“Listen up!” Remington’s order thundered through the stairwell. “You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes to shower, shave, and get into proper uniform. Anyone not ready gets to do push-ups until their arms fall off. GO!”

  They sprinted back upstairs, shouldering through doorways as eleven people tried to get into their hallway. Lance and his roommates scrambled into their room, jostling for space. The bathroom turned into a battlefield of elbows and toothbrushes. Steam everywhere, military soap and shaving cream burning their noses. Lance moved efficiently, letting muscle memory from his ROTC days guide him through the routine.

  There’s only one thing left.

  He stared at a reflection buried beneath weeks of untamed growth. He inhaled the bathroom’s thick air, pressed the government-issue razor to his cheek, and sliced through three weeks of hiding. A clean line of skin showed through. Pale, but his. His hand moved faster, each stroke revealing more of the person he used to be. The person he might be again.

  “FIVE MINUTES!”

  The rest was a blur—rinse, dry, dress. No time to think about what the beard had been hiding. No time to wonder if he was ready to face the world without it.

  This routine felt oddly familiar. Before his medical DQ—some BS about irregular heartbeat—he’d planned on enlisting after college. Not for the flag or glory, just the challenge. The discipline. Maybe sock away some cash while figuring out what to do with his life. That door had closed so firmly he’d forgotten about wanting it. Now here he was anyway, even if everything else had gone sideways.

  Boots. Belt. Uniform. Move.

  Diego, on the other hand, looked lost. “Dude, how do you tie these boots? They’ve got like fifty holes!”

  “Over-under pattern,” Lance said, demonstrating with his own boots. “Keeps them tight without cutting off circulation.”

  “Is this another ROTC thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Right, right,” Diego muttered, mimicking Lance’s technique. “Nerd.”

  They made it back downstairs with thirty seconds to spare. Remington inspected each of them, finding fault with nearly everyone’s uniform. When she reached Lance, she paused.

  “Finally. Someone who knows how to dress themselves.” She moved on to Diego. “Fix that gig line, recruit. This isn’t a circus.”

  Diego looked down at his uniform. “What’s a gig line?”

  “Belt buckle, zipper, and buttons should form a straight line,” Lance whispered. “Here, let me—”

  “Did I ask for a helper, Lawthorn?” Remington’s tone could have stripped paint.

  “No, Sergeant Remington!”

  “Then zip it. Ramírez, figure it out yourself or start pushing.”

  Outside, darkness still gripped the base. A cold breeze carried the smell of jet fuel and sea air. In the distance, a C-130 thundered down the runway, its engines drowning out all other sound.

  Remington led them toward a cluster of buildings surrounded by chain-link fence. Warning signs covered the fence at regular intervals: “DANGER—ENHANCED TRAINING IN PROGRESS” and “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” in bold red letters.

  They stopped at a gate where armed MPs checked their IDs. Lance picked up on how the guards kept their distance, fingers never far from their weapons. He couldn’t blame them. After all, what good was an M4 against someone who could break the laws of physics?

  They entered an aircraft hangar, and Remington said: “Fall out and mingle. We’ll be here a while,” her voice firm but less harsh than before.

  Inside, the hangar stretched wide enough for several commercial planes. Metal walkways crisscrossed near the ceiling, and workstations with computers lined the walls. The concrete floor was marked with yellow safety lines and numbered zones. More recruits arrived in groups of ten—looked like the other cells. Everyone wore the same dark green utility uniforms with subdued rank patches—the Enhanced Corps’ version of ACUs. The fabric was reinforced at stress points like shoulders and knees, built to withstand superhuman impacts. Between the boots on concrete, and rustling uniforms, and overlapping voices, the noise built until Diego had to lean in close just to be heard.

  Lance and Diego found a spot in their cell’s designated area, settling on the cold floor. His arma identification activated automatically—almost everyone registered as 1st Evolution, with abilities ranging from elemental manipulation to physical enhancement. A handful showed as Nascent, still developing. Only two signatures blazed at 2nd Evolution.

  The social dynamics were fascinating. Elementalists clustered together, sharing tips on power control. Physical enhancers compared strength levels and transformation abilities. Even the few who could manipulate more cosmic forces found kindred spirits to trade notes with.

  Numbers and classifications flooded his mind, a welcome distraction from darker thoughts. Here was something concrete he could analyze, patterns he could study. His fingers twitched, itching to test theories against such a diverse pool of abilities. His heart raced at the possibility—would Dark Resonance disrupt all their arma signatures? And what if someone else here had a similar ability? The thought made him glance around the room with new wariness.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  And here he sat, a hodgepodge of stolen abilities that didn’t fit neatly into any category. Part of him wanted to reach out, to understand how others managed their powers—

  Trust no one, he reminded himself, scanning the room for any sign of manipulation or hostility. No one would get close enough to be another Rick.

  A wave of heat pressed against his left side. Lance twisted at the waist, his crossed legs scraping against concrete, and found Vicky settling down next to them.

  She sat between him and Diego, and two others dropped down behind her.

  “So,” she said, as if eight days of silence hadn’t passed between them, “you made it.”

  “Yeah.” Lance studied her face, looking for signs of lingering trauma. “You okay?”

  “Getting there.” She crossed her legs on the concrete floor. “The nightmares are less frequent now.”

  Lance nodded, not sure what else to say. The others shifted uncomfortably at the heavy silence.

  “I’m Carter,” the man with liquid metal skin said, extending his hand. “From Oscar Cell. Vicky mentioned you guys.”

  “Andrea,” the woman next to him added, tendrils of silvery mist coiling around her fingers. “I bunk with Vicky. Also Oscar.”

  “Diego. And this ray of sunshine is Lance.”

  Lance appreciated their casual introductions. How does one explain surviving mind control by a psychopath who tortured enhanced people based on their gender?

  Diego, bless him, changed the subject. “So what’s Oscar Cell like? Steele seems... intense.”

  “That’s one word for it,” the woman with mist powers—Andrea—said. “He made Blackwood do push-ups for breathing too loud.”

  “Remington’s no better,” Diego countered. “She’s got this thing about perfect uniform standards. I still don’t know what a gig line is.”

  Carter chuckled, his metallic skin rippling. “Wait until you see Steele’s sock inspection. Guy brings out a ruler.”

  “No way,” Diego said, leaning forward.

  “Dead serious. Right, Andrea?”

  She nodded. “Perfect quarter-inch above the boot. Every time.”

  “Didn’t expect to see so many magic users here,” Carter said.

  Lance tilted his head. “Arma users?”

  “Right, sorry. They were calling it magic back home.”

  That wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Wonder how many of us they rounded up,” Andrea said.

  “Twenty-six cells, Alpha through Zulu. Ten to twelve per cell...” Lance counted under his breath. “About two-eighty, give or take.”

  “Of course protein-bar boy did the math,” Vicky said, a hint of her old playfulness returning.

  “Any idea what we’re waiting for?” Diego asked. “No itinerary, no briefing...”

  “Probably some big welcome speech,” Andrea said, leaning back on her hands. “Though the Cell Leaders seem lost too.”

  “Steele’s been pacing the same spot for twenty minutes,” Carter added. “Hard to tell if this is his usual state.”

  They traded stories about their respective drill sergeants while they waited. Lance caught how Vicky kept glancing his way, questions burning behind her eyes. He had questions too—about her recovery, about what brought her here, about whether she still felt Rick’s phantom presence in her mind like he sometimes did.

  But those conversations would have to wait. Sergeant Remington’s bark eviscerated the hangar’s noise:

  “ROOM, TENHUT!”

  Full silence followed.

  “Did she say ten huts?” Diego whispered.

  “Stand up, now,” Lance hissed, pulling Diego to his feet.

  Boots scraped against concrete as recruits snapped to attention. Lance’s spine straightened automatically, muscle memory kicking in.

  Two figures strode through the entrance—a tall man with a mustache and a Black woman with twisted hair. Lance’s breath caught.

  The same officers from BioNova, Lance thought. The ones talking about containment. About us.

  All twenty-six drill sergeants formed a line, each one snapping into a rigid salute.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Commander of the United States Enhanced Corps and the Chief of the Enhanced Development Agency,” Remington announced, her voice covering the entire hangar with ease.

  The man adjusted his four stars before climbing the short steps to the stage. The woman followed, the metal of her hearing aid gleaming. Their presence commanded the entire hangar as they stepped behind the podium and the lights dimmed everywhere except where the generals stood.

  “At ease,” the four-star general said into the microphone.

  A wave of movement passed through the ranks.

  “I’m General Robert Stroebel, Commander of the United States Enhanced Corps. With me is General Washington, Chief of the Enhanced Development Agency.”

  He adjusted the microphone. “First, I apologize for having you all here on New Year’s Day. Seems NARS didn’t just take lives—it took our holidays too.”

  A few quiet chuckles made their way through the formation.

  “Now, twenty-nine days ago, NARS changed our world forever. The loss of life was catastrophic—but from that tragedy, each of you emerged. Enhanced. Different. And now, vital to our nation’s security.”

  “The United States Enhanced Corps isn’t just a new military branch. It’s our response to a changing world. China, Russia, the EU—they’re all recruiting people like you. Training them. Our intelligence suggests some less friendly nations are already deploying enhanced operators in the field.”

  “Your training here will be unlike anything we’ve done before. You’ll learn to control your abilities, to work as teams, to defend this nation against threats we’ll never understand. It won’t be easy. Some of you won’t make it through. But those who do will shape the future of warfare itself.”

  A warm touch enveloped Lance’s hand. The sensation spread through his palm—softer than any enhanced heat, just the comfort of skin against skin. Lance kept his eyes forward, his fingers curling into the offered comfort. It was Vicky’s hand in his. She didn’t look his way, didn’t acknowledge the gesture, but her grip tightened as the general continued his speech.

  “Each of you chose to be here. You could have hidden your abilities. Used them for personal gain. Instead, you stepped forward to serve. That says something about your character.”

  “The next eighteen months will test everything you are. But when you’re done, you’ll be part of something greater than yourselves. The first line of defense in a world that needs you.”

  “Welcome to the United States Enhanced Corps. Dismissed.”

  Vicky’s hand slipped away as the lights came back on, but the warmth lingered.