Whilst Barak spoke to his superior about their conversation in Jenny's office, she decided to show Mark around the base. They had spent an hour exploring the Watford Facility, the Brigadier giving a rough tour. However, as the dew dripped from the dead and spiked trees, her stomach grumbled, prompting them to head to the canteen.
The room was lightly crowded, roughly fifty-or-so soldiers dressed in camo outfits like herself, each lined up and waiting to be served today's breakfast. The duo stood at the back of the line, the woman unwilling to cut in with her rank or authority; she was a regular, treating those below her as comrades, not subordinates. Well, that was how she explained it to Mark.
While waiting in line, Mark inspected the soldier's outfits and then wondered about who they were. From all their talk, they were a direct government organisation, but who they were, was a mystery.
"Jenny, I've just realised something." Mark plainly stated, "Who are you guys?"
Jenny chuckled, "You're only asking now?"
"Well, yeah. I was kind of down yesterday. But thinking about it, Barak completely ignores regulations and procedures, and the guards are dressed as those who retrieved me from the hospital. You seem akin to Black Ops."
Most soldiers were taking sneaky glances at him, his showing at the canteen causing a quiet ruckus. It was only two-to-three hours ago they thought he was attacking.
"And how would you know military regulations and procedures, aye?" Jenny smirked.
"... Good point. I suppose from movies; the Desolation ones were supposedly accurate in that regard."
"Ah, those." She hummed, "Well, Barak is, if you remember, what we mockingly call a Servitor. Simply, he serves the Cabinet and important officials directly. Sort of like a personal hitman if you really dumb it down; and no longer part of the military."
"He's... an assassin?"
She laughed through her nostrils, "No, more like MI5, old spy movies sort of thing. Gets to ignore some of the rules."
"Ah, that... explains quite a lot. Doesn't seem to like anyone on base, though."
"Mhm, deep-rooted trauma he refuses to let go. He's supposed to be a Brigadier; despite not being in the military, you would imagine he would act... proper."
"And, if I may, why does he not act proper. What happened?"
"Peacekeeping in Africa. Well, I say peacekeeping; I mean fighting a war; Africa is a mess since the Occupation. The two of us were in a twenty-man group, and... an operation had bad intel. Twelve died due to it; hence why I think he joined as a Cabinet Operative."
She walked forward, her right leg dragging along the ground as they were almost at the trays.
"That... sounds horrible." Mark uttered.
"It was. Some people respond to trauma differently, anyway, let's get off this dour topic. You asked who the soldiers are, yes?"
Mark nodded as they picked up their trays, starting to be served a full English breakfast.
"We're called the Black Guard. Everyone on base is part of the regiment regardless of their job roles; we don't discriminate. Well, I believe we are getting reinforced within a few hours, so not everyone."
"So, you're what?" Mark inquired, "Like an elite version of the SAS? No offence, but what's the point in that?"
"None taken. But, I suppose that is why there is a rivalry between the two regiments." She sighed, "We've existed since the Occupation and are designed to specifically combat the US. I would say we are a close-knit group. A lot of us have been through similar stuff."
"That's actually pretty smart." Mark said, the two sitting down, "Regardless of opinion on the US, I think it wise to have a... force capable of beating their elite, lest the world turns to authoritarianism. How do you join?"
"You're pretty smart, Mark. Not everyone sees it that way. As for your question: Experience. Everyone is chosen based on many factors: Trust; ruthlessness; combat experiences; skills, and scientific achievements. Not a simple process and character is only noted if it is detrimental."
"Like Barak? And... Fatima's over-excitement?"
"Barak turned like that during the Black Guard." She laughed, "Fatima... hasn't quite shown her eccentricity yet. She has a... fearless? Streak, likely chosen because she doesn't fear the ethi... rules."
"I see... I'm not sure I want to say I'm looking forward to that."
"You'll be fine, Mark. She might treat you like a toy or an object, but she is good at what she does." Jenny stopped, "Well, I hope so. Her budget is stupidly large."
Mark laughed as they continued their conversation, the unceasing stares and glances making his hairs stand on edge. They finished breakfast, Mark feeling no different than before, wiping their trays before sitting back down.
"So, do you know what I'm going to do today? What I'm being tested on?" Mark asked, curious.
"Heh, something fun." Jenny humorously huffed, "Fatima sent an email late last night, or rather, this morning. Seems she didn't sleep. But she wants you to lift a... tank. Maybe seventy tonnes? Eighty? Something like that, and I'm not sure how she's got her claws on it, either."
He gawked, "Eighty tonnes? That... sounds impossibly heavy to lift, but when I think about it. It might be feasible?" He laughed, "That sure does sound weird to say."
"Indeed." Jenny chortled, "A week ago, I would have called you or anyone who said someone could lift twenty tonnes an idiot. But now, not so much; crazy how your perspective changes so quickly. Perhaps those rumours from the US have some substance, after all."
"Rumours? What rumours? I... I thought I was the only one who was like this. Am I actually not alone?"
He was unsure how to feel about that. On the one hand, his powers made him utterly unique. But, if others had similar abilities, he becomes one of only a few.
"You don't need to worry, I think." Jenny reassured him, "Rumours are rumours, probably untrue." She stopped but continued seeing his apparent interest, "Hmm, they say that soldiers in the US can lift four to six tonnes. There's no explanation or anything; that's just the gossip from Aaban and Africa."
"Is it even possible?"
She exhaled, "I mean, maybe? Fatima suggested extensive genetic manipulation and advanced technology light-years ahead of us. But, I dread to think why they haven't conquered the world if they had that. So, as I said, probably untrue."
"That's... both cool and scary. However, surely it is impossible to increase muscle mass to lift that much? Even a tonne is literally... like, 1000 kilos. That's stupid."
"You're one to talk, Mark." She chuckled, "Well, that is why it's a rumour. I've... fought Americans, and whilst they were tough bastards to kill, they weren't invincible. Also couldn't lift a tonne either; otherwise, I'm sure I wouldn't be here."
"Strange rumour to go around if it's so illogical, then." Mark said after some thought.
"Probably drummed up by the US to induce fear. Could be to brag or intimidate other nations for a whole host of reasons. If it is true, the world will fall to them sooner or later. Their 'President' will reign supreme."
Their conversation stopped, Mark spending more time thinking about what she said than talking. The Brigadier glanced at her phone before sighing and getting up.
"You need to get to the lab, Mark. Fatima should be impatiently waiting." Jenny said, "Need the toilet? Doubt you'll get much rest today."
"Nah, I'm good." He answered.
They walked outside, Mark's new casual outfit flowing in the winter wind. The ground was soaked, puddles everywhere as deadened trees and bushes absorbed it. Despite the water-logged environment, the rain didn't cease, continuing as they briefly travelled to the lab.
Blinding white greeted them as they entered, the torn-off door to the side in the midst of repairs. He turned forward and saw the incoming figure of the impish scientist, a crazed smile on her face.
Fatima aggressively grabbed his arm, trying to drag him but failing impeccably.
"Come, Mark!" She spoke, giddy, "We have so much to do! So much! Come, come."
Jenny patted his back with a sadistic smile as she walked back into the hallway, leaving him to his fate.
"I'll see you guys later." Jenny said before going, "I've got some paperwork to finish. Have fun, Mark!"
"...Thanks." He uttered, "Ok, Fatima, stop pulling; I'm coming."
Forced to sit at the lab table, Fatima disappeared for a few seconds as her fellows set up lights, cameras and technology around the metal surface. The Middle Eastern woman came back with a tray of torture tools. Mark was speechless, nervously shaking his head.
"Woah, Woah, Woah. Erm... Fatima... what is this?" He asked with trepidation.
"Huh?" She said, "Oh, they are some tools we might use. Gonna try to see if you can cut yourself; that kind of thing. Test your durability."
She spoke with a creepy smile; Mark's eyes sunk into his skull.
"Y- You're joking, right? You want me to self-harm? To cut myself?"
"Oh, stop being such a baby! You are tough as shit. We will just try nicking you with diamond, steel and all that good stuff. Be like a pinch."
He grimaced but reluctantly stayed silent, waiting for them to finish their tasks.
"Right, we will use diamond first." She said, shoving a large blade into his palm, "None of us have the strength, so you have to do it, and it also tests if you can harm yourself. Two in one. Simple."
Portable lights turned on, illuminating the table more than the rest of the lab as holograms appeared around it. The scientists pressed buttons, presumably to record the process and input data.
"I'll... t- try my best, I guess." Mark stuttered.
The light adjusted to his left forearm as he placed it on the supposedly cold metal.
"Try as hard as you can. The screens will collect the data like pressure on the knife and your skin. Will give us a rough idea of things. I think... yes, we are all ready. Stab yourself." Fatima sincerely spoke.
Mark groaned before he gathered the courage, trusting his skin and overriding his brain's sensible thoughts. Using the knife, he tried poking the skin, the feeling ending up like trying to pierce rock. Unable to penetrate, he sliced his arm with more confidence before trying to stab it again.
With neither working, the faith in his defences building, he tried with more pressure, the metal table eventually groaning in pain. His muscles started to tense, continuously putting more and more pressure until the diamond knife snapped. The missing shard violently flew into a field that surrounded the table.
"Huh?" He grunted.
"I- Incredible! No need to worry about the field; just a safety precaution." She hesitated, "Erm. How do I put this nicely? Could you grab this tool and... poke yourself in the eye? It is blunt, no worries there."
"Fatima... you... want me to poke myself in the eye?" He questioned, astounded.
The small woman flinched at the potential rejection. She rubbed her hands together before she spoke with passion.
"Y- Yes. Now it might seem stupid or dangerous, but the science backs it up."
"Science?"
"Of course!" She said, offended, "Judging how your outer body has improved massively, it is not absurd if your eyes have as well. Please, do not doubt our hypothesises. Just... gently tap it, as you do with your finger; everything is sterile."
"I don't think anything about me adheres to science." He mumbled.
Huffing in exasperation, he anxiously grabbed the blunt metal tool. It was relatively short with a smooth, round and blunted end. The feeling was not pleasant, seeing the incoming object towards his eyeball, but egged on by the scientists, and in the name of discovery; he poked himself.
It touched his eye, creating a comical tapping sound.
"It feels like solid rock." Mark observed.
"Hmm, we expected as much. I told you not to doubt us. Considering how easily the diamond knife broke, I doubt many of Earth's metals could pierce your eye. Now, onto more tests!
With the barest and most minimal enthusiasm, Mark prepared himself for a full day of tests, being put into the hands of a fearless and enthused scientist.