top researchers from NASA and other international experts aboard the Space-Station Observatory orbiting Mars-¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. John interrupted, ¡°Those ruddy lemons at the space station have been spending my hard-earned tax money on ridiculous inventions for the last decade. Honestly, you¡¯d think civilized people would do more than just stare into space all day. Quite literally.¡± Dillon replied after a pause, ¡°It all works out for us in the end, mate. Take a look at the table you¡¯re resting on. It¡¯s wirelessly charging your phone and heating your coffee mug. Now, that¡¯s mighty civilized if you ask me.¡± John frowned slightly. ¡°You know, I try not to think about such things. I can¡¯t even imagine how any of it came about.¡± Dillon grinned with a mischievous glint in his eye. ¡°Speaking of such things¡­¡± he winked. ¡°Meet me after last bell, round the back at the Jag.¡± John groaned. ¡°Oh, come on! The missus is already going to have my balls in a scrambler. I shouldn¡¯t even finish this cup!¡± Dillon laughed. ¡°In for a penny, in for a pound, you always say.¡± They both chuckled. For the next hour, Dillon played the part of the humble caf¨¦ owner, serving customers, refilling orders, and maintaining the cozy atmosphere. But as last call came and went, the warmth and chatter of the caf¨¦ began to give way to the cold quiet of the night. Dillon took a deep breath; this caf¨¦ was his sanctuary from the life he¡¯d left behind, and it was a break he knew he deserved. ¡°Is it bloody well time now?¡± John asked, standing and stretching. ¡°I¡¯ve had nine cups of coffee, and I¡¯m fairly certain you don¡¯t have enough latrines to handle what I¡¯m about to unleash!¡± Drying his hands, Dillon grinned. ¡°Worth the wait, entirely. Just don¡¯t go shitting about the place, old friend.¡± Dillon led John through the back exit, tossing the blue washcloth onto the counter. John followed, still grumbling. ¡°This better be the dog¡¯s bollocks, mate, or I swear I¡¯ll shit on your beautiful wooden floor.¡± Dillon chuckled as they crossed the parking lot to his black Jaguar, the only car in the reserved lot. His mother and employees were the only other people allowed to park there, and they didn¡¯t work weekends. Dillon approached the car, resting his hand on the front door handle, which scanned his fingerprints. He motioned for John to stay by the trunk. ¡°You can¡¯t tell anyone about this,¡± Dillon said, his voice dropping. John interrupted, ¡°So help me God, I got it.¡± Dillon opened the trunk with a single effortless motion. Inside were two Blue Audio 12¡± subwoofer speakers and a wireless amplifier. John examined the setup, unimpressed. ¡°You brought me out here to show me speakers? I might just squat and make a deposit in your trunk!¡± He laughed heartily. Dillon said nothing, walking over to the driver¡¯s seat and motioning for John to open the passenger door. ¡°Take a look at the edge there,¡± Dillon instructed, pointing to the seam between the seat and the door. John, confused, asked, ¡°What am I looking for?¡± Dillon pointed again. ¡°See that button by the seatbelt? Press it and pull the seat down.¡± John hesitated but pushed the button and pulled the seat down, revealing only a hard, grey surface that blocked access to the trunk. ¡°And what¡¯s so special about this?¡± John asked, skeptical. ¡°Pay close attention,¡± Dillon said with a grin. He turned up the volume on the car¡¯s console, then pressed a series of buttons before lowering the volume back down. A faint click echoed behind John. He turned and saw that the grey panel had shifted, revealing two pale feet. John was speechless. He instinctively pulled down the other seat, revealing a woman lying in the space between the seats and the speakers. He turned to Dillon, his mouth agape. ¡°My God, is she dead?¡± Dillon smiled calmly. ¡°Tranquilized.¡± John looked back at the woman. She had fiery red hair and wore nothing but a familiar gold bracelet around her ankle. Her name was Freya, and she was Dillon¡¯s soon-to-be ex-wife. Chapter Four: USS Minerva Minerva: Atlantic Sea Destroyer, 2044 Belle focused on the pink and blue sky, which had just begun to glow with the rising sun. The fall breeze gently played with her blonde hair as she narrowed her dark ocean-blue eyes on a cloud that resembled a large cat. She had been back at sea aboard the USS Minerva II for five months now, serving as one of the onboard corpsmen (a navy medic). Just moments earlier, she had finished praying that her husband would stay safe and contact her soon. Her husband, the chaplain for their battalion, had been summoned to Quantico, VA, for an executive mandate that all chaplains were required to attend. The notice had come with little warning, but Belle was accustomed to the last-minute nature of military life. ¡°Corpsman!¡± someone suddenly yelled behind her, breaking her thoughts. She turned to see a frantic Lance Corporal running toward her. ¡°Corpsman!¡± he shouted again. He arrived, sweating and out of breath. ¡°What¡¯s the emergency, Lcpl?¡± she asked. He held his hands up apologetically. ¡°You¡¯re needed in the barracks. There¡¯s been a fight, and Sgt. Foreman has a broken nose¡ªthere¡¯s blood everywhere! He¡¯s passed out cold!¡± ¡°That¡¯s the third fight this week!¡± she replied in frustration. The Marine nodded, sheepishly. ¡°I know, ma¡¯am. But could you please follow me?¡± Clenching her teeth, Belle followed him across the deck. ¡°This is the last time I treat one of you drunken idiots, I swear it!¡± They ran toward the port, heading below deck. Belle had become one of the Marines¡¯ favorite corpsmen, known for her discretion. Unlike other medics, who would file reports and complaints, Belle believed some issues could be handled quietly, without costing servicemen their rank or home. As they moved quickly down the ship¡¯s narrow corridors, she worried about how to cover up this mess. Hopefully, it was just a minor scuffle in one of the living quarters. She cared deeply for everyone aboard, just as much as she did for her own daughters. Belle cringed at the sight of a shattered whiskey bottle on the floor of the Marine living halls. ¡°It smells like shit down here, Lcpl. If the captain sees this, we¡¯re all in deep trouble.¡± ¡°We¡¯re almost there!¡± he replied, motioning for her to follow as they turned a corner toward the captain¡¯s dining area. ¡°Oh no,¡± Belle thought. ¡°How bad is this?¡± Sweat formed on her brow. They had passed the enlisted and officer quarters, moving deeper into the ship, and Belle¡¯s unease grew. Something terrible awaited around that corner; it had to be, considering they were nearing the captain¡¯s domain. But when she turned the final corner, the Lance Corporal disappeared into a crowd standing in front of her. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Happy birthday, Belle!¡± the smiling group shouted. Sgt. Foreman, perfectly fine, handed her a bouquet of yellow roses as everyone burst into laughter. Tears streamed down her face as she smiled. ¡°You assholes,¡± she whispered, grinning. Her hand covered her mouth as people crowded around, offering congratulations. In truth, she had forgotten it was her birthday, consumed as she had been by stress over recent events and her husband¡¯s sudden absence. She had just returned from deployment with this unit, and they were closer to her than most family, aside from her two daughters and husband. Captain Buchanan clinked a glass with a spoon, drawing the room¡¯s attention. Standing on a white dinner chair, he looked utterly ridiculous. ¡°Would Chief Petty Officer Kayer please step up here!¡± He motioned to the chair next to him. Belle was rushed forward by several people, and Captain Buchanan extended a hand, helping her up onto the chair. Blushing, she wiped away her tears as the captain began to speak. ¡°Chief Petty Officer Kayer¡ªthough most of us call you Belle.¡± He paused, and the room grew quiet. ¡°Normally, it¡¯s highly unprofessional to address each other by first names, but today we celebrate not as seamen and Marines, but as brothers and sisters.¡± A few cheers and whistles echoed through the hall. ¡°Belle has been one of our beloved corpsmen for many deployments, and she¡¯s personally saved my life and the lives of many others.¡± More cheers erupted, and Belle wiped away another tear, sniffling. ¡°Let me wrap this up quickly by saying it¡¯s been a pleasure serving beside you. You¡¯d better be drunk by 1600, and yes, that¡¯s an order!¡± The captain stepped down from his chair, offering his hand to help Belle down. She hugged him and whispered, ¡°Thank you, Cap.¡± He smiled. ¡°Call me Roy. We¡¯re family, remember?¡± Belle hugged him tighter. ¡°Thank you, Roy,¡± she said, before turning to hug and shake hands with others in the crowd. She noticed a makeshift bar set up at a table in the corner. Alcohol wasn¡¯t allowed on ships, and drinking onboard was strictly forbidden unless the ship was docked for the weekend. The fact that they had snuck alcohol onboard and thrown this party spoke volumes about how much they cared for her. A large spread of food and desserts covered the long, black stainless-steel table, reminding Belle of the lunch tables from her middle school days. She made her way over to the bar, eager for a drink to calm her nerves, when she saw Petty Officer Almonetta, a fellow corpsman, waving at her. Almonetta could have been Belle¡¯s twin if Belle had one; they were the same build and height, with only their hair color and Almonetta¡¯s slightly higher cheekbones to tell them apart. Most people on the ship mistook them for twins, and their shared nickname reflected that. They even walked the same, though most service members moved similarly after boot camp. Belle smiled as she embraced Almonetta. ¡°Happy birthday, sis,¡± Almonetta said with a grin. Belle¡¯s smile widened. ¡°How long have you all been planning this?¡± ¡°A while now. It took some time to sneak all this booze onboard. If the admiral finds out, we¡¯ll all be demoted back to seaman.¡± Belle laughed. ¡°I¡¯ve never had a surprise party before. I spent two birthdays in the field, eating MREs in Russia.¡± Almonetta placed a hand on Belle¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You deserve a good celebration, sweetie. Everyone knows how hard you work around here.¡± Belle blushed. ¡°You work just as hard, sis. Make sure you enjoy yourself too.¡± Almonetta raised her glass. ¡°You bet! Now get yourself something to drink. You look like you need it!¡± she cheered. Belle nodded. ¡°I do. I¡¯ve been so str¡ª¡± Her words were cut off by a loud shout. ¡°SHOTS!¡± a group called. ¡°Get the twins!¡± Before Belle knew it, she was as carefree as a bear eating honey in the woods on a bright midsummer¡¯s day. She drank, laughed, and played cards until the world grew fuzzy and the haze of the night consumed her. Then, everything went black. Chapter Five: Crucify Chapter four ¡°What¡¯s your plan?¡± John asked inquisitively. ¡°I need you to go into the kitchen, and right above the sink, open the cabinet. There¡¯s a vial¡ªbring it to me. Don¡¯t spill it, and definitely don¡¯t get a drop on yourself. Got it?¡± ¡°Got it!¡± John paused and then asked, ¡°Wait¡­ what¡¯s in it? I¡¯m not about to slip on your shitty floor and end up covered in something deadly, right?¡± Dillon replied, ¡°To be honest, it¡¯s lysergic acid diethylamide.¡± ¡°The hell is that?¡± John asked, while opening the cabinet. ¡°It¡¯s LSD, John.¡± John winced. ¡°Why the hell do you need that? Planning to take a trip while torturing someone downstairs? May the gods have mercy.¡± He handed the vial over to Dillon. Dillon reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, blue piece of metal. He placed it along with the vial on the floating table in front of them. Dillon¡¯s living room was immaculate, filled with subtle yet remarkable technological marvels. The floor was covered in white carpet, which could change color at any time, and the furniture was white leather, accented with marble filigree on the armrests and legs. The table in the center was a suspended piece of marble, seemingly floating in mid-air. There was a magnet below the surface of the carpet, and the table had one inside it as well. John, without fully understanding the science, found it impressive. The table also served as a smart screen, displaying options when a cup was placed on it. You could simply press ¡°HOT¡± or ¡°COLD¡± to regulate your drink¡¯s temperature¡ªno need for ice cubes or microwaves. It was convenient, but John didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it. Dillon interrupted his thoughts. Dillon had laid a pair of panties and a bra on the table, wearing peculiar black gloves as he handled the vial of LSD. ¡°What¡¯re you doing?¡± John asked. ¡°Based on your observations, what do you think I¡¯m doing?¡± he responded. ¡°It appears, Sir, that you¡¯ve gone batshit crazy and are trying to give these panties an acid trip.¡± John gestured dramatically, making him smirk. ¡°Absolutely. It¡¯s always been a dream of mine to record the out-of-body experiences of clothing under the influence of psychedelics.¡± They both laughed, and then John asked more seriously, ¡°No, really though¡­ what¡¯s your actual plan here?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find out if you stick around long enough, John.¡± ¡°Ugh,¡± John groaned. Dillon waved the blue metal over the clothes. The tip, about the size of a pencil eraser, glowed a bright baby blue, misting what John assumed was the LSD onto the undergarments. John could only imagine what sinister plan Dillon had in mind. This was some next-level revenge, he thought. He finished spraying the clothing and warned, ¡°Whatever you do, don¡¯t touch those clothes without gloves. It¡¯s concentrated enough to have you talking to Mr. Mushrooms for about sixteen hours.¡± John replied, ¡°You know, I¡¯ve dabbled in that sort of thing, but I¡¯m not interested in whatever concoction you¡¯re planning. And if you think I¡¯m going to dress up and seduce secrets out of some villain downstairs, you¡¯ve got another thing coming!¡± He took a deep breath, winded from his rant. Dillon chuckled, ¡°No, John. You¡¯re not dressing up today. I have bigger plans for these. But I need you to watch my wife while I handle some business downstairs. Can you do that for me?¡± ¡°Absolutely. Just throw on some TV, and I¡¯ll be fine,¡± John replied happily. ¡°Thanks, I owe you one,¡± he said. He got up, tossed his gloves in the trash, dusted off his grey trousers, and walked downstairs. Dillon walked across the black granite floor towards the door leading to his basement, mentally preparing himself for what was ahead. He was in complete control of his emotions, as always. He recalled his training, particularly one moment that stuck with him: the question, ¡°Who is the most powerful man in the world?¡± While others gave answers like ¡°bodybuilders¡± or ¡°Marines,¡± Dillon had thought of something just as trivial. But the instructor¡¯s answer was different: ¡°The most powerful man is one who has complete control over his emotions.¡± That idea shaped him. He had become someone who didn¡¯t succumb to anger or sadness, someone who controlled what he felt. He remembered once wrecking his car while on leave. His friends were panicked, but Dillon remained calm, doing what he knew needed to be done¡ªmedically assessing the situation and making the necessary phone calls. In another instance, he witnessed a comrade stab another soldier in the neck. While others were horrified, he felt nothing. His iron mind was in control, he only felt numb. And now, as he dealt with his wife¡¯s betrayal, he remained unaffected. He wasn¡¯t angry or sad. In fact, he was having fun. Fun wasn¡¯t something he could control; it was an honest reaction to enjoying what he was doing. Torturing this man and planning for his wife¡ªthis was a way to feel something different. He was in control of the entire situation. He approached the room in his basement and could hear a groaning sound from the man he held captive inside. He cracked his neck and stepped into character, he was now vicious and evil. He was ruthless and numb, he could do anything to this man and feel nothing-and it was time to have some fun. He saw the man was limp against the wall. Held there by four restraints, one on each arm electromagnetically attaching the man¡¯s limbs to the wall, suspended off the ground like you might see Davinchi¡¯s Vitruvian Man. He was covered in zig zagged scars and large seeping wounds stitched together by copper wire. He could see infection on the man¡¯s arms and abdomen, and some in his neck. Staph infection was starting to take over. The man was not aware of his presence in the room, his body was shut down recovering from the mere hours of sleep he received for the first time today. The former spy approached a table in the corner of the room and poured a clear liquid into a glass cup from a pitcher. Taking a sip from the cup ¡°Truly, A fine Vodka.¡± He said menacingly. Then, he took the pitcher and softly approached the man on the wall. He was studying the soul before him, he took pity on the man for a moment. It was human instinct he was being punished for, he knew not the torment he would receive for his crimes. For it is a crime to knowingly sleep with another man¡¯s wife. It is another crime to have a relationship with that man¡¯s wife also. For breaking these moral codes, the man would suffer. Dillon spoke an exaggerated ¡°Good Morning!¡± as he slowly poured the almost entirely full pitcher over the man¡¯s copper wire stitched together wounds on his neck, arms, and basically his entire body at this point. ¡°YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGH¡± the blood curdling scream emitting from this tortured soul was enough to raise the dead from their crypts. Huffing and panting he spat out on Dillon¡¯s face to which Dillon laughed and continued pouring ¡°Must sterilize the wounds, as they say.¡± He spoke with a cocky pompous voice as he watched the vodka mix with rust coming from the wire and dried blood, all mixing together and dripping an orange stream from the neck down to his toes, infection spreading from one part of the body to the next and onto the floor. Dillon was filled with excitement, he truly felt alive in this moment. The executioner took out a pair of pliers from his pocket and stepped to the left side of his victim. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! He then grabbed hold of the end of the copper wire protruding from the back of his victim¡¯s hand. It was a stretch of wire that held together a large gaping wound appeared to have been done with a thick dull blade from his hand to his shoulder. The pattern of the wound was something out of a horror film, it was clearly swollen and the wire had begun to rust together with the dried blood and puss. Dillon gave a tug ¡°AAAAAAAA-¡° and looked into the eyes of his prey, making full contact with him as he slowly pulled the wire further out of his body. With the wire out and the man still screaming, he continued pouring some of the vodka on the now open and bleeding wound and he stopped when half of the pitcher remained and took a step back to examine his work further. ¡°BLOODY FUCKING ¨CInaudible screams-¡°Dillon couldn¡¯t make out the rest of the words but he replied. ¡°You have lasted longer than expected, but your final hour has arrived my friend.¡± Blood was now pouring down the left side of the naked man¡¯s body, combining with the now slowly dripping stream of orange from the other areas of himself. He walked over to a duffle bag on the floor, placed his pitcher and pliers down, and pulled out a circular disk about the size of his hand. ¡°This,¡± he explained, ¡°Is a little invention of mine . Ignito Circalus. If you understand the Latin undertone, it means ¡®Fire Circle.¡¯ Let me show you how it works.¡± He held the disk at eye level and pressed a button on its side. *Beep*. The disk ignited, producing a foot-high blue flame, similar to that from a blowtorch, seemingly out of thin air. ¡°I¡¯m going to place this under the stairs on my way out,¡± Dillon said, the flame flickering in front of him. ¡°It will burn indefinitely.¡± He paused for effect, locking eyes with the unnamed figure in front of him. ¡°Naturally, you understand this means the house will burn down on top of you. You¡¯ll either suffocate or be crushed by the debris.¡± Dillon took a moment to reflect. ¡°If you die, you will be forgiven. If you live, I will find you. And with that, I bid you farewell.¡± He exited the room and, as promised, placed the Ignitocircalus at the foot of the stairs. When he returned to the living room, he found John with his feet kicked up on the pristine white couch, oblivious to the fact that he was staining its perfect finish. No matter, Dillon thought. It would all be over soon anyway. ¡°John!¡± Dillon barked as he tossed a pair of gloves onto John¡¯s lap. ¡°Get those clothes on her! It¡¯s time.¡± John panicked and immediately started sweating as he fumbled with the gloves. ¡°But Dillon! She¡¯s your wife! I-I-I-I can¡¯t¡ªshe¡¯s naked!¡± He snatched the gloves from John¡¯s hands and put them on himself. ¡°Then start the car.¡± He stretched his fingers inside the gloves and, with precise care, grabbed the undergarments from the table and began dressing his wife. She was beautiful, he thought. Dillon briefly remembered what love felt like, but he pushed the thought aside¡ªit was a deep subject he didn''t want to dwell on now. In this moment, he was in control. Once she was fully dressed, he fixed the clasp on her bra one last time, then hoisted her over his shoulder. Her hair, soft and luxurious, caressed his back as he exited the house. ¡°Raina, disable all internal alarms and engage safe lock on all doors. Boot yourself to ¡®The Hand¡¯ and await further instructions,¡± Dillon commanded. A calm, celestial voice responded from nowhere, ¡°Acknowledged, Dillon. Stay safe.¡± As quickly as the voice chimed in, it disappeared. He rushed towards downtown, dropping John off on the way to ensure he wouldn¡¯t be implicated. ¡°Stay safe, John. I¡¯ll see you again soon.¡± John waved. ¡°Thanks, mate. Good luck out there.¡± He sped toward his next mission. He left his wife in the middle of downtown, dressed in the clothes laced with LSD. He carefully helped her to a bench and placed a capsule in her mouth that would bring her to alertness in about twenty seconds, at which point the hallucinations would begin. He jumped back into the car and sped towards the outskirts of town. Dillon had made a mess of everything, and it was well deserved, he thought. However, he hadn¡¯t expected what happened next. He was being pulled over by the police. ¡°Dillon Grey?¡± the officer asked. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he replied. ¡°Sir, I need you to step out of the car.¡± He looked amused. ¡°Under what charges?¡± The officer rested his hand on his gun. ¡°Arson, attempted murder, criminal confinement... just a few that come to mind. Now, step out of the car, sir.¡± His eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating to a size nearly invisible to the human eye. His vision adjusted, filtering out the sun¡¯s glare as his ¡°God Eye¡± locked onto the officer¡¯s gun. All he needed to do was disarm him, and his optic would handle the rest, pulling the trigger the moment the gun was aligned with its target. The accuracy had never let him down in over 15 years of operations. But today, he felt like walking into the station. Surely, the man he had tortured couldn¡¯t have survived. He stepped out of the car and followed the officer¡¯s instructions. At the station, he was handcuffed and led past a room where he saw his good friend John Belmont, also in cuffs, sitting alone at a table. Dillon¡¯s heart sank. He didn¡¯t want this for John. John had a newborn at home, and his wife would kill him if she knew he was arrested for helping Dillon. He was led down a corridor and placed in a room with three officers in front of him and the customary one-way mirror behind. They chained him to the table, though he still had enough mobility to move his arms. ¡°Dillon Grey, you¡¯ve been Miranda¡¯d and placed under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Do you wish to have a lawyer or a court-appointed attorney?¡± one officer asked. ¡°I¡¯ll comply with your questions,¡± he replied quickly. The officers looked down at him, arms crossed and clearly agitated. He suspected they could access some of his less classified information, enough to understand why he was a dangerous man. ¡°Do you know this man?¡± One officer showed him a picture of the man Dillon had tortured. ¡°I do. How did he survive?¡± He asked, intrigued. ¡°Do you admit to attempting to murder him and confining him against his will?¡± the officer pressed. Dillon smiled. ¡°Sir, could you first explain how he survived?¡± The officer looked to his supervisor for approval before continuing. ¡°The man was in your basement when you set the fire. When the power went out, he freed himself from his restraints. He used the hose from the shower nozzle as a breathing apparatus and stuck it into the toilet, past the U-bend, where he accessed a supply of air. He survived until first responders put the fire out and found him.¡± Dillon burst into laughter. ¡°That smart motherfucker.¡± One of the officers touched the table, pulling up a video feed of Dillon¡¯s wife in a jail uniform, wandering around a cell and screaming at the walls. ¡°And what did you do to her?¡± another officer asked. He slapped the table, laughing. ¡°Ha-ha! I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about. The woman¡¯s always been crazy.¡± At that moment, Police Chief Kendall Roman entered the room. ¡°Dillon, we¡¯re going to press for ten years in prison for you and your accomplice, John Belmont.¡± His smile faded. ¡°Not John. He didn¡¯t do anything. He just stopped by for coffee earlier, that¡¯s all.¡± Roman shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll get the prosecution I want, Mr. Grey. But what I want from you is a confession.¡± He considered this for a moment. ¡°Let John Belmont go,¡± he said confidently. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯re in no position to bargain,¡± Roman replied without hesitation. Dillon¡¯s God Eye focused on Roman¡¯s pocket and the Chief¡¯s cell phone rang immediately. Roman picked it up. ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s here under arrest¡­ No¡­ He¡¯s about to confess¡ªYes, sir.¡± He hung up and ushered the other officers out of the room. ¡°There¡¯s a¡­Mr. Sharp on his way to see you,¡± Roman said before leaving. He smiled. A few hours later, Sgt. Sharp entered the room, wearing a white suit and sunglasses. Dillon couldn¡¯t help but smirk. ¡°My, how you¡¯ve fallen, Under arrest!¡± Sharp exclaimed as he sat down, smiling. ¡°I got your signal. You¡¯re looking at ten years in prison, Dillon.¡± ¡°I know what that means,¡± he said calmly. ¡°But I don¡¯t fear death. I¡¯ve been waiting for it my whole life.¡± Sharp nodded. ¡°As you know, the government changed the rules after you got out. Now, after ten years, they just execute you. It¡¯s a solution to overcrowded prisons.¡± He nodded in agreement. ¡°I remember seeing the riots. The death penalty was expanded to those serving fifty-plus years, and now it¡¯s down to ten. Jesus.¡± Sharp continued, ¡°We¡¯ve shut down over 60% of prisons. Crime rates have dropped because people are terrified of the legal system. But you¡­ you¡¯re still out here terrorizing civilians. Why?¡± he laughed. ¡°The bastard fucked my wife. No one does that to me.¡± Sharp shook his head. ¡°Well, they¡¯re lining you and John Belmont up for the death penalty.¡± he frowned. ¡°John¡¯s a good man. Not like me. What do you want?¡± Sharp leaned in. ¡°I don¡¯t want anything, Dillon. You called me.¡± He smirked. ¡°I want you to free John Belmont.¡± Sharp thought for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s tricky. I have to maintain fairness. But... I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡± he shrugged, ¡°I¡¯ll do whatever it takes.¡± Sharp sighed, ¡°You¡¯re not going to like it, Dillon, but I have get a job for you in mind.¡± He didn¡¯t care. He was numb to death and betrayal. He didn¡¯t even care much about John, but he knew he should care, so he acted on that sense of duty. ¡°You know this is a clich¨¦, right?¡± Dillon said, smirking again. ¡°Secret agent gets a free pass out of jail.¡± Sharp laughed. ¡°The government shapes history. You¡¯re worth more than most people.¡± He replied, ¡°That¡¯s fucked up, Sharp.¡± Sharp glanced at him and said, ¡°Let¡¯s get you out of here.¡± He motioned with his hand, and Chief Roman entered the room to remove Dillon¡¯s restraints. ¡°He¡¯s coming with me,¡± Sharp informed Roman. ¡°The government will take it from here.¡± As he rubbed his wrists, Roman hesitated. ¡°One last question, if I may.¡± He nodded, flexing his right hand. ¡°Go ahead.¡± Roman looked puzzled. ¡°What the hell is wrong with your wife? We tried to release her, and at first, she seemed fine¡ªnot intoxicated by alcohol or anything. But the moment she stepped outside, she started stripping and trying to climb into a porta-potty¡ªwith someone already inside!¡± He chuckled. ¡°Just keep her inside and don¡¯t let her change back into civilian clothes. She¡¯ll be fine in about 12 hours. Ha-ha.¡± As they walked outside, Dillon spotted John Belmont also leaving the station. Nearby, one of the officers who had been trying to restrain Dillon¡¯s wife was now on the ground, tangled in a struggle. Suddenly, the officer stood up, shouting, and began tearing off his own clothes, jumping around wildly. He grinned as he glanced back at the chaos. ¡°You might want to wear gloves with this one! Ha-ha-ha!¡± he called out before he and Sharp headed for the citadel.