Part One: Robert Patrick Wilkes. Coral Gables, Florida.

The rain drummed against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that mirrored Bobby's heartbeat. He held Carrie close, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo, mixed with the damp, earthy smell of rain-soaked air seeping through the cracks in the old house. Time seemed to stretch, each second expanding into eternity as he savored this moment of warmth and connection.

But the world outside wouldn't wait. It had changed—become unrecognizable, hostile. The clock on the nightstand ticked relentlessly, counting down to his departure. His father would be waiting, probably already in the car, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. The thought twisted Bobby's stomach, a mix of anticipation and dread.

"You don't have to go," Carrie murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

He sighed, his hand tracing absent patterns on her back. "You know I do, Carebear. Dad needs all hands on deck." The words felt hollow, echoes of his father's voice rather than his own conviction.

Carrie stiffened in his arms, and he cursed himself silently. She pulled back, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "It's not safe out there, Bobby. You've heard the reports. Those… things. They're getting closer every day."

He cupped her face gently, his thumb catching a tear as it slipped down her cheek. "Hey, the Army has Orlando on lockdown. It's not getting any bigger." He held her at arm's length so she could see the seriousness he hoped he was projecting. "It's safer out on the water than it is at the docks. We're just patrolling the shipping lanes, keeping them clear. It's important work."

But even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at him. The rules that once governed their world no longer applied. The certainties of yesterday had evaporated like morning mist, leaving behind a landscape of fear and uncertainty.

The rumble of the garage door cut through the silence—his father's wordless summons. Time was up.

Bobby leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Carrie's forehead. "I'll be back before you know it. Promise."

He pulled away, grabbing his jacket off the dresser where his father had left it. His reflection caught his eye—a young man with squared shoulders and a set jaw, eyes holding a mixture of fear and resolve. For a moment, he hardly recognized himself.

Then, without warning, the world twisted and warped. His reflection dissolved into a featureless gray expanse. His stomach dropped as if he'd fallen from a great height, yet he felt weightless, suspended in nothingness. Panic clawed at his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"Don't freak out," a woman's voice echoed through the void, clear and steady.

Before he could process what was happening, a dark shape materialized in front of him—a window into a dimly lit room. Two figures stood within, their features blurred in the low light. Blinking red and blue lights cast an eerie glow over the scene, reminiscent of the emergency lights on his father's Coast Guard vessel.

The woman spoke again, her voice coming from one of the shadowy figures. "I'm Kiara Mendez, and this is Steven Chen."

Her accent carried a heavy Southern drawl—Louisiana, maybe, or Southern Alabama. He found himself fixating on this small detail, a fragment of familiarity in the chaos surrounding him.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, fear morphing into frustration.

Mendez and Chen exchanged a quick glance, concern flickering across their faces. "We're trying to explain," Mendez said. "Could you tell us your name and maybe something about yourself?"

The man, Chen, stepped closer, peering through the screen that separated them. "Is that a Coast Guard jacket?" he asked.

He looked down at the logo just above the reflective strip of his raincoat. "It's my dad's," he replied with a shrug. "I'm helping out on patrols."

"Patrols where?" Mendez asked.

"Off the East Coast," he said. "Mostly around Miami."

Mendez nodded, absorbing the information. "And your name?"

"Bobby Wilkes," he answered.

As they explained their purpose—a Defense Force, a fight against an enemy beyond his comprehension—Bobby felt the weight of their words settle on his shoulders. Join them? Leave behind everything he knew, everyone he loved, to fight in a war he barely understood?

His mind raced back to Miami, to the people who depended on him. His father, out on the water, trusting that he would be right behind him. Carrie, her face softening as she pleaded with him to stay safe. The refugees crowding the roads, relying on the shipping lanes to stay open, to bring food and supplies.

"I can't," he said finally, the words heavy with regret. "I can't leave them. Not now. There's too much at stake back home."

"We understand," Mendez said, "but before you go, there's something you need to know—something you need to tell your father."

He hesitated, his form already growing translucent at the edges. "What is it?"

Mendez's words tumbled out in a rush, as if she feared the connection might break at any moment. "Remember our names. Mendez and Chen from Fort Payne, Alabama."

Chen then started explaining how it all began for them, back in Alabama. Just two days ago—two days!—he and Mendez had been college students. They were both in ROTC, training to join the Army. They'd been stationed near Birmingham, helping with humanitarian work as the chaos of the invasion unfolded. Things had been bad—really bad—but nothing could have prepared them for what happened next.

They stumbled onto something strange, something hidden, while assisting the Army. In this hidden place, they encountered two small, fuzzy aliens. He tried to imagine it, but the idea of aliens being anything other than terrifying just didn't fit with what he'd seen on the news. The aliens, though, weren't here to attack. Instead, they sent Mendez and Chen to Philadelphia, a city that had become part of what they called an Incursion Zone.

The details got weirder from there. The aliens hadn't just transported them—they'd pulled them into a system, something like a game, but deadly serious. Mendez and Chen had been drafted into this Defense Force, while the enemy was part of an Incursion Force. The system gave them tools—armor, weapons, a Hub Station that controlled territory. They'd used these tools to fight back, to survive.

But what he needed to remember—what was vital for him to tell his father—was how they could stop an Incursion Zone occupation. Mendez had laid it out as clearly as she could:

"To stop an Incursion Zone, you need to defeat the Incursion Force commander," she'd explained, her voice steady. "The commander controls the enemy forces in the area. But beating them isn't enough. Once you defeat the commander, you have to get their Hub Station key."

He had frowned at that. "What's the key for?"

Chen had jumped in. "The key is everything. It gives you control of the Hub Station. Once you have that, you can take over the Incursion Zone. Deny the enemy access to the area. It's how we push them out. How we take back our cities."

His mind reeled. Hub Stations? Sector commanders? It all sounded like something out of a sci-fi novel, not the grim reality he'd been living. Part of him wanted to dismiss it outright, to chalk it up to the stress and chaos of the invasion.

"I know it sounds crazy," Mendez said, as if reading his thoughts. "But please, Bobby. Promise you'll tell your father. It could make all the difference."

He looked at their earnest faces, at the desperation in their eyes. He didn't understand—couldn't understand—everything they were saying. But he recognized the weight of their words, the importance they placed on this information.

"I… I'll tell him," he said finally, the promise feeling strange on his tongue. "I can't guarantee he'll believe it, but I'll pass on the message."

Relief washed over Mendez's face. "Thank you, Bobby. That's all we can ask."

As the void faded completely, pulling him back to his reality, his mind buzzed with questions and doubts. He was back, looking at his own reflection, the rain still was falling outside the window, and Carrie's warmth had faded. In its place was the chill of responsibility, a burden he couldn't escape, now made heavier by the bizarre knowledge he'd been entrusted with.

His father's voice echoed from the garage. "Bobby, let's go!"

He reached for the door.

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Part Two: Andrea Rea Jalisco. Red Bluff, California.

A cold blast of air gusted through the tent's entrance, rattling the tarp walls. She braced herself, half-expecting the pegs to pull out of the ground, but they held firm. She let out a breath and surveyed the makeshift workshop she had set up. They'd been forced to move here, to the field next to the Boys & Girls Club, after the influx of refugees from Sacramento and the Bay Area. Every city along I-5 was overflowing with people seeking safety.

She turned her attention back to the ancient Honda generator on the workbench. These old machines were usually bulletproof, built to last. But this one had seen better days. She frowned as she examined the engine. The carburetor gasket had long since perished, and she needed to find something—anything—that could serve as a replacement. She was pretty sure she could rig something up with some cardstock and silicon grease. It wouldn't last forever, but it just needed to work for now.

The wind howled outside, and she could hear the distant murmur of people in the camp. Families huddled in tents, trying to stay warm against the biting chill. There was a constant hum of activity, a quiet desperation that hung in the air. Power was scarce, and with so many new arrivals, the pressure to keep things running had only grown. This generator was supposed to help power part of the camp, but now it was just another thing on the long list of broken items that needed her attention.

Carl brought it to her earlier that day, his face etched with worry. "How's it going Andie? Think you can get it running?" he asked, hopeful but exhausted.

She nodded, not wanting to make any promises. "I need some cardstock," she said. "Can you check if there's any in the building?"

Carl gave her a sheepish grin. "I put my own lock on the supply room door. I'll bring you what they've got."

She started to thank him when she felt an odd shift in the air—a subtle change that made her pause. She straightened up, blinking in confusion. The wind outside seemed to fade, and the sounds of the camp grew distant, muffled. The world around her began to blur, and before she could react, everything dissolved into a featureless gray void.

She gasped, her stomach lurching as if she'd been dropped from a great height. She reached out instinctively, but there was nothing—no workbench, no tools, no ground beneath her feet. Panic surged through her, and she tried to make sense of the emptiness that surrounded her.

Then, cutting through the void, a voice spoke—calm and steady.

"Don't freak out," the voice said.

She whipped her head around, searching for the source of the voice. But there was nothing—just endless gray. Her breath quickened, and she fought to keep her mind from spiraling into fear.

A section of the nothingness resolved in front of her. It took her a moment to realize it was a window—a window into a dimly lit room. Two figures stood inside, their faces obscured by shadows and blinking lights. Her heart pounded as she tried to make sense of it all.

"Who are you?" she called out, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm.

One of the figures, a woman, stepped closer to the window. "I'm Kiara Mendez, and this is Steven Chen. We're with the Defense Force."

She squinted at the pair, taking in their young faces and the way they held themselves. "You're just kids," she said, disbelief clear in her voice. "Is this a joke? What did you do to me?"

Mendez shook her head, her expression serious. "It's not a joke. We understand this is confusing, but you're in a safe place. We need to talk to you."

She looked around and found nothing other than the dull gray expanse. It felt like she was floating. She waved her arms, trying to swim through the haze. The window into the room never shifted. She sighed. "Well, you've got me here. It's not like I've got any choice, is there?"

"Actually, you do," the man called Steven said. "We just want to ask a few questions and then tell you what's going on. The rest is up to you."

"Is this some secret government project?" she asked, her voice tightening with fear and frustration. "Save your questions. I need to get back. I've got people waiting on me. Kids. There's work that needs to be done."

Chen stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "We understand. And we wouldn't have brought you here if it wasn't important. You've been selected by a system we're still trying to figure out. It sees something in you—something that can help."

"Help with what?" she demanded, frustration building in her chest. "I'm not a soldier. I just fix things. What does this have to do with me?"

Mendez softened her tone, trying to reassure her. "It sounds like you'd be able to help us then. This isn't just about fighting. There's a lot of work that needs to be done."

She shook her head. "I've got plenty on my plate here, or back in Red Bluff."

"Red Bluff?" Chen said. "You're in Northern California?"

"Yeah," she replied. "You know the area?"

"I've got family in Clearlake," he said, his tone softening a bit.

"Look," she said, shifting back to the more pressing issue. "I can't just leave. There's a whole camp back there that depends on me. If this is about fighting, count me out."

Mendez and Chen exchanged a glance. "We understand," Chen said. "It's not an easy decision. But before you go, can we ask—do you know anyone with military contacts? Anyone who could pass on important information?"

She shook her head. "No. No one like that. Just people trying to make it through."

Mendez nodded, looking disappointed but resigned. "All right. We won't keep you."

Chen stepped back, and the window began to fade. "Take care of yourself, and your people," Mendez said, her voice soft.

As the gray void blurred and dissolved around her, she felt a strange sense of relief and confusion all at once. The cold air of the tent and the old generator on the workbench snapped back into place as if nothing had happened.

"Andie? You okay?" Carl said, "you spaced out there for a second."

She shook her head, clearing away the fog. "Carl, you are not going to believe this," she said.

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Part Three: Sheng Chen. Defense Force Sector Two headquarters, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Steven blinked, deliberately and slowly. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to refocus his thoughts. Even without the need for rest, the endless repetition was wearing on his nerves. They had been at this all day.

The Hub called it the Defense Force Unit Recruitment Module. The apparatus was an extension of the spuncrete walls of the Defense Force base. He and Mendez had watched as a section of the wall extruded outward, taking the form of a rectangular box about the size of an old phone booth. All the controls were on the Defense Force management screen, save for a single button just below the window. The screen was currently as black as the rest of the spuncrete exterior, but they'd learned that once a candidate appeared inside, they would be able to see through it. The button allowed the candidate to see into the base.

The Recruitment Module had cost them most of their Defense Force Credits just to unlock, and they'd need to head back out soon to salvage more raptor units. The downed raptors were still scattered across the street and inside that office building, waiting for them. But first, they had to try again.

So far, every candidate had rejected them. One guy hadn't even let them finish their pitch—he'd just demanded to be sent back immediately. Each failure made the next attempt feel heavier, like the weight of the world was slowly pressing down on their shoulders.

His attention shifted to the one-way viewport. The newest candidate had materialized in the Reinforcement Module. He watched the man's expression shift from confusion to wary alertness. The Hub's voice cut through the silence, announcing the name: "David John Jackson II."

He studied Jackson. Mid-thirties, he guessed. Scraggly beard, a little graying at the temples that extended down into his sideburns. A bit on the shorter side. His dark skin was streaked with dirt, and he wore a heavy camo-patterned winter coat. Leather gloves protected his hands from the cold, but what really caught Steven's eye was the hunting rifle the man held in his right hand. As Jackson turned, his left hand reached for the handle of a knife on his belt.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The man reacted to the Hub's voice saying his full name, his eyes narrowing. "Hello?!" Jackson shouted into the void, the sound of his voice tinged with the edge of uncertainty.

Without revealing himself, he spoke, knowing the emblem would carry his voice into the box. "Hello, Mr. Jackson. Don't freak out. I see that you are a hunter," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"What?—where's that..." Jackson's head swiveled around in the void, trying to find the source of the voice. After a moment, he seemed to center himself. He stopped moving, his body relaxed, and he took a few deep breaths. "I'm a bartender," he corrected, his voice rough. "But I was on vacation."

Steven raised an eyebrow, though the man couldn't see it. "This late? Are you in Alabama?" Deer season ran late in Alabama. He wasn't a hunter himself, but the topic couldn't be avoided when you lived in the South.

"Mississippi," Jackson replied, shifting his weight slightly. "Private land."

He pressed a little further. "But you're hunting the late-season Alabama deer, aren't you?"

The man seemed to relax just a fraction. "Might be," he admitted. "You from Bama?"

"We are, yeah," Mendez cut in, her voice steady. "But that's not where we are now."

There was a pause as Jackson realized there was more than one of them. "So, where are you?" he called out. "Where am I?"

He took a breath and pressed the button that would let the man see into the base. The view shifted, revealing the cold, functional walls of their makeshift headquarters.

"Philadelphia," he said, watching as the man stared through the now-clear window, taking it all in.

Jackson frowned, his eyes scanning the room. "Don't look like Philly to me," he muttered, suspicion creeping into his tone.

Mendez stepped forward slightly. "This is Defense Force headquarters, I guess you'd call it. Ground floor of an apartment building."

The man looked back at them, his eyes narrowing. "You're a lot younger looking than you sound," he said, sizing them up.

He allowed himself a small, tired smile. "Looks can be deceiving," he said. "I'm Steven Chen, and this is Kiara Mendez. Welcome to Sector Two."

"You already know my name," Jackson said, a hint of accusation in his voice.

He nodded, keeping his tone calm. "That's not us. We call it the Hub. It's part of the tech that runs this place. It knows a lot about the people it brings here. We don't control that part."

Jackson's eyes narrowed as he glanced around the room again. "So, what do you want with me?" His grip tightened on the rifle, not threatening, but defensive.

"That's up to you," Steven said.

"How you figure that?"

"You say the word, and we'll send you back to your vacation," he said, adding a sarcastic stress to the last word. "But we hope you'll hear us out first."

Jackson gave them a tilt of his head. "Go on," he said. "Haven't spoken to anyone in months, so I'm all ears."

He and Mendez took turns explaining what had happened to them. They started with the ROTC meeting in Alabama and went on to describe their encounter with the strange technology they'd stumbled upon. He explained how the Hub operated, how it could craft weapons, fortifications, and armor. Mendez took over, detailing the concept of temporal energy—the resource that the enemy was after, harvested from places where a species had made significant technological or social progress. "That's why they're targeting cities," she said. "Anywhere that humans have built something, advanced, or created new ideas, they're taking it. Siphoning energy from everything we've ever built."

Jackson frowned, absorbing the information. "So, they're after... what? Our history? Our progress?"

"That's our best guess," Steven said. "The two biggest places hit are Washington D.C.—what we think is Sector One—and right here in Philadelphia."

Jackson was nodding. "Two key locations when it comes to American history. Okay, but how do you know about all this? Have you seen it out there?"

Steven hesitated, the weight of what they knew pressing down on him. He exchanged a glance with Mendez, both of them unsure how much they should reveal. The truth was... they didn't know everything. What they did know came from a source they couldn't fully trust—something, or someone, that had appeared out of nowhere, spoken to them through the Hub Station, and then vanished just as quickly.

"The truth is," Steven began slowly, "we only know about temporal energy and the enemy's strategy because... something, or someone, contacted us through the Hub. It wasn't human, at least not in any way we'd recognize. It told us about how the enemy operates—how they drain cities of their energy, their history, their progress. And that each sector, like this one, has a commander controlling it. They hold the keys to their Hub stations. Take them down, and you can take control."

Jackson raised an eyebrow and rested a hand against the window. "So, you're telling me a voice came out of nowhere, gave you the lowdown, and disappeared? Oh, and they did it through a machine. Like, that's literally Deus ex machina."

Steven half rolled his eyes before catching himself. The man did have a point. "When you put it like that—"

Mendez cut in. "Yeah, pretty much. We're not even sure if it was real, or if the system somehow created it. But everything it told us... so far, it's checked out. We wouldn't still be alive without that information."

"To be fair," Steven said, "this whole thing has been Deus ex machina from the beginning. We'd be frozen corpses without the Hub telling us what to do."

That seemed to satisfy Jackson's skepticism for the moment. "Okay, I hear you," he said, nodding.

Mendez smiled slightly. "It's a lot to take in, but it's real."

Jackson shifted his weight and tapped his right leg with the butt of his rifle. "Well, here's something real for you—I've got a bum ankle. Birth defect. Gives me a limp that slows me down more than I'd like. It's why I never went for anything too physical, always knew it'd hold me back. Not sure how much help I'd even be for you folks."

Steven exchanged a look with Mendez before stepping closer. "You're not the only one dealing with a handicap," he said, lifting his left arm to show Jackson the sleek, high-tech brace running from his wrist to his elbow. "I got attacked by a smaller version of those raptor units. My arm was crushed in the fight. The Hub built this for me—keeps everything stable, lets me function almost like normal. Stronger, even."

"All right," Jackson said. But Steven could tell that the man was still skeptical.

He shared a look with Mendez. Two of the candidates had gotten this far. But no further. They'd agreed that there was an aspect of the system they shouldn't conceal.

"I'll do it," she said, her voice steady. He gave her a nod of encouragement.

"There's one more thing, Mr. Jackson," she began. "We're not sure if it's the system, the equipment, or the environment but..." Mendez froze up.

Steven put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and shot him a quick look of thanks.

"Listen, I'm not going to sugarcoat it," she said. "It changes you. Physically and mentally."

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Part Four: Bradley Allen Stewart. Joint Base Lewis-McChord, outside Tacoma, Washington.

Brad's luck and timing could not have been worse. He'd gone to his high school college fair just before winter break, hoping to find a school that was close, cheap, and most importantly, would accept him despite his grades. Instead, like an idiot, he'd enlisted in the Navy Reserves. And then, of course, three days later, the aliens invaded.

The recruiter had actually knocked on his door at home. He'd come out of his room to find the man showing his parents the papers he'd signed. He could still picture his mother's face when the officer pointed out that because her son was 18 years old, his commitment to the Navy was being called upon with immediate effect. The one saving grace was that he'd been put into the construction corps. The Seabees—Construction Battalion. He was currently a Constructionman Recruit, learning the basics of building in a war zone. It wasn't glamorous, but at least he wasn't on the front lines.

Today, he was stuck in the middle of what they called KP—kitchen duty—when another recruit walked in.

"You hear about Moscow?" La Fleur said, his voice low.

He glanced up, wiping his hands on a greasy towel. "In Russia? No, what is it?"

"They bombed it."

"The aliens are dropping bombs now?"

"No, man. The Russians bombed their own city."

He grabbed a molded plastic chair and sat down. "That's crazy. Where'd you hear that?"

"It actually happened more than a week ago." La Fleur sat in his own chair, sitting a bit closer than Brad was comfortable with. When La Fleur next spoke his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I overheard some officers talking in the mess. Apparently, they got it from the Royal Navy. The British. And they heard it from an open broadcast by Russia's new president. Apparently, he used to be the head of the Russian Air Force."

"Jesus," Brad muttered, shaking his head. "I hope our Air Force doesn't get any ideas."

"Hell no, that would be giving up. Bombing Washington D.C.? That's like a last resort type of thing."

Before he could respond, the world went gray. His seat disappeared from beneath him, and he was floating in a void.

A calm voice spoke into his ear, saying his full name. "Bradley Allen Stewart."

A dark window opened in front of him, and a female voice followed. "Don't freak out."

"What?" was all he could manage to say. He stared into what looked like a bunker on the other side of the window, dim lights reflecting off metal surfaces. There were two figures dressed in black, standing in the shadows. Was this some sort of test? he thought.

The other figure—a man—spoke. "Finally, someone in the military."

"No, I'm not," he protested, before remembering that he was. He glanced down, seeing the uniform that marked him as a Navy recruit. "Okay. I am. But I'm only a recruit. They put me in the Seabees. This must be some mistake."

The figures exchanged a look, then the woman spoke again. "No mistake, Mr. Stewart. The system found you because of your potential, not your rank. We're going to explain everything, but first... do you have a moment to talk?"

"I mean," Brad began, still disoriented, "I'm on KP duty. I was just talking to someone about Moscow when you pulled me into this."

"What about Moscow?" the woman asked, her tone curious but calm.

"Um, well, this was just what La Fleur said, so it's like a rumor, I guess."

"La Fleur is the person you were talking to?"

"Yeah, he's another recruit like me. Anyway, this is technically hearsay—my mom's a lawyer, which doesn't matter, but yeah. La Fleur says he overheard some officers talking about what they'd heard from the British Navy. Oh, by the way, there's like military from all over the world at the base, if that matters to you. I'm not sure if that's, like, classified, but I assume you guys would know more than me. Anyway, they said there was an open broadcast from the Russian president, who used to be the head of the Russian Air Force."

The woman nodded as he spewed out his anxiety-triggered word salad. She seemed to be taking it all in. "That's a lot of information, Mr. Stewart, but we're more concerned with you right now. You say you're a Navy recruit?"

He tried to control his motormouth. He hadn't even got to the part about the Russians bombing their own city. But instead he just said, "right."

"Okay," she said, her tone steady and reassuring. "We have the authority to bring you into this group. It's called the Defense Force, and this is Sector Two."

"Sector Two? What's Sector One?"

"Washington D.C."

"Okay, so this is New York? What is this," he said, looking around at the surrounding haze, "some Pentagon video tech?"

"No, Mr. Stewart," she replied, her voice firm but not unkind. "This is Philadelphia, and you're here with us. We are not with the Pentagon. This technically isn't even the United States government."

He blinked, trying to process what she was saying. "Not the government? Then... what is this?"

The man stepped closer to the window. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Steven Chen, and that's Kiara Mendez," he said, "you might consider this to be a private contractor organization. But we've got some special assistance."

His gaze lingered on their gear now that he could see them more clearly. Their sleek, matte black armor was like nothing he'd seen before, even in the demos they sometimes showed recruits. The material looked futuristic—like something out of a sci-fi movie—with a faint, iridescent sheen that shifted in the dim light. The armor seemed to fit them perfectly, almost like a second skin, with no visible seams or bulk. It was hard to tell where the armor ended and the person began.

Chen's lower left arm was encased in a high-tech brace that looked like a piece of an exoskeleton. The brace was seamlessly integrated with his armor, with angular lines and a faint blue glow emanating from within the joints. Mendez's helmet had a visor, unlike Chen's, and it flashed intermittently with symbols.

But it was the emblem on their chests that really caught his attention—a faintly glowing insignia that pulsed with an inner light. It wasn't a military insignia, and it didn't belong to any contractor logo he recognized. The design was sharp, geometric, and almost alien, shifting subtly when he tried to focus on it.

They said they weren't with the government, but Brad couldn't help but latch onto that one word—technically. If this wasn't government, then what was it? Something black ops, off the books? Maybe a joint project between nations? Or was it something even more secretive, something not even connected to any known authority? The gear, the technology—they were too advanced for anything he'd seen or heard of, even in the rumors that circulated among recruits. Whatever "special assistance" they had, it was way beyond anything the military was putting out.

The possibilities churned in his mind, making him question what he’d stepped into. If they weren’t government, were they even accountable to anyone? And if they were using tech like this, who—if anyone—was overseeing it? For a moment, the uncertainty gnawed at him, but then another thought took hold. If this is what they’re capable of, what else do they have? The curiosity began to override the suspicion, the need to know more pushing aside his doubts. Maybe this was his chance to be part of something bigger—something that could actually make a difference.

"All right," he said with a nod, trying to steady his voice. "Whatcha got?"

Chen and Mendez exchanged a quick glance, and then began to lay it all out for him. They talked about the Hub, a system that could create weapons, armor, and advanced technology beyond anything the military had ever dreamed of. They described the alien machines, the raptors, and the way they were harvesting something called temporal energy from cities—draining the very essence of human progress. They spoke about how the Defense Force was fighting back, using the Hub's resources to reclaim territory and push back against the invaders.

As they talked, Brad's heart started to race, not out of fear, but out of excitement. This was it—the kind of mission every recruit fantasized about but never thought they'd actually get. High-tech gear, cutting-edge weapons, and a real chance to make a difference. It was the kind of thing that made all those grueling training sessions worth it. He could already see himself in the thick of it, suited up in that incredible armor, fighting off alien threats, saving cities—maybe even the world.

But then they got to the last part.

Chen's voice grew more serious, and Mendez's expression turned grim. They explained that the Hub, the tech, the whole system—it came with a cost. "It changes you," Mendez said, her words measured, like she was trying to find the right way to soften the blow. "Physically, mentally. We're not sure how deep it goes, but... you won't be the same person."

He stiffened. "What do you mean, changes?"

Chen stepped in, keeping his tone calm. "You'll be stronger, faster. You won't need sleep or food like before. But... it rewires how you think. Priorities shift. Your focus narrows. It's like... you're always on."

He swallowed, the excitement he'd felt earlier draining away, replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. "You're saying this thing messes with your head?"

Mendez nodded. "It's nothing we can't handle, but yeah, it does. You become more efficient, more driven. But it's not just the way you think—it's how you feel. Things that used to matter... might not feel as important."

He took a deep breath, trying to wrap his mind around it. The idea of being changed, of losing parts of himself, gnawed at him. "And you just... went along with this? No way to stop it?"

"Let me put it to you this way," Chen said, his tone steady. "It's been less than two days for Mendez and myself. Do we seem like college students?"

He had to shake his head at the question. He'd assumed the pair were special forces or maybe intelligence operators. It wasn't just their uniforms, it was the way they carried themselves—the way they moved, or rather, didn't move unnecessarily. The way they spoke. The way they looked at him, sizing him up with precision and focus that felt beyond their years.

"You're not?—"

"Military? No sir, just ROTC cadets."

"Well then, no," he admitted. "You don't. I mean, I assumed you were—"

"I hope that didn't come across as arrogant," Chen said with a faint, almost self-aware smile. "But then again, that might be another symptom."

Brad's head swam with what they were telling him. It was starting to sound less like Captain America and more like Bruce Banner. The idea of being enhanced was thrilling at first, but the thought of it coming with unintended side effects—a loss of control, a fundamental change in who he was—sent a shiver down his spine. This wasn't just about getting stronger or faster; it was about becoming something different, something potentially dangerous.

He hesitated, the question forming in his mind before he could stop himself. "Are these changes... permanent?"

Chen didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned slightly, seeming to focus on something Brad couldn't see or hear. Brad could see both Chen and Mendez talking but he heard nothing. There was a brief silence as he stared off into the distance, his eyes narrowing as if listening to a voice only he could hear.

He watched, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He couldn't make out what Chen was saying, but the way his expression shifted from focused to thoughtful made the seconds stretch on uncomfortably.

Finally, Chen turned back to him. "The Hub says the effects go away when you're outside of sector territory."

His brow furrowed. "Sector territory?"

Mendez chimed in, her tone a bit more contemplative. "I think that means outside the enemy-controlled zones. So, if you're in a safe area, away from all this..." She gestured vaguely around her. "You should go back to normal. Or at least, that's the theory."

His mind raced. It was reassuring to know the changes might not be permanent, but the ambiguity still gnawed at him. "So, there's no guarantee?" he pressed, wanting more certainty.

Mendez gave a small shrug, her expression earnest. "We're still figuring this out ourselves. But from what we've seen, the system's effects are tied to the battlefield, to the fight. Step away from that, and you should be able to step back to who you were. But yeah, that's the risk we're taking. Do I think the risk is worth it? Absolutely, and I'm as certain as I can be that that is my own opinion."

If Brad were being honest with himself, the uncertainty still scared him. But the thought of walking away, of returning to the base and carrying on like nothing had happened, felt wrong. If there was even a chance he could make a difference—be part of something bigger—then maybe the risk was worth it. He’d never forgive himself if he passed up this opportunity, no matter the unknowns.

"All right, I'm ready," he said, though his heart was pounding in his chest.

"Last chance to back out," Chen cautioned, his tone serious. "You could tell your C.O. what's been going on here in Philly."

He shook his head, a small, determined smile forming on his lips. "I'll take my chances with you guys."

Chen nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. "Good man. You should see your emblem somewhere within reach, appearing any second."

Brad looked around the chamber, and as if on cue, a soft, almost imperceptible shimmer began to form near the window. Slowly, the shape of the emblem materialized out of thin air, hovering just within his reach. It was smaller than he expected, about the size of his palm, and it glowed faintly with that same iridescent light he’d noticed on Chen and Mendez's armor.

He reached out, feeling a slight warmth radiating from it as his fingers brushed against the smooth surface. According to Chen and Mendez, this might be the thing that began the changes they warned him about.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then, with firm resolve, he attached the emblem to his uniform. He waited for something to happen. The seconds ticked by, but he didn’t feel any different.

"Identify user."

Brad jumped slightly, not expecting the sudden voice. "Hello?"

"Oh, hello. This is the Hub Station. Please identify yourself for the Defense Force records," the Hub said. The voice was professional, like a newscaster, but it didn’t sound artificial like he assumed it would. It was calm, pleasant, and surprisingly human.

"Uh, Bradley Stewart," he replied, still unsure what to make of the situation.

"Thank you, Bradley Stewart. You are now rank zero in the Defense Force Sector Two. Your emblem is fully integrated. Please exit the Recruitment Module."

The window faded away, leaving Brad there alone in the purgatory that was the featureless grey void. He floated there, unsure what he was supposed to be doing. The emptiness around him pressed in, making the surreal nature of his situation all the more disorienting. He wasn’t even sure what had just happened—if anything had happened at all.

Then, to his left, a larger opening began to form, the grey nothingness resolving into a corridor. It was the exterior of whatever he had been held inside, he realized. The metallic walls and dim lighting gave the space an almost industrial feel, contrasting sharply with the void he’d just been in.

He took a tentative step forward, and suddenly he was no longer in the empty grey nothingness. There was the brief sensation of falling before he landed on both feet, his boots echoing slightly against the hard floor.

tap tap

"There he is," a voice said.

Bradley looked up, his heart still racing from the unexpected drop. It was Chen, standing with Mendez and a third person—a black man who hadn’t been there before. The man was shorter than the others, but with a solid build and a sharp gaze that took Brad in with a quick, assessing glance.

"This is David Jackson," Chen said, gesturing to the new figure. "He joined right before you did. Thought it’d be good for you to meet someone who’s in the same boat."

Jackson stuck out a hand. They shook firmly. "Actually," Jackson said, glancing at each of them in turn, "y'all can call me Junior. David was my father's name."