[These next 4 chaps are today's and yestersay's chapter]
---
Felix stared at the glowing interface in front of him, his eyes glued to the screen as the word "special" in the account information column seemed to leap out at him. His mind faltered, as if struggling to process what he was seeing.
Special privilege?
His account, the one tied to his name, had been granted the highest level of access. That level was reserved for the top brass—the very few who controlled the fate of the Ninth Special Service Division. Yet here it was, linked to his own ID.
It didn't make sense.
Felix sat there in stunned silence, feeling as if the walls around him were closing in. His heart pounded in his chest, a rising sense of unease gripping him. The room felt smaller, suffocating, as his mind struggled to make sense of the impossible.
Special privileges?
The thought ran circles in his head. How? Why? The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he had fallen into some kind of surreal nightmare, one where reality had begun to twist and unravel.
He pinched his arm, hard. The sharp pain confirmed what he already knew—this was real. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, he wasn't dreaming. The login information on the screen confirmed it. The account belonged to him, Felix Grove, and that meant only one thing.
For as long as he had been at the Ninth Division, he had unknowingly possessed the same level of access as the captain. Every secret the division had locked away, every classified project, every mission brief... he had access to it all. It was as though the master key to the entire division had been lying in his bathroom, hidden behind that innocuous brick, waiting for him to find it.
Felix's hands hovered over the keyboard, his mind a chaotic swirl of emotions. He felt a mix of disbelief, confusion, and curiosity. What could have led to this? Why hadn't he known? Who else knew? The questions kept coming, but no answers presented themselves.
With trembling fingers, Felix navigated through the server. Each click of the mouse felt heavy with uncertainty. His access level was confirmed as he scrolled through the menu—a level that granted him entry into every classified section.
Several top-secret projects caught his eye. Some were still in progress, others had been abandoned years ago. There were strange research endeavors—some spearheaded by Professor Miyazaki—focused on experimental equipment. The files detailed prototypes of weapons and technology that hadn't yet been deployed, theories that were dangerously close to science fiction. Others were more mundane but no less unsettling, the kinds of projects that no one wanted to see the light of day.
But then his eyes landed on the personnel files.
A chill ran down Felix's spine.
Within the Ninth Division, secrecy was paramount. Every agent had their own file, but these were protected by layers of classification. Colleagues often had little knowledge of each other's pasts or even their real identities. In many ways, the Ninth Division was a place where everyone wore masks, where true identities were locked away behind thick security walls.
But not anymore. Not for Felix.
With the access he had now, all those walls came tumbling down. He could see everything—every agent, every mission they'd ever been on, every classified detail hidden away in the depths of the division's archives. No one's past was hidden from him now, including one person in particular.
Commander Ross.
Felix's breath caught in his throat. He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the mouse. Did he really want to know? But the urge to understand what had driven the man he once idolized to betray them all was too strong to ignore. He clicked on the file.
A dossier popped up on the screen.
Commander Ross's resume was immaculate—so clean that it bordered on unnerving. From the moment he had joined the division, Ross had been exceptional. His training records were flawless, his performance during operations remarkable. Medals and commendations were scattered throughout his file, showcasing a career marked by bravery and precision. It was clear why he had been chosen to lead the Ninth Division.
Felix read through Ross's background, hoping for some clue, some tiny detail that would explain why he had turned against them. But there was nothing—at least, nothing obvious.
Until Felix came across a particular mission in Ross's record.
It was one of his last operations before being transferred to the Ninth Division—a mission that had earned him his most prestigious accolades. Ross and a fellow soldier had been captured during a counter-terrorism mission. They had been held for a grueling week in a terrorist camp, enduring harsh conditions and brutal interrogations. But somehow, Ross had managed to escape. He had made contact with a nearby military garrison, and the intelligence he provided had been critical. It had allowed the military to launch a successful counterattack, obliterating the camp and dismantling the local terrorist cell.
The comrade who had been captured alongside Ross had also been rescued in the aftermath. Felix's gaze locked onto the name of that soldier.
Steve.
---
A different city. A veteran's club.
The sound of laughter filled the dimly lit room. The veterans were gathered around a table, sharing stories over cheap drinks. Steve sat among them, his deep voice cutting through the noise as he mimicked the high-pitched tone of his wife.
"Last week, I lost two thousand bucks at the card table," he said, his voice rising in pitch to mimic his wife's scolding. "'You owe me, pay back the money!' she screamed."
The group around him burst into laughter, their rough voices echoing through the club.
Steve grinned, enjoying the attention as he continued the story. "So I grabbed my wallet, took out some cash, and handed it over, saying, 'Here, don't even bother giving me change!'"
More laughter.
"And she counted it all out, right there. But halfway through, she realized something was wrong and yelled, 'There's not enough here!'" Steve thumped his prosthetic leg against the floor, the metallic clang punctuating his story. "I tried to run, but I forgot—I didn't have my leg on!"
The veterans erupted in laughter again, slapping their knees and clinking their glasses together.
---
As the night wore on, the veterans slowly trickled out of the club. Steve remained behind, cleaning up the tables and chairs. His prosthetic leg made a soft scraping sound as he moved across the floor, his movements slow but deliberate.
The club was quiet now, the echoes of laughter fading as Steve swept the last of the dirt from the floor. He was so focused on his task that he didn't notice when someone entered the room behind him.
"Captain Steve?"
Steve turned, startled by the voice. Standing in the doorway was a young man, clean-cut, with sharp features and an air of authority about him. He stood tall, his posture straight, and his eyes held a sense of purpose.
"I'm not a captain anymore," Steve said with a weary smile. "Just an old vet trying to keep this place clean. What can I do for you?"
"It's not about you," the young man said, stepping forward. "But your old comrade—Ross—he might be able to help."
The mention of Ross's name made Steve pause. His smile faded, replaced by a wary look.
"Who are you?" Steve asked, his tone growing cautious.
"Felix Grove," the young man replied, pulling out a badge. "I'm from the Ninth Special Service Division."
Steve's eyes narrowed as he glanced at the badge. He took a long, hard look at the young man standing before him.
"I haven't heard Ross's name in a long time," Steve said softly. "What's happened to him?"
"He was reassigned to lead the Ninth Division," Felix explained. "But things have changed. I need to understand what happened to him. And I think... you may be the only one who can help."
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere.
A silver-black blur shot through the vacuum of space, leaving a trail of bright blue plasma in its wake. The streak of light cut through the darkness, visible only to those watching from Earth's orbit.
Anyone who witnessed the scene would have been awestruck. The blur wasn't a spaceship or a satellite, but something much more advanced.
A humanoid figure.
The Mark 39 Iron Man armor, codenamed "Gemini," was designed for suborbital space combat. It was the first of its kind—an outer-space combat suit, created by none other than Tony Stark. The armor had been outfitted with cutting-edge propulsion systems, enabling it to maneuver in zero gravity with unmatched agility.
Inside the Mark 39 armor, Charlie adjusted his course, the thrusters humming softly as he banked around the edge of Earth's orbit. The vast emptiness of space stretched out before him, a dark and endless expanse broken only by the distant twinkle of stars. Despite the silence and the solitude, he felt a surge of exhilaration. Here, in this realm where few had ever ventured, he was testing the very limits of what humanity was capable of.
"Gemini armor performing at optimal levels, sir," Friday's calm voice echoed in his helmet.
"Good to hear," Charlie replied, his voice steady as he pushed the suit to higher speeds. The plasma tail behind him grew brighter, leaving a streak of light in the dark void. He could feel the weightlessness in his limbs, the sensation of floating freely in the zero-gravity environment.
This suit was different from all the others Tony Stark had developed. It was built for this exact purpose: to transcend the bounds of Earth, to fight in the cold expanse of space. For most, gravity was an inescapable reality. But here, in the Gemini suit, Charlie had the freedom to soar above it all, unrestricted by the limits of ordinary human combat.
He checked the systems again, ensuring everything was functioning perfectly. The suit's intricate design was a testament to Stark's genius, filled with innovations that allowed it to thrive in an environment that would have crushed lesser technologies. The propulsion systems were more advanced than anything else on Earth, making it the only true outer-space combat armor in existence. As he streaked across the stars, Charlie couldn't help but marvel at the sheer ingenuity behind the suit.
Yet, despite the thrill of flight, his mind kept drifting back to his mission. There was more to this test than simple experimentation. The Ninth Division was in disarray, the shock of Commander Ross's defection reverberating through their ranks. And now, Felix Grove, one of the division's most loyal agents, was unraveling a mystery that seemed to get darker by the day.
"Sir," Friday interrupted his thoughts. "Regarding Commander Ross—"
Charlie's attention snapped back. "What is it?"
"The CIA has tracked his location. He's currently hiding out in a camp operated by an illegal armed group in a remote area. They're preparing a capture operation."
Charlie smiled grimly behind the mask of his helmet. "Looks like the real test starts now."