Some time passes...
Crowe bursts through the doors of his office, shoulders tense and strides swift. He slams the door shut behind him with a resounding thud. Once inside, he halts abruptly, inhaling a deep breath through his nose, then exhaling slowly through parted lips. After a second slow breath, he opens his eyes again, gaze flicking around the room.
He marches toward his desk. Settling into his chair with a jerk of movement, he stares at the ceiling. "Unbelievable," he mutters under his breath. "They said there was still brain activity. Different from #13's."
His fingers drum on the desktop, rhythm uneven. He leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, chin nearly touching his steepled fingers. Not complete swap, nor reincarnation. Two beings in that… "Two entities," he whispers. "In one body… How…?"
He lifts his eyes from the dull reflection of the lamp on his desk and notices a manila folder lying on top. He narrows his eyes. He doesn't remember leaving it there. He reaches out carefully, flipping it open. His gaze skims the words, reading aloud: "Dr. Chen requesting leave of absence… effective...
...this morning"
His pupils tighten; the pen he's been fiddling with slips through his fingers and clatters onto the desk. Without another word, Crowe pushes back his chair. He bolts for the door at a half-run, his breath coming in terse bursts. He grabs the handle—locked. He rattles it roughly, but it refuses to yield. He steps back and slams his shoulder against it once, twice, three times, the impact jolting through his body.
The door remains solid, unyielding. Crowe's jaw sets. He reaches into the inside of his coat, pulling out a compact sidearm. Without hesitation, he fires at the lock—once, twice. Sparks fly, bullets pinging harmlessly off. No dent, no give. Just the echo of gunshots ringing in his ears.
He steps back, breathing faster now, a slight tremor in his hand as he lowers the gun. His eyes flicker around the office. How can it be sealed from the inside? he thinks. Only I can shut my room down… unless…
Crowe rushes back to his desk, knees banging against the chair as he forces it aside. His hand fumbles under the tabletop until he finds the familiar button, pressing it with a firm, rapid tap. The holographic screen flickers to life, the word CALLING shimmering into view. He waits, breath shallow, a bead of sweat creeping down his temple. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.
Come on, he thinks, eyes fixed on the screen's pale glow. Seconds trickle by, and the silence prickles at the back of his neck. An error message flares up suddenly, red letters glaring back at him.
"Damn it!" Crowe snarls, slamming both palms onto the desk's surface, causing the pen to roll off and clatter to the floor. He jabs a finger at the error message. "The only one with authorization to pull a turtle shell protocol on this room is you—besides me!" He bites off his words. "I know this error is fake. You better fucking answer me!" He leans in closer, voice lowered to a hiss, "Do you really think the board will—"
The error message blinks out mid-sentence, replaced by a dark, empty screen. A sharp, electronic beep slices through the silence, making Crowe tense.
Then, a disembodied voice crackles through:
"EMERGENCY DIRECTIVE: PROTOCOL D3V1L ENGAGED
Attention, Commander: You are now under Quarantine Lockdown. Remain stationary and maintain current position. Authorized containment personnel are en route to neutralize the designated entity. Rescue operations will commence once containment is confirmed.
Proceed as follows: Under your desk, a secured failsafe device awaits retrieval. Locate and remove the orb immediately. In the event of containment breach or operational failure, crush the orb to initiate emergency neutralization."
He drops to a crouch, shoulders brushing against the underside of the desk's smooth surface. His fingertips skim the edges until they catch on a small latch. With a click, a mechanism disengages, revealing a tiny compartment. Crowe's eyes widen as he withdraws a small, glowing orb that casts eerie light across his fingertips.
The voice resumes, " No further communication will be provided until the threat level is reduced. Comply with all directives. This is a priority command...
Godspeed, Commander. Good luck."
...
Crowe stands there, the orb cradled in his palm, its dim white glow casing a slight shadow on his features. The quiet hum of the sealed room is then broken only by the distant, muffled screams filtering through the door—raw, guttural cries.
His grip tightens on the orb, knuckles going white. His jaw tightens as he wonders...
How did this happen?
**
A couple of minutes before...
Santos, now in full combat gear, strides down the corridor. The overhead lights cast his shadow long on the floor, and analysts stationed at their consoles pause to flick curious glances his way. He doesn't slow, helmet activated and on his head and rifle slung across his chest.
As he passes a group of analysts, they murmur quietly, shifting aside to let him through. Their eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary, but when he offers not even a nod, they turn back to their screens and data streams. The hum of cooling fans and the soft clicking of keys create a muted backdrop for his steady footsteps.
He halts in front of a pair of guards posted before the heavily secured door. They stiffen at his approach, gripping their weapons more tightly. Santos inhales, annunciating his voice. "Commander requests both of your assistance—report in five minutes. We have intel on an entity—containment protocols are now in effect."
The guards exchange quick, uncertain looks. One dares to ask, "What about you?" Santos raises a hand, palm out. "You have your assignment," he states calmly,
"and I have mine."
The guards nod. They turn and jog away, boots tapping out a quick rhythm as they vanish around a bend. Once they're gone, the corridor seems quieter, emptier. Santos stands there, aware of the analysts behind him resuming their tasks. He can almost feel their curiosity prickling at his back.
They'll help me once they see the kids, he thinks. He faces the sealed door, placing a gloved hand lightly against its smooth surface.
He recalls an earlier confrontation—arguments, protests, and finally a tense agreement. Glad that Angela agreed to take the girls away, he thinks. A faint chuckle escapes him. And Carlos is on standby now. He draws a breath, steadying himself. Now for this, he resolves silently, reaching for the panel...
**
Obinai awakens in the dim cell, every muscle stiff and aching. He blinks slowly, his vision hazy and his head throbbing. Hunger gnaws at his belly, hollow and insistent. He tries to swallow, but his throat feels painfully dry.
A sudden click from the door makes him flinch. He gasps, body tensing, and tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them. He braces for the cold, clinical touch of another scientist—more needles, more blades. Each ragged breath hitches in his chest as he struggles weakly against the unyielding restraints.
Then, instead of cold hands, there's warmth. A pair of arms wrap around his shoulders, gentle but steady. He tries to see through his tears, blinking furiously, confused. All he catches is a blur at first, then the shape of a man's face close to his. Not a stranger in a mask, not a detached glare behind goggles. This face is open, concerned.
"Shh," the man whispers, voice soft. "It's going to be okay."
Obinai's sobs turn into ragged, quiet gasps. He tries to focus on the man's features—dark uniform, determined eyes.
The man—Santos, he recalls the name—steps back slightly. "I'm going to undo these restraints," Santos says, "I'm going to free you and the others. This isn't right, and it has to stop now."
Obinai watches as Santos moves to the small control panel set into the wall beside the chair. He notices the man's hand trembling just a bit as he pulls out a security card and swipes it through the reader. There's a soft beep and Santos leans in, typing his personal code carefully. The display flickers, green lights blinking out one by one.
With a nod in Obinai's direction, Santos presses the release button. The restraints retract smoothly, metal cuffs sliding away from Obinai's chafed wrists and ankles. A pneumatic hiss signals the chest strap loosening. Obinai slumps forward, arms throbbing and legs tingling as blood flow returns. He flexes his fingers, wincing as pins and needles dance under his skin.
Santos steps closer, pressing a small piece of paper into Obinai's hand. The paper crackles faintly as Obinai's trembling fingers close around it. He can see scrawled handwriting, an address, and some sort of code...or saying.
"Listen," Santos says quietly, "I've temporarily shut down the cameras here and sent most of the security detail off to different sectors. After your last… 'experimentation,' I bypassed the system on the first elevator to the left when you exit. You need to go to this location." He taps the paper lightly. "A man named Carlos will be waiting outside the building. Run to him. He'll get you to the Sanctuary. The code you need is right there."
Obinai grips the note. He forces himself to breathe steadily. Sanctuary. He lifts his gaze to Santos, voice shaking as he whispers, "Thank you."
Santos's jaw tightens for a moment. He places a hand on Obinai's shoulder. "Be quick and quiet," he instructs. "I'll handle things here. I'll give the others a chance too."
As Santos moved to work on freeing the other subjects, Obinai stood trembling...
…and...
...changing…
As Santos steps through the doorway, he pauses. He glances over, checking the corridor. I need to hurry, he thinks, pressing his lips into a thin line. After I free the others, I have to get out... meet them... Words form on his tongue, half a plan, half a plea. "Just a little more," he mutters under his breath. "Just—"
His sentence dies mid-breath. An invisible force seems to seize his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. My chest...
...too tight...
...it hurts..
He tries to inhale, but his throat seizes, pulling only a dry, rasping sound. Heat flares in his ribcage, intensifying. "Ngh—" he chokes.
A wet, choking cough tears from his throat. He tastes iron, feels warm liquid trickle from the corner of his mouth. He opens his hand and sees droplets of red spattering onto the floor.
Blood... my blood...
He forces himself to look down, vision blurring. There, pushing from just beneath his sternum, something moves, stretching the fabric of his uniform. A hideous protrusion—flesh and bone not his own—emerges, forcing its way outward. His uniform tears with a soft rip, and he stares...
...at a charcoal-black hand coming out of him.
"Wh—what...?" he gasps.
Slowly, painfully, he cranes his neck to the side...