The elevator hummed as it descended, its titanium alloy walls gleaming faint under the cold LED lights. Anderson stood with his hands clasped behind him, eyes on the floor indicator as it clicked downward. The numbers sank deeper into the negatives, each one dragging him further into the bowels of the earth.
It stopped with a soft chime at Sub-Level 50. The doors slid open, and a gust of cold, antiseptic air hit him. Machinery hummed in the walls. The hallway stretched out, wide and clean, every inch fortified. Reinforced concrete layered with advanced composite material, designed to dampen vibrations and resist explosive force. Embedded in the ceiling were arrays of cameras and sensor nodes
Anderson’s boots echoed down the corridor, past rows of SPUR units standing at attention. Droids, all matte black and grey, their armour segmented and seamless. Faces blank, expressionless, dead eyes of sophisticated sensors and mouths a grid of micro-speakers. Their limbs, comprised of hydraulic actuators, powerful servos, and dense cords of artificial muscle fibres, promised explosive strength, and the weapons they held slung across their chests packed enough of a punch to easily destroy lightly armoured vehicles of the early 2000s.
At the end of the corridor, a door waited, thick and reinforced, flanked by two of those SPURs. A scanner beeped as Anderson pressed his hand to it. The door slid open with a hiss.
A nest of screens and consoles sat beyond, technicians tapping away at their keyboards, monitoring the facility. A holographic map hovered in the air, tracing the lines of the prison.
“Chief Anderson,” a voice greeted him. Agent Maeve Harrison stepped out from behind a console, her white lab coat standing out against the grey room like snow against iron. Her features were sharp, eyes sharper. "We’ve been expecting you."
“Maeve,” Anderson replied, voice low. “I’m here for Newman. Take me to him.”
She nodded, didn’t waste words. She led him through another maze of hallways. The lights grew dimmer, the air colder. Shadows clung to the walls, twisted shapes that seemed to move with them. They passed windows, glimpses into cells where figures stirred, figures with sometimes strange, sometimes extraordinary abilities.
At last, they came to a stop before a door heavier than the rest, layers of alloy stacked thick with energy dampeners woven into them. The observation window gave a small view inside.
Newman sat on a metal bench, his body hunched over, hands chained to the floor by thick alloy cuffs. He looked smaller now. His eyes were dull when they met Anderson’s through the glass.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Open it,” Anderson ordered.
Maeve hesitated. “But sir—”
“I said open the door.”
She grumbled, keyed in the code. The door hissed open. Newman’s eyes narrowed for a moment until recognition glinted in them, then they softened.
“Chief,” he rasped, his voice rough like it hadn’t been used in days.
Anderson stepped inside, sat down beside him without a word. They stayed that way, the silence thick between them, the weight of it pressing down like the earth above their heads.
“How’s Evelyn?” Newman asked, voice cracking.
“She’s safe,” Anderson replied. “You don’t need to worry about her.”
The silence returned, stretching out thin and brittle as wire. Maeve lingered at the door, eyes on Newman. Wary.
“How bad is it?” Newman asked.
Anderson leaned forward, eyes hard. “You’ve been charged with failing to register as a paranormal, multiple counts of assault, manslaughter, murder, destruction of property, and assaulting a government agent. It’s bad. But I’ve worked a deal. You’ll be fined, heavily. But you’ll be transferred to Special Ops, where your salary bracket and hazard pay would be enough to cover the fines on a structured payment plan.”
Newman’s shoulders slumped. A tired breath left his chest. “Special Ops,” he rasped. “Of course. Figured you’d pull something like that. I just hope I’m still under your command. Couldn’t stomach being some puppet to a corporate stooge with more power than brains.”
“Mostly,” Anderson replied. “SynthiCorp and OmniTech are covering the cost for your re-training and augmentation, and Cortex Dynamics has outright bought your debt. They and the precinct will own you for a while, but it’s better than the alternative.”
Newman’s brow furrowed. “Augmentations, Chief? I don’t—”
“I understand your distaste,” Anderson interrupted, voice sharp. “But the Corpos need to have some sort of control over you Without their backing, you’re done. I managed to argue their requirements down to just a few frontal lobe implants, a cyberdeck and an operating system on the basis of incompatibility with your abilities.”
Newman’s jaw tightened.
Anderson noticed and his voice grew cold. “Stop pouting. You should’ve thought about that before you went rogue. I’m disappointed, Chris. Your mother would be too. You didn’t even tell me about the trigger, didn’t think for one second about the fallout. Had we not been the ones to detain you PASIT would’ve had you stuffed in an expeditionary force, shipped off to some border skirmish to die. You didn’t think that far, did you?”
Anderson stood, straightening his coat. The room felt colder now. “After your release, keep your head down. Stay out of trouble. When your suspension’s up, report back for onboarding. Don’t get yourself in any more trouble. That’s an order. Understood?”
Newman didn’t look up, just nodded.
“Understood, sir.”