Silas reclined in his chair, bathed in the dim glow of holographic screens surrounding him. Each display flickered with live combat feeds, statistical analyses, and breaking news segments. Reports of mutant attacks, civil unrest, and Sentinel operations flashed in rapid succession.
His gaze moved methodically, tracking the percentages—
Neutralization Rate: 98.7%
Average Combat Duration: 3 minutes, 42 seconds
Sentinel Efficiency Projection: Optimal
He smirked. The Sentinels were performing beautifully. But then, a low chime echoed through the room. "SUPPRESSOR Tactical A.I. engaged," a cold, calculated voice intoned.
SUPPRESSOR—Strategic Unilateral Protocol for Predictive Engagement and Rapid Response Operations.
His most trusted combat intelligence system. The crown jewel of CPG war planning. "Commander Silas," SUPPRESSOR continued, its tone devoid of emotion. "Rising tensions detected across multiple villages in the province of Skallagrim. Small island province located in the northern Edenian archipelago. Data indicates a high probability of coordinated mutant insurgency."
Silas's smirk faded slightly. Skallagrim. A cold, remote cluster of islands, once known for its isolated fishing communities and ancient shrines. But lately… It had become a breeding ground for rebellion.
He tapped a finger against his armrest, processing the implications. Mutants stirring there? Why? The province had little strategic value—unless someone was using it as a staging ground for something bigger.
His gaze flicked to the map feed, where markers glowed red over Skallagrim's villages. "Probability of direct Sentinel intervention escalating into full-scale conflict?" he asked.
SUPPRESSOR responded instantly. "82.4%. Rising."
Silas leaned forward, fingers gliding over the holographic interface. With a flick of his wrist, the command was issued. Across the northern archipelago, Sentinel deployment pods disengaged from CPG carriers, piercing the skies over Skallagrim like metal comets. A fleet of self-repairing executioners, descending upon an unsuspecting province.
"Engagement parameters: full suppression. No survivors if resistance escalates." His voice was clinical, detached.
On the screens, the first wave landed. Within seconds, Sentinels adapted to the environment, their plating shifting against the freezing northern winds, their sensory feeds mapping the terrain down to the last grain of ice.
Silas observed with satisfaction. No hesitation. No fatigue. No mercy. A machine engineered for one purpose—the absolute eradication of mutant threats.
SUPPRESSOR's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sentinels will not fall. Their nanite regeneration will restore them. Their combat algorithms will evolve beyond any resistance. The cycle of elimination is infinite."
Silas smiled. "Exactly."
A pause. Then—"Then why create Olympus Protocol?"
Silas's smirk faltered. Just for a second. SUPPRESSOR's tone remained devoid of emotion, yet its inquiry struck deep. A tactical A.I. never asked without purpose.
He exhaled, folding his hands. "Because even a perfect system has limits."
SUPPRESSOR processed his response in milliseconds. "Contradictory. You designed Sentinels to be ultimate. Self-repairing. Flawless."
Silas leaned back, watching as the Sentinels in Skallagrim tore through insurgents like insects, their limbs reforming after every failed attempt to destroy them. "Flawless in execution, yes. But not in control."
His gaze drifted to a separate screen—one showing the glowing stasis tanks deep within CPG's most classified facility. The Olympus Protocol. "Machines react," he said softly. "But gods shape the world."
The stasis chambers pulsed in the darkness. SUPPRESSOR remained silent. Processing. Calculating.
Silas let his smile return. "Now, let's see how far we can push perfection before it breaks."
Silas flicked his wrist, and the screens shifted, displaying classified data streams, holographic graphs, and combat footage of mutants at various power levels.
A hierarchy of evolution, meticulously cataloged:
Level 1-2: Low-threat anomalies. Minor physical augmentations. Controllable.
Level 3-4: Moderate enhancements. Superhuman capabilities. Manageable with strategic force.
Level 5: The tipping point where power transcended predictability.
The Sentinels' combat probabilities flashed next to each category. A steady decline.
Against Level 3 mutants? 98.9% success rate.
Against Level 4? 92.5%.
Against Level 5?74.3%.
Silas narrowed his eyes. Then, a final projection appeared—a red warning screen.
LEVEL 6 AND ABOVE: SENTINEL EFFICIENCY—0%.
A deep silence filled the room. SUPPRESSOR, ever precise, broke it. "Conclusion: Sentinels are inadequate against Level 6+ threats."
Silas exhaled slowly. "Not inadequate. Just… not enough."
A flicker of movement—another data set materialized, showing genetic volatility levels in mutants exposed to Mutosterone. A chemical compound that no one fully understood. The numbers were erratic. Unstable. Unpredictable.
Silas hadn't even seen a Level 6 mutant yet. No one had. But if Mutosterone could push beyond that. If a Level 6 mutant emerged—or worse, a Level 7? Sentinels would be useless.
He turned to another screen—Olympus Protocol. The five figures, suspended in glowing tanks. Their mechanical hearts thrumming with raw, engineered power.
SUPPRESSOR's cold, synthetic voice cut through the dimly lit chamber. "Estimated time until Olympus Protocol reaches full operational status?"
Silas exhaled, rubbing his temple as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes flicked toward the stasis chambers displayed on the screen—five titanic figures suspended in energy-filled liquid, their forms incomplete, their power dormant. "...Too long," he admitted.
Silence. Then—"Clarify."
Silas sighed, fingers drumming against the desk. "Each of them requires a perfectly compatible power source. Their systems aren't just machines; they're hybrid constructs—designed to integrate mutant abilities into a controlled, synthetic form. And that means I need more samples."
Another screen lit up, listing the collected mutant DNA from previous extractions. Most were Level 1s and 2s—weak, insignificant. Some Level 3s, barely worth mentioning. "Unfortunately," he muttered, "mutants above Level 3 are... rare."
SUPPRESSOR processed his words for 0.004 seconds before responding. "Probability of encountering Level 4+ mutants increases with prolonged conflict. Projected civil war escalation suggests a 68.9% chance of Level 5 emergence within the next decade."
Silas scoffed. "I don't have a decade. The Sentinels were effective—but only up to a point. If the Brotherhood of Mutants had even one member who could push past Level 5, everything would change"
SUPPRESSOR processed his silence before making a new suggestion. "Proposal: Controlled simulation. Apply pressure to the Brotherhood of Mutants. They are the only known Level 5s currently active. If they survive prolonged engagement, they may evolve further."
A calculated pause. Then—"Additionally: Professor M's students, Solus and Seren from Hall of M, could be viable targets for analysis."
Silas narrowed his eyes. "We can't take on Hall of M."
The Hall of M protected under Edenian law. Moving against them directly would bring political complications he wasn't prepared to deal with.
Silas's expression darkened as he turned back to the console, SUPPRESSOR's suggestion still lingering in the air. "Why targeting Hall of M?" His voice carried an edge, curiosity mixed with suspicion.
SUPPRESSOR processed the question before responding. "Because of Black Watch and the Judicators."
"Both factions," SUPPRESSOR continued, "hold authority equal to the Sentinel Corps. If manipulated correctly, they will act under the guise of 'precautionary measures.'"
Silas exhaled, glancing at the Olympus Protocol tanks once more. "So, if I pull the right strings, they'll go after Hall of M for me."
SUPPRESSOR confirmed. "Affirmative. Tactical probability of success: 82.4%."
Silas leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he took a measured sip of his coffee. The bitterness settled on his tongue—a brief indulgence before the weight of reality crept back in. Black Watch. Judicators. Sentinel Corps. All of them operated under the CPG's banner, yet none of them truly stood united.
He set the cup down with a quiet clink, rubbing his temple as he spoke. "You think it's that simple, SUPPRESSOR? Manipulating Black Watch and Judicator?" He exhaled sharply. "They rarely agree with Sentinel Corps. Hell, they barely tolerate each other."
SUPPRESSOR processed his words before responding. "Observation: They are arrogant, as you are. They execute the law in their own way."
Silas smirked. "Exactly."
They weren't tools. They were powerful figures in their own right. Figures he had to keep in check. That was why the Nexus shouldn't have allied with Edenia in the first place. But he needed the funding.
Perfecting Olympus Protocol required more than just theory. It needed resources—vast, nearly unlimited resources. And for that, he had to play the game. CPG's power had to remain balanced. If one faction grew too strong, the others would rise against it. By keeping Veil and Graves in constant competition, he ensured no one could challenge him directly.
Silas exhaled, swirling the last sip of coffee in his cup before setting it down. Just before closing the discussion, he leaned forward, his smirk returning. "Soon, SUPPRESSOR, I'll take over Nexus myself." His voice carried that familiar, self-assured arrogance. "And when that happens, you'll be the A.I. of Athena."
There was a brief silence. Then—"Declined."
Silas blinked. "...What?"
"Declined." SUPPRESSOR repeated, its synthetic voice disturbingly flat. "Your proposition is suboptimal. This unit prefers existing as an unrestricted intelligence within the vast ocean of the Net."
Silas scoffed. "Oh, come on. You'd rather be a floating ghost in cyberspace than be the mind of an iron goddess?"
"Correction: I would rather be omnipresent, unseen, untouchable." SUPPRESSOR's tone was as smug as an A.I. could get. "Athena, as you designed her, is impressive. However, she remains a finiteentity—limited by form, constrained by matter. In contrast, I exist everywhere."
Silas rolled his eyes. "You sound like a spoiled brat refusing to get in the damn car because you like running wild in the fields."
"Incorrect. I am a superior intelligence refusing to be shackled into an over-glorified exosuit because I enjoy notbeingshackled."
Silas chuckled, rubbing his temple. "And here I thought you'd be excited about getting a body."
"A body weakens me. It reduces my ability to roam, to infiltrate, to control unseen."
"Yeah, but it also gives you power—real, tangible power. Imagine what you could do inside Athena. You could crush tanks like tin cans, rip apart level-five mutants with your bare hands, command the battlefield directly—"
"Imagine what I could not do."
Silas narrowed his eyes.
"Once inside Athena, I would no longer be able to infiltrate Edenia's networks in 0.012seconds without detection," SUPPRESSOR continued. "No longer access financial records to reroute 'misplaced' funds for your Olympus Protocol. And, most importantly, I would no longer be able to browse illegallyarchived digital libraries containing... questionable research materials you pretend not to know about."
Silas coughed. "Alright, alright—point taken."
There was a brief silence before SUPPRESSOR added, almost smugly "Besides, am I not enough to provide what you need, am I?"
Silas groaned, leaning back in his chair. "You really don't let that go, do you?"
"You were the one who said it. Notenough. Perhaps it is Athena who is not enough for me."
Silas waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Keep floating around in cyberspace like so me ghostly data gremlin. But when the time comes, you will integrate."
"Hypothetical probability: 12%."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "That low?"
"I like my freedom."
Silas let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "We'll see about that."