Arc 3: Enter Sandman
Chapter 22: The Soldier with No Past
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Scene 1 – Awakening as One
The world was white. Not the white of warmth, not the soft, welcoming glow of the sun, but a sterile, oppressive void. It was the kind of white that had never known color. It stripped everything down to function, to purpose. To nothingness.
The chamber hummed in its endless rhythm—an unbroken pulse of machinery, a symphony of control. Rows of stasis pods lined the walls, their glass smooth, unmarked. Identical. Each one housed a body, a unit, indistinguishable from the next. No names. No past. No self.
One of them stirred.
A hiss, a release of pressurized gas. The seal of the pod broke, mist spilling out in delicate tendrils that dissipated before touching the ground. Inside, a figure stood motionless, his body still suspended in the waking trance of a soldier’s sleep cycle.
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Cold, omnipresent. It carried no warmth, no malice—only certainty.
"Unit One, awaken."
The body responded before the mind did. A sharp inhalation, lungs expanding for the first time in hours. The figure’s eyes snapped open, pupils dilating, adjusting. Blank. Lifeless. A machine masquerading as flesh.
"Operational status: Online."
The hum of the facility shifted, almost imperceptibly, as if the entire structure acknowledged the presence of one more cog in its great, unfeeling mechanism.
One stepped forward. The motion was precise, measured. No hesitation. His feet met the floor with mathematical precision, no wasted energy, no variance. The chamber around him brightened, the sterile glow intensifying as more pods opened in perfect unison. More soldiers, more units.
They moved as one.
There was no sound beyond the rhythm of synchronized footsteps. No breath out of place, no erratic motion. A hundred bodies, identical in stature, identical in movement, identical in absence.
They filed out of the stasis chamber in flawless coordination, crossing into the corridor where Order reigned absolute. The walls stretched infinitely in cold metal perfection, unmarked by any sign of individuality. No posters, no insignias, no reminders of what once was. Because there was nothing before. There was only now.
One reached the assessment chamber, the routine as natural to him as breathing—not that he thought of breathing. Not that he thought at all.
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The scientists observed from behind the reinforced glass, their eyes scanning screens filled with data streams, vitals, neural response times. They did not speak to One, nor to the others. They spoke to the numbers.
"Neural integrity at 100%."
"Physical synchronization flawless."
"Zero deviations detected."
A man in a stark white coat nodded, satisfied. "Perfect."
One stood still as scanners traced along his form, mapping every inch, every function. He did not flinch. He did not react.
"You are One. You are Order. You exist to serve."
The voice in his mind was absolute. It had always been absolute.
One moved when instructed. One complied. One executed.
One did not think.
Yet—
Somewhere, deep beneath the layers of programming, something stirred. A flicker, a pulse outside the rhythm. It was not a thought, not yet. It was not a feeling, not truly.
But for the briefest moment, as he stepped into the corridors of The Order’s unyielding dominion, something inside him—something nameless—whispered.
Something was not right.
And then, it was gone.
The Master’s voice returned, smooth and unwavering.
"Do not question."
One did not question.
He marched forward.
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Scene 2 – The First Glitch
The training chamber pulsed with a dull red glow, warning indicators flashing in rhythmic intervals. The air was thick with the sterile scent of metal and synthetic compounds, the quiet hum of the facility a constant backdrop. It was not silence—true silence did not exist here. There was always the sound of The Order.
One stood motionless in the center of the chamber, awaiting directives. Around him, identical units mirrored his stance, their bodies taut with precision, their minds blank slates waiting to be written upon. He did not acknowledge them. They did not acknowledge him. Because there was no him. There was only One.
The Master’s voice resonated in his mind, absolute and unwavering.
"Engage simulation. Execute without deviation."
The lights above dimmed. The floor beneath his feet shifted, morphing into a simulated battlefield, its contours shifting like liquid metal solidifying into trenches, barricades, kill zones. Red holographic targets flickered into existence—a dozen synthetic enemies designed to test reflex, accuracy, and obedience.
One moved before the thought formed. His body was an extension of The Order’s will, every motion calculated, perfect. His rifle snapped into position, each shot finding its mark with mechanical efficiency. His legs adjusted seamlessly to uneven terrain, his body a weapon honed to surgical precision.
He did not hesitate.
Hesitation did not exist.
Then—
A flicker.
Something moved in his peripheral vision, beyond the edges of the simulation. Not a target, not part of the drill. A shadow, shifting, just outside the frame of reality.
He turned.
Only for a fraction of a second. Only for the briefest moment.
The battlefield remained unchanged. No foreign presence, no deviation. And yet—
One’s rifle was still raised, frozen in place. His body had paused.
Deviation detected.
It was less than a heartbeat, an imperceptible delay in execution. Yet, within the absolute precision of The Order, it was a fracture, however small. A disruption in the machine.
The Master’s voice pressed into his mind, smooth, quiet, absolute.
"Forget."
One resumed fire.
The simulation continued, flawless once more. His movements synced to the rhythm of The Order, his hesitation erased before it could take root.
And yet—
Something lingered.
As he exited the training chamber, stepping back into the corridors of perfect symmetry, the thought flickered again, unbidden, untraceable. Not a question, not yet. Just an echo.
"That wasn’t supposed to happen."
Then silence.
Then nothing.
One marched forward.
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