Luke had just slipped into the tactical gear and bulletproof vest handed to him, leaving the gloves and helmet untouched. He found them unnecessary, an inconvenience. The vest was surprisingly light. As he adjusted the fit, the armorer passed him a pistol.
"Take this," he said.
"No, I use a sword. I don’t even know how to use a gun," Luke shrugged, amused by the offering.
The armorer turned around, picked up a holster, and presented it with the gun. "Captain's orders, you need to carry a firearm."
"Selim?" Luke raised an eyebrow, "He knows I use a sword."
"It doesn’t matter," the armorer replied in a cynical tone, "It’s to avoid trouble with the higher-ups. If you were to die without us having given you a firearm, it would look bad on the report. You know, they would think we sent you to your death."
Luke didn’t quite grasp the bureaucratic aspect of the Lab. He didn’t argue, though, taking the weapon and fastening the holster to his thigh. “Covering up their crimes…” he thought to himself.
The armorer then took a notebook and wrote mechanically. He then turned the filled-out sheet towards Luke. "Just following protocol. Try to bring the weapon back if possible," he explained.
Luke met his eyes and sighed. He grabbed the drawing tube he had propped against the armored vehicle door and opened it, taking out his sword. He began to attach it to his waist, catching the armorer's curious glance.
Seeing his medieval-style sword, the armorer couldn’t help himself. "That’s some weapon you got there... Can I see the blade?"
Luke finished attaching the scabbard to his belt, drew his sword, and extended his arm. The armorer swallowed hard at the sight of the blade. He wiped his mustache and joked, "How about writing a will that bequeaths your sword to me if you die?"
Ignoring the remark, Luke sheathed his sword and distanced himself.
He noticed a man he had seen retching earlier and decided to approach him. The man sat hunched on a patch of grass, arms resting on his knees.
Seeing Luke approach, he nodded in acknowledgment.
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"Can I sit?" Luke asked, pointing at the ground next to him. "There's room enough for two corpses," the man chuckled nervously.
Ignoring the grim humor, Luke sat, and introduced himself. "I'm Luke, and you?"
"Atlan, nice to meet you," the man returned the handshake, his grip surprisingly firm.
"I heard I've been assigned to the front line. Any idea what that means?" Luke asked, hoping to glean some insight from the stranger.
Atlan's gaze held a mix of pity and compassion, the depth of sadness in his green eyes mirroring the small scar on his cheek. "I was told I'd be teaming up with the swordsman. Guess that's you," he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Luke tried to shrug it off with a nonchalant, "Don’t worry, I'm strong." His voice wavered, betraying his lack of confidence.
Picking a clover, Atlan chewed on its stem, his anxiousness palpable. "Being strong isn't enough. We're all level 3 here." He gestured towards the tattoo on the back of his neck. "If you're on the front line, you're cannon fodder," he confessed, a tremor in his voice.
Luke's impatience seeped into his voice as he tried to understand, "But they didn't tell me anything. What's this mission? What does being on the front line mean? And what's this 'teaming up' all about?"
Atlan paused, eyeing him curiously, "You're not part of a unit, are you?" "No, the Lab recruited me a few months ago," Luke admitted. "Ah, that makes sense. You're an external agent."
Luke was growing frustrated with the mystery, "What does being an external agent explain?"
"We don't usually trust externals. The Lab is uncertain about your strength, your loyalty. You're not like us, the ones who've undergone mutations," Atlan explained, a sense of aloofness to his words.
"Mutations?" Luke echoed, confused.
Atlan nodded, "Yes, we underwent an experimental protocol. Gave us superhuman strength and reflexes." Luke couldn't hide his shock. "So because they don't trust me, they're asking me to die?"
Atlan smirked, "More like requesting you to die. Fill out some paperwork, and they'll ensure you get a funeral with honors."
"But why are you on the front line? You're not an external agent," Luke probed.
Atlan sighed, leaning back onto his hands, "we're two pairs of agents on the front line. They're sending me because my mutation is somewhat failed. Officially, I'm level 3 but weaker than most. They want me to prove myself, or die trying."
Luke felt a pang of sympathy, "That's... harsh."
Atlan shrugged slightly, and continued, "Other pair is a newbie, and a veteran who must've stepped on someone's toes," Atlan sighed. "We're expendable. But it's an important mission, and they're hoping we can pull it off."
"We're only four for this mission?" Luke was baffled.
"The captain will explain better than me. I'll save you a botched summary," Atlan replied, standing up. His face was ashen, his hand clutched to his stomach. With a weak smile, he excused himself and walked away, likely to vomit again.
Luke was still on the grass, his mind racing.
He needed answers.
As he got up to seek Selim, the captain's voice echoed from atop an armored car, "Gather around for the final briefing."
Luke halted, listening intently. Atlan reappeared, joining him with a piece of advice, "Pay attention. It might save your life."