The roar of the crowd in the assembly hall had barely died down before Commissioner Liar, the lottery’s master of ceremonies, stepped forward. His hands trembled as he clutched a battered metal box—the ancient relic holding the fates of the Citadel’s citizens. The room fell silent, the weight of anticipation pressing against the walls. The harsh whine of the makeshift speakers pierced the quiet as Liar cleared his throat. One by one, he read the names.
“Jaxon Riley… Anya Volkov… Lara Thorne… Jacob Rathore… Bilal Gilani…”
Lyra Vox froze.
“…Lyra Vox.”
Her name. It echoed through the cavernous hall, louder than it should have been. Her chest tightened, her breath hitching in disbelief. Around her, the crowd stirred. The chosen pushed forward, their faces pale and their movements hesitant, while others clung to their loved ones, disappointment and relief warring in their expressions. Lyra stepped into the stream of the chosen, the chaos around her fading into a dull hum. Her mind churned. She had suspected Mayor Shaw would rig the lottery—he’d said as much. But hearing her name spoken aloud made it real.
Was this what her father would have wanted?
The chosen were herded into a narrow tunnel, the soft shuffle of their boots against metal the only sound. Behind them, the rejected murmured among themselves, their voices tinged with envy, fear, and muted hope. The tunnel led to a gate—massive and imposing, its reinforced steel scrawled with faded warnings from an age long past. Armed guards flanked it, their faces expressionless beneath dark visors. With a groan, the gate slid open, revealing a stark underground chamber that stretched impossibly wide. The air inside was sterile and cold, smelling faintly of oil and ozone. Lyra blinked under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, her eyes adjusting to the sheer scale of the hangar-like space. Hundreds of reflective metal gears were arranged in a perfect line across the polished concrete floor, their intricacy glinting under the harsh lights. Each gear bore a series of engraved symbols she couldn’t decipher. A man in a crisp, military-style uniform with a badge, License Warden, moved along the line of gears, his posture rigid, his boots clicking in a steady rhythm. He arranged the objects with a precision that bordered on reverence. As Lyra started, her pulse quickened. Something about the solemnity of the room unnerved her. This wasn’t the triumphant celebration she’d imagined when she thought of the lottery. No, this felt clinical—mechanical. The low hum of machinery vibrated through the floor, and the overhead lights dimmed slightly. A small platform rose from the center of the hall, bathed in a focused beam of light. The man stepped onto it, his face sharp and impassive as he raised his hand.
“Silence,” he commanded.
The room stilled, every breath held in collective anticipation.
"Welcome," barked Sector General Tiebius, his voice sharp and commanding, "to the Citadel’s personal armada. You’ve been chosen not by chance, but by purpose. Consider yourselves fortunate. Not everyone gets a shot at this."
A heavy screen flickered to life on the far wall, the image grainy but functional.
“Briefing begins in three... two... one.”
A booming, recorded voice filled the hall as the screen displayed images of barren wastelands, towering fortresses, and armored convoys cutting through irradiated plains.
“Forty years ago,” the voice began, “our beloved Chancellor Shaw established the Private Military Contractors, or PMCs, in complete secrecy. Their purpose? To explore the surface, assess its dangers, and secure a foothold for humanity’s return.”
The visuals shifted to a logo—a phoenix rising from flames.
“The first PMC, Phoenix Corp, was founded with one mission: reclaim the Earth. Today, they are the most powerful force on the surface, controlling oil fields, mines, and even the first city established outside the Citadel. They’ve built factories, refineries, and weaponry manufacturing plants, creating a thriving economy from the ashes of the old world.”
Lyra frowned. The polished narrative felt rehearsed, a sanitized version of whatever brutal reality waited outside.
The voice grew darker. “But success did not come without sacrifice. Rival PMCs have betrayed us now known as The Renegades or the Exiles. And worse still, the surface is not as uninhabited as we once believed. Humans endured on the surface for 3,000 years, adapting to the radiation and chaos. These... deviants known as the Mutation Republic, now stand in opposition to our cause. Aligned with the Black Market—a faction born from betrayal and hate—they fight not for humanity, but for profit and power. They seek to carve up New Earth and claim it for themselves.”
Lyra glanced around, catching the uncertain expressions of the other recruits.
“They are not the only threat,” the voice continued. “Radiation has spawned horrors—mutations beyond imagination. You will face monsters both human and otherwise. Your survival is not guaranteed.”
The screen cut to footage of PMC soldiers in combat, their weapons flashing against grotesque creatures and armored renegades. The voice softened, offering a glimmer of hope.
“But through discipline, training, and resolve, you will endure. The PMCs are humanity’s lifeline. As new recruits, you’ll undergo rigorous training at our surface base. Missions will grant you the chance to earn resources, elevate your families’ status, and, if you prove capable, establish your own PMC. Each success brings us closer to a brighter future.”
The screen faded to black, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
Sector General Tiebius stepped forward, his boots echoing in the stillness. “You’ve all seen the stakes. From this moment on, you are no longer ordinary citizens. You’re soldiers of the Citadel. You’ll fight, bleed, and scrape to survive. And in doing so, you’ll secure humanity’s future.”
He swept his gaze across the room. “Now, prepare for the drop. Your new lives begin today.”
Sector General Tiebius barked, “Pick up the gear on the floor and follow the lights!” He jabbed a gloved finger toward a line of flickering bulbs embedded in the wall. They cast a faint, jittering glow on a narrow stairwell that spiraled upward.
Lyra bent down, grabbing the metallic gear assigned to her. The bag was lighter than expected—her hand brushed what felt like clothing, a few ridgid tools, and something smooth, probably a cup or plate. She slung the strap over her shoulder and followed the line of recruits. Around her, the soft clink of gear and the shuffle of boots filled the silence.
Behind her, someone spoke, breaking the quiet. “Never seen you in the bunker before. Where’d you work?”
Lyra glanced over her shoulder, spotting a broad-shouldered man with dark, sunken eyes and a thin scar cutting across his temple. His grin was disarming.
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“Food packaging,” she said curtly. “Mostly isolated. Underground. And inside.”
The man let out a low whistle. “Hah, lucky you. Me? Mines.” He clapped a calloused hand against his chest as though it were a badge of honor. “Bilal Gilani. And you?”
“Lyra,” she replied, her tone clipped.
Bilal smiled wider, relieved by her response. “Nice to meet you, Lyra. Hey, Thorne—what d’you think? Gonna be fun seeing the world for once?”
Beside him, a tall woman with short-cropped auburn hair rolled her eyes. Her voice came sharp and dry. “Hell yeah. About time. If the surface sucks, at least there’s air that hasn’t been recycled fifty fucking times.”
Bilal chuckled. “Optimistic as ever, Lara. Oh—and Lyra, this is Lara Thorne. See? You two even have matching names!”
Lara gave a wry smile. “Cute, huh?”
Lyra gave a half-hearted “Yeah,” and fell quiet again, keeping her eyes ahead. She wasn’t in the mood for introductions or jokes.
The narrow staircase finally opened up, spilling the recruits into a cavernous hangar. A blinding shaft of daylight poured through a half-open blast door carved into the mountainside. Lyra squinted, shielding her eyes as they adjusted to the brilliance.
The hangar buzzed with activity. Soldiers moved with precision, loading crates and inspecting vehicles that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Towering armored transports stood in neat rows, their massive wheels caked with dirt from the surface. A few helicopters idled on a distant pad, their rotors spinning lazily in preparation for takeoff.
“Goddamn,” Bilal muttered, craning his neck. “Look at these things. Hell, I gotta get me one of those.”
Lara scoffed. “You don’t even know what they’re called, Bilal.”
“Do you?”
“Nope,” Lara said with a smirk.
Their laughter was short-lived as the line of recruits abruptly stopped. A soldier stepped forward, his black uniform sleek and spotless, the Phoenix Corp insignia shining on his chest. He carried a rifle slung casually over one shoulder, though his stern expression made it clear he was not to be messed with.
“Listen up!” the soldier barked, his voice cutting through the din like a whip. “The drop is about to begin. Four per team. Some of you will go by helicopter, some by ship, and the rest by armored transport. When your name’s called, move to your assigned departure point immediately. No delays, no screw ups.”
A faint crackle followed as an automated voice began rattling off names.
“Lyra Vox, David Maxwell, Bilal Gilani, Lara Thorne—helipad eight.”
The four exchanged quick glances and peeled off from the main group, weaving through the crowd toward the helipads. The closer they got, the louder the noise became—a deafening roar of rotors slicing through the air.
Lyra climbed into the helicopter after the others, shoving her gear into the small cargo hold beneath the seats. She strapped herself in and slipped on the bulky headphones provided. The sound outside was still a dull roar, but now she could hear the faint buzz of static and occasional chatter over the comms.
The helicopter lifted off with a lurch, tilting slightly as it rose above the mountains. Lyra clenched her jaw, her hands gripping the seat’s edge.
“So,” David Maxwell, a wiry man with sharp features, piped up from across the cabin. “Where the hell are we going?”
The soldier sitting in the co-pilot seat turned his head slightly. “Base camp,” he said curtly. “Phoenix Corp HQ. Training starts there.”
David frowned. “And after that?”
“After that, you’re on your own,” the soldier replied. His tone was cold, dismissive, like he’d answered this question a hundred times before. But then he hesitated, glancing back at them. “Frankly, I don’t give a shit what Shaw told you. He’s playing his own game, moving his own pawns. You four? You’re not special. You’re not heroes. And you sure as hell didn’t get here because you’re qualified.”
The bluntness of his words hung in the air, the rotors drowning out the silence that followed.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Lara snapped, leaning forward.
“It means Shaw wanted you together,” the soldier said flatly. “I don’t know why, and I don’t care. But whatever it is, don’t expect any special treatment from me. You’ll train, you’ll fight, and if you’re lucky, you’ll survive. That’s all you’re owed.”
Bilal let out a low whistle. “Well, damn. I was kind a hoping for a warmer welcome.”
“No such thing up here, Recruit” the soldier muttered, turning his gaze back to the horizon.
Lyra stared out the window, her mind racing. Shaw had rigged the lottery, thrown her into this group—but why? What was he playing at? The soldier’s words churned uneasily in her head. Whatever secrets Shaw was hiding, Lyra was determined to uncover them.
The helicopter surged forward, carrying them toward the unknown.
Lyra sat by the window, her eyes locked on the land below as the helicopter sliced through the sky. A thick plume of red smoke curled into the air, an unnatural stain against the desolate landscape.
“The fuck is that?” she muttered, leaning forward.
The soldier in the co-pilot seat turned his head slightly, following her gaze. “Ah. That’s the No-Go Zone,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient and untouchable. “They’re everywhere. Scattered between biomes like open wounds. Our researchers say that’s where the bombs fell hardest.”
Lyra’s fingers gripped the edge of her seat as she peered closer. Beneath the smoke, the land was obscured, warped by a sickly haze. The remnants of skyscrapers jutted from the ground at unnatural angles, their metal skeletons twisted beyond recognition.
“We can’t see what’s inside,” the soldier continued, “not with our own eyes. But the drones give us glimpses. They were once cities—millions of people lived there. Now? We don’t know what the hell is left. Radiation’s too damn thick. We don’t have the gear to go in yet… at least, not the kind that’d let us come back.”
Lara, who had been staring in uneasy fascination, shook her head. “Fucking bastards,” she spat. “Mutation Republic can walk through that shit, right?”
The soldier nodded grimly. “Yeah. They’ve got a base inside one of those hellholes.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Bilal cut in, shifting in his seat. “You’re telling me those freaks live in that?”
The soldier smirked. “Yep. And they don’t just survive in there. They thrive. The mutations don’t kill them—it saves them. Keeps their bodies from breaking down like ours would.”
Bilal let out a dry chuckle. “Lucky motherfuckers,” he muttered, shaking his head.
The conversation dwindled after that, the weight of what they had just learned sinking in. Lara and Bilal eventually dozed off, their heads resting awkwardly against the metal interior. But Lyra? Sleep wouldn’t come. She rested her chin on her fist, staring out at the endless wasteland below, her mind racing. Her father was out there. Somewhere. Alive. But finding him? That was going to be a bitch of a job. She needed training. Real training. She needed to survive long enough to carve out a name for herself—long enough to navigate the politics of the PMCs, to get the right contracts, to earn enough respect to go looking for him without ending up as some corpse rotting in a ditch. And she needed allies. Because if she was going to pull this off, she couldn’t do it alone.
Hours passed.
Smoke plumes dotted the horizon ahead, but these weren’t the ominous crimson clouds of the No-Go Zones. These were controlled, rising from chimneys, camps, and vehicles stationed in perfect symmetry. The closer they got, the clearer the base became—a fortified compound nestled against the edge of a dense forest. Rows of armored transports were lined up like soldiers awaiting orders, their matte exteriors gleaming under the midday sun. Helicopters sat idle on distant pads, their blades still spinning from recent landings. Beyond the steel and concrete, there was life. Trees swayed gently in the wind, birds cut through the open sky, and a waterfall tumbled in the distance, its rush of water barely audible over the hum of machinery.
Lyra sucked in a breath.
This was nothing like the Citadel.
The bunker had been steel, cold and suffocating. But here? The air was different. It was sharp and crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and something real. The helicopter hovered for a moment before descending smoothly onto the landing pad. The instant the rotors slowed, a figure stepped forward to greet them. The man had the bearing of someone important—his uniform crisp, his boots polished, his stance unwavering. A thick scar slashed across his left cheek, disappearing beneath the hard line of his jaw. As Lyra and the others stepped out, the heat of the sun hit her full force. It was warmer than she expected, the ground beneath her boots solid in a way she wasn’t used to. The man studied them for a long moment before offering a slight nod.
“Welcome to base camp,” he said.
Lyra, Bilal, Lara and David exchanged glances.
For the first time since stepping into that lottery room, they felt it. They had made it through the first step. And in this world? That was a victory all on its own.
PMC Novel-image [https://www.canva.com/design/DAGdpR30m7U/NvAilyBff2pwUOCkU--uSw/view?utm_content=DAGdpR30m7U&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link2&utm_source=uniquelinks&utlId=h014e49a62c]