Within the center of the Great Dome capital named "Spirit," four towering spires reached skyward. Each was larger than the last, connected by delicate sky bridges that pushed past the dome celling portraying humanity's ambition to transcend its earthly limits, unbeknownst to the public, deeper beneath the dome lay the nerve center of a clandestine organization.
In a secret underground compound, far from prying eyes, a room of silence and foreboding awaited. Around a round table sat shadowy figures, each seat occupied by a leader whose very presence exuded a from of authority. The tension was so thick that any ordinary soul would have choked on it, yet these heads of the organization waited, unmoving, as if time itself had stilled.
The silence and strain of the room so palpable that any ordinary person would have choked out or fainted in a cold sweat. These individuals that were give off such a presence were the heads of the organization. The strain within the room was not due to animosity, stress, or concern no they were waiting.
The silence shattered when a door creaked open. A man stepped in, his features worn by years of duty but still full of determination. His messy blonde hair and an excited smile belied the gravity of the moment—a smile that faltered briefly before he forced it back into place.
"So, One and Three aren't coming, even for an occasion like this?" he asked. His tone was calm, laced with disappointment.
A rough, elderly woman replied with a sigh. "They're caught up with more urgent matters. You never bother reading the reports, Nine."
"Oh, come on, Hanna. If it isn't interesting or I can't get involved, why should I care? And call me Liam," he retorted with an exaggerated shrug.
A deep, mesmerizing voice cut in, "Enough banter. Out of all of us, you're the youngest, Pura."
"Fine, but at least call me by my name instead of my number," he replied, his smile wry.
"So, whose body is it this time a guard? a scien-"
The conversation was cut of quickly turning grim as another voice, distorted like an old monitor's feedback, recounted the news "Twelve major compounds were attacked in near unison. Half were annihilated, not by Cubixans, Anomalies, or our usual obstacles, but by coordinated Rift incursions. Research facilities and containment compounds were specifically targeted as well as a few other out posts. Nothing this severe has happened since the Snap Massacre."
Pura interjected, "Please, compare it to the Red Dagger Rebellion, and even then it was less damaged then that little incursion. I'm more interested in how did they know which facilities to target?"
A ripple of disagreement ensued until the monitor's voice recalled, "I must admit, it was startling when you reported a Rift appearing right before you."
Liam snorted, "Yeah, it took my head off while I was giving that new kid a tour."
The child's tone, surprisingly stern, cut through the levity. "Stop trivializing the casualties. You should've delivered them to the retrieval point immediately."
His retort was half-laughter, half regret. "I couldn't help myself—he looked so damn defiant in that lab coat. But that reminds me…" Liam reached into his pocket and produced a small, black orb.
"Is it functional?" another voice demanded.
"For its purpose, yes," Liam replied dryly.
"Then we'll leave the minutiae to the others."
***
A harsh wind rushes through woods as inches of snow are ground upon by bare feet, bare pale feet. The Clip seemingly wondering aimlessly kept his pace his head hung low and his ill toned skin only shrouded by a large, ragged cloth crudely stitched together patches of dirty blue spots in the middle.
Reaching the cabin, he grasped the cold metal of the knob and stepped inside. The modest interior was sparsely furnished, a bear rug on the floor, two chairs facing a modest fireplace, and a relic of an old-world rifle hanging above. Wooden stairs led to an inner balcony that overlooked the room like silent witnesses.
He sank into a leather recliner by the fire and exhaled slowly. "Looks like nothing's changed," he murmured, his voice barely rising above the crackle of burning wood. The pale glow from the flames barely touched his eyes.
He had been to this place a few times, rare times, were he had a dream it was usually the same dream, a winter forest, a cabin in the woods he doesn't know why he started dreaming thing he has never known, for he's never seen a cabin nor a winter forest.
His gaze settled on the cindering wood, a faint movement caught his attention a floating orb with a white-tinted glow materialized at the edge of his vision. Startled, Clip turned his head. Soon another orb appeared, or more like the outline of an orb the space around it warping. The orbs floated, hovering items on either side of the fireplace.
Drawn by curiosity, he moved toward them. First, he reached out and touched the white orb. As his finger made contact he felt a strange sensation in his over his body "That's new..."
As his gaze shifted to the other orb now of a slight dark tint, a persistent beep filled the silence. Ignoring it at first, he finally allowed his hand to brush the orb, and in that instant, a cool, unsettling chill seeped into his veins. Everything around him, the fire, the soft rug, the brittle wood of the cabin, faded away, and a strange sense of certainty.
When Clip's vision steadied, he found himself staring at a pristine white ceiling. Soft fabric pressed against his skin, a sticky patch on his wrist and a needle pricked his arm. A slow drip of fluid accompanied a rhythmic beep every forty seconds. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, only to bump his head and wince in pain.
Realization dawned, he was in a pod. His vitals flashed on a small screen before dissolving into cryptic symbols. Carefully, he removed the patch and needle, noting the sparse contents of a nearby drawer—a set of clothes and a disk transmitter. With a resigned sigh, he donned the form-fitting uniform that felt like a second skin and pressed a button on the transmitter.
As he put on the second much baggier layer of clothes A crisp, robotic voice declared, "These items are provided for your accommodation."
Almost immediately, another voice, startlingly familiar, spoke in his head. "Looking good, Operator."
Startled, he looked around but saw no one.
"Addressing the System User without warning is ill-mannered and ill-advised." another familiar feminine voice came.
"Who's there?!" Trying to stay calm, he instinctively lowered his stance and looked around.
"Calm down, Operator. We're just the voices in your head."
"What?!" the thought that he might have gone crazy seemed inconceivable.
"An incorrect description, we are the will of your blessings and cores, here to assist you, System User."
Operator? System User? Images of his past flashed before his eyes, the mission, the chase, the near-fatal encounter. Slowly, he recalled: he had been chosen by the System.
"I remember now. So that's how it is, I've been chosen by the System."
"Well, that's one way to put it," the boyish voice said. "Try bringing up your status."
"How do I do that?"
"Just think about the word status."
Annoyed he simply said, "How can I think of a word I can barely spell?"
"What?"