D-Animal
Part 2
Elara did not fall back asleep that dawn.
Time seemed suspended inside the Green Fortress, as if the outside world had been placed on pause while something slowly rotted from within. The room was too quiet, lit only by the faint, carefully controlled glow of the embedded wall panels, which simulated a distant sunrise that did not yet exist.
She sat on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, fingers clenched into the sheets. The shared vision with Visio was still active—not by conscious command, but because she couldn't bring herself to disconnect.
Iron walked.
Step after step.
Metallic paws sank slightly into the forest floor, displacing leaves, dry branches, and low-lying mist. The core in his chest pulsed in an irregular rhythm, weak, like a heart forced to beat for someone who was no longer there to sustain it. There was no aggression in his movements. No hunt. Only movement—aimless wandering, like grief with nowhere to rest.
Elara felt her stomach twist.
— "Injustice has no forgiveness…" she whispered, her voice low, carrying something far heavier than anger.
She swallowed hard.
— "Using someone else's D-Animal for malicious acts… that isn't just a crime."
The air in her lungs felt too heavy.
— "It's desecration."
Her bicolored eyes narrowed, reflecting Iron's image like an open wound.
— "And betrayal…" her voice faltered for a microsecond, then hardened. — "Betrayal is paid with death."
Silence answered.
She let out a low, muffled growl and, in a sudden motion, grabbed the pillow beside her and hurled it against the opposite wall. The impact was dull, muted. Nothing broke. Nothing changed.
Elara brought a hand to her mouth, biting down on her knuckles to keep any sound from escaping.
The tears came anyway.
Not in sobs.
Not in despair.
They came silently, hot, streaming down her face as she kept her shoulders tense, her body rigid, refusing to collapse. She cried without noise, like someone who had learned too early that the world does not forgive weakness.
The smell of the room—clean metal, new fabric, a faint antiseptic scent drifting from the nearby medical wing—mixed with the salty taste of tears. The sheet beneath her fingers was far too soft for what she felt inside.
Somewhere in the base, a hydraulic system released pressure. A distant mechanical sigh.
Elara closed her eyes.
And opened them again.
She was still there.
Still awake.
---
In the next room, the early hours were no kinder.
Rafael woke as if he had been ripped out of his own body.
Air tore into his lungs in a violent gasp, his chest rising too fast, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground together. The sheets were soaked with sweat, stuck to his dark skin, and his heart hammered in his chest as if he were still running from something that no longer existed—or perhaps existed only inside him.
Lucas stirred almost at the same moment.
He sat up in bed, still groggy, but alert enough to recognize the signs. Rafael was rigid, muscles locked, eyes too wide, fixed on a nonexistent point on the ceiling.
— "Hey…" Lucas murmured, voice low and careful, like someone stepping on glass. — "It's okay. You're here."
He didn't touch him.
He knew better.
Aversion to touch wasn't something you debated—it was something you respected.
Rafael's breathing was shallow, uneven. A vein throbbed hard at his temple. His hands were clenched into fists, buried in the mattress, as if he were still holding onto something—or someone.
Lucas leaned forward slightly, keeping his distance.
— "It was just a dream."
Pause.
— "You're not there. Not now."
For a long second, Rafael didn't respond.
Then his blue eyes—cold, deep, always carrying more than they revealed—slowly shifted toward Lucas. His focus took time to settle, as if his brain were still pulling data from another reality.
A single tear escaped.
It slid slowly down the side of his face, mixing with sweat.
Rafael squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, hoarse, but conscious.
— "Thanks…"
He swallowed hard.
— "…good kid."
Lucas blinked, incredulous.
— "What?" he asked, just the right amount of indignant. — "I'm sitting here trying to help you and you call me 'kid'?"
One corner of Rafael's mouth lifted in something that almost resembled a smile.
— "Exactly."
Lucas snorted, shaking his head.
— "Idiot."
But there was humor there. Small. Real.
Rafael let out a low, short laugh that faded too quickly. Still, it was enough to ease the tension in the air.
— "Go back to sleep," he said, dismissing Lucas with a lazy flick of his hand. — "Before I decide to call you 'kid' again."
— "I'm not a kid," Lucas grumbled as he returned to his bed. — "Just so you know."
— "Uh-huh."
Lucas lay down, turned onto his side, and within minutes the steady rhythm of his breathing betrayed that he had fallen asleep again, like only someone young and utterly exhausted can.
Rafael remained sitting.
The silence settled heavily once more.
He ran a hand over his face, rubbing hard, feeling the residual heat of the nightmare still clinging to his skin. He knew he wouldn't sleep again. He always knew, with the same certainty that followed those dreams.
He stood without making a sound.
Wearing only shorts, his bare torso was marked by old and new scars—maps of a life that had never asked permission to be violent. He walked through the corridors of the Green Fortress, bare feet touching the cold, smooth floor, the contrast sharpening his senses even more.
The bunker was quiet, but never dead.
There was a constant, almost imperceptible hum of energy flowing, systems running, breathing. A faint metallic smell mixed with ozone and recycled air filled the space, along with something else—synthetic oil, perhaps, from the maintenance areas.
Rafael headed straight for the training wing.
The doors opened as they recognized him, sensors flashing briefly before granting access. The room was vast and high-ceilinged, lit by adjustable panels that mimicked natural light. Cutting-edge equipment filled the space with almost reverent organization: magnetic treadmills, adaptive weight structures, impact modules, simulated combat zones.
He whistled softly, involuntarily.
— "Damn…" he murmured. — "This place is paradise."
The smell of new rubber, heated metal, and fine lubricants was almost comforting. Familiar. Something that made sense.
Without overthinking it, he started warming up.
He stretched his neck, shoulders, spine. Each crack was a small release of accumulated tension. He moved to cardio, setting the treadmill to a high level, controlled impact absorbing some of the force as he ran. Sweat came fast, as if his body had been waiting for this.
His mind, however, did not quiet.
Each stride carried fragmented images: his father shouting, the factory, the smell of burned oil mixed with cheap alcohol, his mother on the floor—too much blood, too much silence. Then the explosion, pain tearing through his back, the cold metal of the operating table, voices deciding what he would become without asking if he wanted to keep being someone.
Rafael increased the speed.
The air burned his lungs. His legs screamed.
Good.
Physical pain was simple. Direct. Honest.
He left the treadmill and moved to weights. Legs first. Deep squats, controlled, the system automatically adjusting load to his applied force. Each repetition tore a low grunt from his throat. Sweat streamed down his chest and back, dripping onto the floor.
Arms next.
Biceps. Triceps. Shoulders.
Muscles burned, swelled, responded as they always had: obeying.
Abs came last. Long sets, until his body trembled. Until his mind threatened to shut down.
Rafael let himself fall flat on his back on the cold floor at the end, chest rising and falling fast, eyes closed. The smell of his own sweat mixed with the environment—salty, real.
For a few seconds, everything went white.
---
In the neighboring room, Elara was still awake.
She sat on the bed now with her feet on the floor, fingers interlaced far too tightly. Iron's image still burned behind her eyes, but something new was there—not just rage, not just grief.
Decision.
She drew a slow, deep breath, feeling the cold air fill her lungs, her chest expand, and released it in a single controlled exhale.
— "I will find you…" she murmured, whether speaking to Iron, to the one responsible, or to herself was unclear. — "And when that happens… no one will be able to say it wasn't fair."
In the Green Fortress, two people stayed awake that dawn for different reasons.
Elara, consumed by indignation, grief, and a silent promise already taking shape within her.
Rafael, fighting old ghosts, using his own body as an anchor to keep from losing himself again.
In one of the dorms, Lucas slept deeply, unaware of the quiet vigil protecting him—the rest of someone who did not yet have to carry the full weight of the world on his shoulders.
Neither of the two awake knew it yet, but that dawn marked an invisible line.
A point of no return.
Something had changed.
And from then on, nothing would ever be simple again.