In front of the police station, Butcher Garcia slouched on the steps, his burly frame radiating an air of boredom. He yawned, his eyes half-closed, the picture of disinterest.
As I approached, he straightened, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Took you long enough, Kane," he drawled. "Trying to make a grand entrance, were you? Hoping to impress those H.A.R.M. hotshots?"
His words caught me off guard. I paused, my surprise evident.
Garcia chuckled, sensing my confusion. "Don't take it personally, kid," he said, clapping a meaty hand on my shoulder. "I had the same delusions of grandeur when I first joined the Kongo Shintai. But let's face it, those H.A.R.M. agents have seen it all. They're not easily impressed. Don't let it get you down."
His words stung, a reminder that my newfound power might not be as extraordinary as I had imagined.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice sharp.
Garcia's grin vanished, replaced by a look of grim seriousness. "Last night, around two in the morning, every officer and soldier under thirty was called to the west side. The ones chosen are all inside the station now, getting briefed. Seems like someone forgot to invite you to the party."
He let out a string of colorful expletives, his frustration palpable. "Those H.A.R.M. bastards are discriminating! I was hoping to tag along back to Seattle, visit an old flame..."
He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the station entrance. "Come on, let's see what's going on."
His words echoed my own suspicions. H.A.R.M. was known for its meticulousness. They wouldn't overlook someone, especially not someone with my skills. This deliberate exclusion was a message, a clear sign that I was not part of their plans.
I maintained my composure, but a sense of unease gnawed at me. I had anticipated many challenges, but this blatant disregard was unexpected. My carefully laid plans seemed to be unraveling.
The station was eerily quiet, its usual bustle replaced by an unsettling stillness. Finding the reception desk unmanned, I used my badge to let us in.
Garcia barreled through the empty corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence. His imposing physique and raw strength made him an unstoppable force, easily brushing aside any would-be obstacles.
He led me to the entrance of the spacious multi-purpose conference room. Two men in crisp black uniforms stood guard, their golden H.A.R.M. emblems gleaming on their shoulders—a potent symbol of authority and power.
"Halt," one of them commanded, his voice cold and unwavering.
Garcia stopped abruptly, his bravado momentarily faltering. He plastered a nervous smile on his face. "Captain," he stammered, "there's… there's one more over here."
Despite H.A.R.M.'s fearsome reputation, they weren't known for unprovoked violence. Yet, the sight of those black uniforms—embodiments of their power—sent a shiver down Garcia's spine, even though he was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Mustering a touch of defiance, Garcia nudged me on my shoulder. "What are you waiting for? Let's go in."
"Suit yourself," one of the H.A.R.M. agents scoffed. "Personally, I find public scoldings rather tedious." His gaze then shifted from Garcia to me, the indifference on his face momentarily cracking. He rolled his eyes and grumbled, "You could be catching up on sleep instead of witnessing this spectacle. We're obligated to stand guard, but you're not."
It was the plumber, now in his official uniform, his demeanor transformed from dismissive to serious. He stepped aside, offering a reluctant concession. "Fine, go ahead and observe," he said gruffly. "But keep your distance."
Garcia, caught off guard by the unexpected permission, hesitated. He glanced at me, puzzled by my impassive expression. Do they know each other? he wondered, his curiosity piqued.
Inside the conference room, Ethan Atzmon sat on the stage, his eyelids lowered, his posture radiating an air of cold authority.
Six young men with athletic builds stood in a rigid line, hands clasped behind their backs, their bodies taut with nervous energy. Their police and military uniforms served as a stark reminder of the allegiances they were leaving behind.
The electrician, also in uniform, was a different man from the one who had attacked me the previous night. Though his features were unremarkable, his eyes now held a glimmer of vitality.
He paced slowly in front of the recruits, his gaze settling on Wade, whose attention seemed to be drifting. With a swift kick, the electrician snapped Wade back to reality.
A harsh reprimand was on the tip of his tongue, but as he looked up and saw me standing at the doorway, his words died in his throat. A strange unease washed over him, and his voice lost its edge. "Stand up straight," he muttered, his tone flat and lifeless. "Don't daydream."
The plumber, observing the scene, couldn't help but suppress a smile. Each time they selected new recruits, the standard procedure was to establish the awe-inspiring image of H.A.R.M., to crush any lingering arrogance. But the electrician, still reeling from his encounter with me, couldn't muster the necessary bravado.
"Out of eight hundred soldiers and a hundred-odd officers, only six were chosen," Garcia sighed, his voice heavy with disappointment. "And I reckon half of them will wash out before they even get started."
The reality of the situation was harsh. Though the pool of candidates was small, these nearly thousand men represented the cream of the crop in Pinewood County.
Even those fortunate enough to be chosen would likely become little more than glorified muscle, their bodies fortified by H.A.R.M.'s potent concoctions. Few of them could hope to rise to the top.
The agents standing before them, the stars on the sleeves of their uniforms a stark reminder of the gulf that separated them. These individuals had been groomed from a young age, their training tailored to their unique talents, their skills far surpassing those of ordinary martial artists.
Security schools simply couldn't compete with such a pedigree.
Ethan Atzmo broke the silence. "All of you," he announced, his voice commanding attention, "return to your quarters and prepare your belongings. We depart for Seattle tomorrow. You may bring one family member or follower. Report your names, and arrangements will be made. Your personal belongings are limited to eighty pounds."
The recruits, their bodies tense with anticipation, visibly relaxed. The opportunity, despite its uncertainties, was a chance to escape the confines of Pinewood County, to step onto a larger stage.
Two of the chosen few were familiar faces, their expressions a mix of elation and apprehension.
Michael Wright, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh, wrestled with a difficult decision. "Only one person..." he muttered under his breath. "Should I bring my brother, give him a taste of the wider world? Or my wife... My mother's all alone, with no one to care for her..."
Wade Rivers stood apart from the others, his brow furrowed in concentration. Three years of intense training had finally borne fruit. He'd attained journeyman status in both Shadowstrike and Tempest Strikes, showcasing remarkable aptitude. More impressively, he'd become a master in Cobra's Coil. His aura even hinted at the nascent stirrings of Astral Fortification's first level.
The H.A.R.M. agents, their eyes sharp and observant, took note of his potential.
Unlike Michael, Wade's decision was straightforward. He had no family left, save for his sister.
But a deeper worry gnawed at him. Where is Kane? he wondered. Since the soldiers dragged me out of bed this morning, I haven't seen him. Surely he wouldn't miss this opportunity, would he?
In that moment, Ethan Atzmon slowly rose, his every movement radiating an aura of immense power. Butcher Garcia, his bravado momentarily forgotten, instinctively took a step back, his forced smile now tinged with genuine apprehension.
Those who wore three stars on their sleeves were not to be trifled with. Each star represented a litany of vanquished vampires, a manifestation of their skill and ruthlessness. And Atzmon, so young and yet so powerful, was clearly destined for greatness. The mere weight of his gaze was enough to make Garcia's back break out in a cold sweat.
Atzmon's hand moved to his pocket, his eyes fixed on mine. His face was a complex tableau of emotions—jealousy, confusion, and reluctant admiration intermingled. It seemed almost impossible that one person could express such a range of feelings simultaneously.
After a tense moment, Atzmon's gaze shifted. He thrust a silver bank card into my hand. "With this card," he growled, "you can withdraw up to ten thousand dollars from any major bank in Seattle."
Without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence that followed.
Garcia and the Pinewood recruits stood frozen, their minds reeling. A police sergeant offering a bribe to a H.A.R.M. major, though audacious, was at least comprehensible. But a H.A.R.M. major giving money to a police sergeant? That was unheard of.
The other H.A.R.M. captains, privy to the situation, exchanged knowing glances. The plumber clapped me on the shoulder, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Don't mind Atzmon," he said. "He's got a temper, but his bark is worse than his bite. Now, go pack your things. We'll escort you back to Seattle."
"Escort?" I echoed, staring at the bank card in my hand. Its metallic surface gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and a small embedded chip hinted at advanced technology—still functional only in a metropolis like Seattle.
The electrician, his earlier hostility forgotten, looked at me with a mix of awe and longing. "You're about to become the Admiral's disciple," he said, his voice heavy. "We can't let someone like that walk back alone, can we?"