The harsh light of morning poured into their shared room. Andre was already dressed in a clean, training issue uniform, moving with a disciplined stiffness that belied the bruises under his sleeves.
"Rise and shine, Sleepyhead," Andre announced, pulling Cj's blanket off. "If Thorne wants to showcase us in the Tournament, we need to be prepared. Especially you. You're currently lacking skill in all areas that aren't 'luck' or 'sleeping in.'"
They walked to the training sector. As the elevator doors hissed open, Cj and Andre paused, both freezing at the same sight: Kyla Flynn was in the middle of a high speed sparring session with another Host.
Kyla moved with surprising, almost liquid agility, deflecting a blow with a slim, metallic blade that seemed to be an extension of her arm. She was focused, lethal, and completely different from what Cj had imagined.
Andre tapped Cj's shoulder, a knowing, slightly awkward smirk playing across his lips. "Well, look who it is. Your girlfriend is surprisingly agile. She swings a sword better than you, too."
As they stepped off the elevator and the noise of their boots echoed, Kyla's head snapped up. She spotted Cj and instantly faltered, taking a sharp whack to the side of her head from her partner's blunted weapon.
"Eye on the prize over here, Kyla, not that prize over there," the partner a stern-faced woman with close-cropped hair chastised.
Kyla instantly blushed and mumbled, "Sorry!" But she was clearly anxious now. After each subsequent swing, her eyes darted back to Cj, causing her to almost stumble. Her partner noticed the distraction and sighed, lowering her sword.
"Alright, time to stop. Your boyfriend is here and draining all your focus."
Kyla's cheeks flushed a vibrant crimson. She held them with her hands, vigorously shaking her head. "He is not my boyfriend!" she protested, peeping at Cj again as her partner placed the swords back on a nearby shelf.
Cj, slightly bamboozled by the sudden drama, walked toward her. Kyla's shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on her boots.
"Sorry, Cj," she mumbled, the shame evident in her voice. "I haven't been able to come and see you."
"It's fine, really," Cj reassured her, then lowered his voice. "But Kyla, what happened? Why did you run from the office?"
She began nervously playing with her fingers, taking a deep breath to speak, when a cold, authoritarian voice sliced through the tension.
"Remember what I told you, Kyla!"
Alistair Thorne stood in the open elevator entrance, his posture ramrod straight, his expression completely stern. His gaze was a death-stare fixed solely on Kyla.
Kyla flinched as if struck. Her head sank, and she immediately backed away from Cj. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not to Cj, but toward Thorne's imposing figure. She slouched, joining her partner, and they walked briskly toward the elevator.
Cj and Andre stared, first at Kyla's forced submission, then at Thorne, who now advanced on them with purpose.
"Well, why are you two slacking?" Thorne demanded, his earlier fake geniality completely gone. "Tournament preparations start now. Get to work."
With no way to protest or question him, they exchanged a defeated glance and walked toward the sparring mats. The message was clear: Kyla was a prisoner, and Thorne was watching.
Thorne retreated, leaving them exposed and watched. Andre immediately walked over to the weapon rack and selected two blunt, metallic training swords, handing one to Cj.
"Alright, let's start with the basics," Andre said, taking a defensive stance. "Footwork, breath, and swing mechanics."
As Andre began demonstrating a simple overhead block, Cj tried to mimic the motion. It was immediately obvious that something was profoundly wrong. His body felt heavy and unfamiliar.
"Slow down, Cj, you're stiff," Andre instructed.
"I—I can't," Cj stammered, frustration creeping into his tone. He realized that the muscle memory he had relied on before the assimilation the effortless, natural combat instinct he once possessed... was completely gone, wiped clean. It must be linked to the Fallen Angel within me, he thought. The chaotic transformation had burned away his old self.
"Okay, new plan," Cj declared, dropping the sword slightly. "My old way is gone. I have to learn this from scratch. I have to rely only on what the Beast gives me."
As he started practicing simple parries, Cj began experimenting, focusing intently. He focused all his conscious effort on his sword arm, and it felt like a tiny surge of heat ran beneath his skin. He swung again, and the blunt sword moved with noticeably more velocity.
"Did you see that?" Cj asked, his eyes wide.
Andre paused his own swing, observing Cj critically. "I did. A focused surge. That's part of the Beast's power it allows you to temporarily strengthen one part of your body if you concentrate well enough."
Andre lowered his sword, his demeanor becoming purely clinical. "It's a powerful trick, but it takes conscious effort right now. The DCO's training is meant to help you internalize that process, to make the surge instinctive. Until then, you're slow and predictable."
He then fixed Cj with a serious look, gesturing to the silent, empty spaces around them. "We don't know how strong these international competitors are going to be, Cj. They could be stronger than Mario at F-3 and fully stable. They could even be stronger than me. We have five hours until the next briefing. We use every minute of it."
Andre raised his sword again, a renewed intensity in his eyes. Cj mirrored the stance, focusing the nascent power of the Axolotl on his legs, preparing to dodge.
RING!
The shrill electronic bell signaling the end of the session cut through the air. The brief burst of training was over. Exhausted, they quickly dropped their swords and wiped their sweat away before they headed for the cafeteria, ready for whatever new, calculated torment Thorne had planned.
The shrill clang of the bell released Cj and Andre from the training grounds. They walked toward the cafeteria, exhausted and focused on their urgent, secret escape plan. The noise of the facility had settled back into a low, administrative hum.
They had just settled into a booth with their trays when a shadow fell over the table. Mario Stark stood there, flanked by his three loyalists, who looked uncomfortable and confused by their leader's destination. Mario was still pale and gaunt, dressed in the clinical white jumpsuit, his usual bulky swagger replaced by a deliberate, measured stiffness.
"You three, wait by the window," Mario ordered his gang without looking back. They shuffled away, muttering nervously.
Mario slid into the booth opposite Cj and Andre. He didn't meet Cj's eye, instead fixing his gaze on the table.
"I didn't think I'd see the light of day," Mario stated, his voice raspy. He swallowed, a difficult motion. "The mission report says you were the ones who got me out of the rubble and kept the Gamma off my back."
He lifted his gaze to Cj, a momentary, raw flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "Thank you," he managed, the words clearly painful and unfamiliar. "You saved my life."
He then gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "They put me in the Hydro-Containment Bay, after the F-3 failure. It's supposed to be healing, but it's a cold, dark void. All you hear is the pressure and your own heart failing."
Mario rubbed the back of his neck, his focus now drifting, lost in the memory. "They use it to make you feel powerless. I was seven the first time my father put me in a tank like that. Not a DCO one... a filthy, old oil tank in the factory basement, just to teach me a lesson. He locked the hatch, turned off the light, and told me I had to learn what it felt like to be useless before I could be worth anything." Mario gave a cynical, broken half smile. "The DCO just found a more expensive way to deliver the same shame. They don't heal you; they just remind you how easily you can become better at a cost."
Andre leaned forward, his voice low and concerned. "That's the core of their conditioning, Mario. They need you to believe your power is tied to their control."
Mario nodded slowly, absorbing Andre's words, before his gaze hardened. The moment of vulnerability was receding, replaced by a defensive wall.
"Doesn't matter now," he said, pushing himself up abruptly. "I passed the test. I'm back in. And I won't fail the next one. The Tournament is mine."
He gave Cj one last complex look—a blend of gratitude, envy, and warning before he stalked over to his waiting gang, instantly reclaiming his posturing authority. Cj and Andre watched him go, both knowing that even in this brief moment of shared truth, Mario was too broken and too valuable to the DCO to ever be a true ally. He was a caged beast, and Thorne had just rattled his bars.
RING!
The cafeteria's casual hum was violently cut short by a sound system blaring to life, preceded by a burst of sharp static. Alistair voice crisp, demanding, and amplified filled the facility.
"Attention all DCO Hosts. I repeat, attention all Hosts." Thorne's tone shifted, laced with a smug professionalism. "We have confirmation: the international parties are arriving sooner than anticipated. This is not a drill. This is a formal presentation. You will dress in your assigned ceremonial uniforms, and you will move with discipline. We need to project the formidable stability of the DCO. You are not just assets; you are our proof of concept. Look presentable. Look dangerous. Dismissed."
A wave of noise exploded across the cafeteria. Mid tier Hosts cheered, high-fiving as they chanted muffled, aggressive slogans. The Tournament was no longer an abstract future event; it was now a visible reality with a rapidly shrinking deadline.
Cj and Andre exchanged a look of pragmatic urgency.
"Five hours just became five minutes," Andre muttered, pushing his chair back. "If we're going to plan, we need fuel. And frankly, I want to loot the mess hall before that stampede hits."
"Agreed. Get the protein bars and anything that looks like real sugar," Cj said, quickly following Andre.
They moved quickly through the suddenly energized crowd, snagging a handful of contraband energy wafers and some nutrient-dense fruit substitute blocks that would keep them talking through the night. They slipped out the back entrance and headed down the silent, auxiliary corridor toward their quarters.
They were halfway down the second hall when they heard it: a light, slightly breathless giggle right behind them.
They both froze, turning slowly.
Standing there was a girl, no older than seven, dressed in a faded, too large institutional gray uniform. She clutched a paper plate piled high with sweet rolls. Her eyes, startlingly bright in her pale face, were fixed on Cj's pocket, where the bars were stuffed.
"That's a good haul," she chirped, her tone completely energetically.
"Beat it, kid," Cj whispered, instinctively pulling Andre closer to shield her from the main corridor. "Get back to your quarters. Now."
The girl's bright smile instantly vanished, replaced by a stubborn pout. "I will scream. And I will tell the Guards you are hoarding resources meant for the fighters. Pappa says that is Theft."
Cj and Andre stared at each other. Her knowledge of DCO jargon and her brazen confidence were deeply unnerving. They had been blackmailed by a seven-year-old.
Andre sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. You win."
They quickly escorted her into their room and locked the door behind them.
Inside, the girl immediately tossed her plate onto Andre's desk and surveyed the sterile, whitewashed room. She started to trash the place, kicking her heels against the wall and giggling.
"It's so boring in here," she declared, her arms thrown wide. "No colors. It's so cold and quiet. Down below, it's not like this."
Cj's blood ran cold. "Wait. Where did you say you came from? There's nothing 'down below' but the foundation and the training sectors."
The girl bounced on the balls of her feet, her secret pride swelling. "That's what Pappa says we may not tell people. But there's a secret hatch by the old heat conduit. And I will show you, if we split the snacks."
Cj and Andre looked at each other, the fear immediate and electric. A secret area, a hidden part of the facility the DCO clearly didn't want known, and a child who knew the way. There was suddenly, terrifyingly, so much more to this prison than either of them had realized.
Cj and Andre quickly split the purloined snacks, handing the small girl half of the fruit substitutes. Her face lit up.
"Deal!" she exclaimed, already munching. "The hatch is near the old coolant vents on Sub-level 4."
They took off down the corridor. The main halls were now a chaotic symphony of booming chatter and stamping feet as Hosts mobilized, driven by the rhythmic, aggressive chant: "D. C. O.! D. C. O.!" The international teams were clearly close. This was their window.
They reached a rarely used access corridor near the facility's perimeter, where a single, weary looking security guard stood sentinel beside a heavy blast door.
"Hold it right there!" the guard barked, startled by their sudden presence. "Training sectors are locked down for the presentation. What are you two doing here?"
Andre didn't hesitate. He pulled out his DCO clearance card an old, mid-level Host pass and held it up with a practiced, stone-cold authority.
"Agent Thorne requires a priority status report from the R&D archives," Andre said, his voice flat and commanding. "I'm here to fetch the file. Don't waste my time."
The guard, visibly shaking under the implied weight of Thorne's name and Andre's icy demeanor, stammered, "I—I apologize, sir! I wasn't notified. I'll just, uh, I'll be right back. Please excuse me for a moment." He practically fled down the hallway.
As soon as he was out of sight, the little girl, who had been hiding behind a decommissioned utility cart, darted forward.
"Quickly!" she whispered, her voice filled with conspiratorial delight. She pointed to a section of wall near the floor. "The conduit is right here!"
She reached down, her small fingers finding a barely visible seam on a metal floor plate. With a surprising grunt of effort, she lifted a heavy, square hatch set flush into the ground. A cold, damp rush of air smelling of ozone and disinfectant wafted up from the darkness.
"Just crawl into it," she instructed, her voice now muffled by the heavy lid. "I'll show you where I stay. It's much better than up here."
Cj and Andre exchanged a look that blended desperate opportunity with chilling apprehension. Andre went first, dropping his tall frame into the hole. Cj followed, and the girl, easily sliding the hatch back into place above them, plunged the hidden space into near-total darkness.
A moment later, a faint, flickering overhead emergency light kicked on, revealing a tunnel far more structured than an air vent. They were in a damp, unfinished corridor leading deeper into the facility's underbelly.
The girl skipped ahead, entirely unfazed by the sterile terror of their surroundings.
"Oh! I forgot!" she cried, turning back to them. "My name is Elara. What's yours? You look like you need a friend."
Andre and Cj, still crawling out of the cramped space, silently shook their heads.
"Okay," Elara said cheerfully, accepting the refusal without question. "You can be my secret friends then!"
As they followed her, the corridor opened into a vast, terrifying wing of the DCO they never knew existed. The walls here were thick, segmented with heavy-duty steel blast shielding. Behind reinforced acrylic barriers were dimly lit experimental labs and massive, pressurized containment cages. Inside, shadowy forms shifted: hulking, deformed creatures, some twitching, others unnervingly still the raw, horrifying fallout of the Gatekeeper Event.
Cj and Andre moved in a daze, their whispered plans forgotten, replaced by a deep, stomach-churning fear. This wasn't a training facility; it was a torture den for monsters and creating monsters.
As they rounded a corner, they stopped short. Down a side hall, in a clear observation room, was a single figure.
An young man was strapped into a complex, metallic chair, his head covered by a heavy, sound-dampening helmet. His hands were secured to the armrests, which fed directly into a series of massive electrical conduits. His body was wiry, and something about the shape of his shoulderst he slight droop of exhaustion and defeat looked terrifyingly familiar to Cj.
Before Cj could process the chilling recognition, Elara clapped her hands together, pointing toward a door covered in complex warning decals.
"And there it is!" she shouted, her voice completely bright and cheerful. "There's my room!"
Elara, humming a strange, tuneless melody, pressed a large, glowing button beside the door. It slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a space that was an absurd contrast to the gray facility.
The room was blindingly colorful a riot of mismatched pillows, bright blankets, and countless soft toys. Teddy bears, stuffed animals, and dolls were piled high on a small bed, completely swallowing the sterile white walls in soft plush.
But what immediately drew the eye, positioned precisely in the center of the floor, was a single, massive, clear glass jar. It stood nearly as tall as Elara, its interior filled with water or some strange preservative liquid. Suspended within the liquid were dozens of shimmering, oily black feathers, drifting slowly.
"That's where Pappa says my power comes from!" Elara announced, her voice cracking with a high, delightful giggle.
She launched herself onto the mountain of toys on her bed, bouncing excitedly. "Thank you for the sweet, friends!"
Cj, however, was no longer listening. He felt an inexplicable, terrifying draw toward the jar. He walked forward, his steps sluggish and heavy, until he was standing right beside the glass. The black feathers looked ancient, heavy with some malevolent significance.
As Cj reached out a hand, his body went rigid. His eyes flared with a cold, shocking light, and his features twisted into a mask of pure, possessive avarice. it wasn't Cj's voice. It was a resonant, ancient sound a possessive, grating snarl that seemed to shake the air, tearing from Cj's lungs with primal desperation
"MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINEEEE!"
The cry echoed aggressively off the bare walls of the corridor outside. Cj, or whatever entity controlled him, was lunging for the glass it felt like Sariel's control.
Andre reacted instantly, snapping out of his own shock. He grabbed Cj by the shoulders, wrenching him back with a force that sent them both staggering.
"Cj! Snap out of it! That's not you!" Andre hissed.
The sudden physical contact broke the spell. Cj stumbled backward, collapsing against the wall, his eyes wide and dazed.
"W-what happened?" Cj stammered, his hand instinctively going to his chest. "What did I say?"
Andre didn't answer. His head was tilted, listening.
FOOTSTEPS. Heavy, methodical boots were approaching their position, undoubtedly drawn by the sudden, loud scream.
"We have to go! Now!" Andre grabbed Cj's arm.
They turned to Elara, who was sitting cross-legged on her bed, calmly watching the panic. She put a finger to her lips, mirroring a silent "shush," before lying down, instantly closing her eyes and adopting a posture of deep sleep.
Cj and Andre rushed toward the open hatch, their hearts hammering. They dropped into the dark void, scrambling back the way they came, knowing they were inches from being caught by the approaching DCO patrol. They had just glimpsed the terrifying, secret heart of the DCO and awakened a new, possessive instinct in the Fallen Angel within Cj.