…Nolan’s vitals are normal. He’s becoming aware…
The first sensation to breach the void was his heartbeat—steady, unrelenting—a subterranean drum vibrating through the marrow of his bones. It rippled outward, threading through his limbs, pooling in his fingertips like an echo waiting to be answered. He flexed his fingers, the seams of his trousers murmuring against his skin, fabric pressing like a ghost of familiarity in a reality that felt anything but.
His thighs tensed, muscles bunching as he willed himself to shift—only to meet resistance. His ankles refused to yield, locked in place, a silent defiance against movement. He was seated, upright—but constrained. A breath swelled in his chest, drawn deep and slow, held against the creeping edge of unease. He let it settle, let it temper the rising pressure, even as the weight of his predicament took shape around him.
His heartbeat thundered, a heavy hammer against the walls of his skull, drowning out everything else. From the moment he surfaced into consciousness, it was the only sound anchoring him to reality—paired with the ragged pull of his breath, shallow and uneven.
How long could he hold onto this thin veil of composure? His thoughts surged, a storm churning violently beneath the surface, each question clawing at the edges of his sanity. Where had the operation failed? How was his unit faring? Who had orchestrated this ambush? The march on Washington, D.C., was meant to crush rebellion, not ignite it. So how had they managed to strike so fast—so precisely?
The blindfold pressed against his skin, sealing him in darkness. His ears, muffled, trapped him further in isolation. Vulnerable. Exposed. Disoriented. His heart throbbing, panic gnawing at his resolve. But he couldn’t afford to break. Not yet. They had left him breathing, which meant something. A deliberate choice. They knew who he was. And worse—he might know them. He inhaled sharply, held it. Listened. Waiting.
After a few taut seconds, he exhaled—a long, deliberate release—then drew in another breath, slow and measured, forcing each inhale to remain controlled. The ropes pressed into his chest, biting through fabric, a cruel reminder of his confinement. His lungs expanded, the breath stabilizing him for just a fleeting moment.
Smoke lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable—a whisper of destruction, a residual echo of the tripwire mines. But beyond the scorched scent, there was nothing more. No acrid rot of spilled entrails, no sharp metallic tang of fresh blood pooling on concrete. No signs of death.
Perhaps his unit still lived, felled but breathing, bound just as he was. Perhaps their rescue had already been set into motion, extraction mere moments away.
Nolan forced the spiral of thoughts into order, steeling himself against the unknown. There was nothing to do now but wait—for salvation, or for something far worse.
Time stretched, each moment warping under the weight of uncertainty. Nolan’s thoughts drifted—slow, unwieldy—spiraling from the fragile thread of composure into the abyss of doubt. There was no question: this was an ambush. He had led them straight into it, blind to the warning signs, consumed by the gravity of his own decisions.
Ego. Always ego. It had cost him before. He had learned, he had adapted—or so he had thought. Yet here he was again, bound, disoriented, paying the price.
He forced himself to think. There had to be something—some overlooked detail, some thread he could pull to unravel the mistake and escape his fate. He sifted through fragmented memories, scanning for a missed clue. Nothing.
Nothing except the call.
Its timing had been precise. Too precise. They’d barely been en route twenty minutes when the transmission was intercepted—but how? There had been no indication that their target was operating in this sector. No intelligence to suggest rebel leadership stationed nearby. And yet, they had stumbled upon a suspected base camp, conveniently positioned within fifteen miles. Too easy. Too clean. Like bait left in plain sight.
Blinded by his own ambition, he had seen an opportunity—to end the war before it began. He had lunged for it.
And now he sat in the wreckage of that choice, asking himself the question he should have asked then.
Why had he thought it would be so easy?
Something was off. Had they stormed the compound in full force, weapons hot, or if Nolan had foolishly walked in alone, unguarded, he could understand how they had been overrun so easily. But that wasn’t what happened. He had led seven others—trained, armed, methodical. They had followed procedure.
Upon arrival, recon had been swift, calculated. Even then, something had felt … wrong. The sweeps came up clean, too clean. The towering 10-story apartment building, its atrium exposed like a hollowed-out cavity, had seemed abandoned for far longer than intelligence suggested. No signs of recent movement. No immediate threat.
And yet— Nolan could still hear it. A voice, sharp, decisive, cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade.
“…Now.” Then the blast.
Nolan plunged into his memory once more.
"Now!"
The word ricocheted through the corridors of his mind, looping, twisting, refusing to fade. His muscles clenched, his breath faltered, shallow and uneven. His heart surged, a drumbeat of rising dread.
A woman’s voice. He was sure of it—something in the pitch, the cadence, the edge of command laced within it.
But who?
He strained against the haze, searching. All that came back was the voice—then the flash. A blinding eruption of light. And then … nothing. The plunge into darkness.
Was she their target? Or something more?
A knot of recognition tightened in his gut. He knew that voice. He knew it in a way that made his stomach turn. The captain’s impatience crackled through the air, panic seeping into the silence like a slow, creeping tide. Nolan swallowed hard. Something was terribly wrong.
Enough was enough. Nolan clenched his fist, muscles coiling tight, and yanked against his restraints, bracing for the snap of frayed rope. But the moment he fought back, they fought harder—unyielding, biting deep into his skin like metal jaws. Not rope. Something stronger. Something deliberate. His failed attempt shattered whatever element of surprise he might have had, leaving him exposed, vulnerable. Not good. His fate wavered, a precarious thing teetering on the edge of the unknown. The darkness swallowed him whole, suffocating, unrelenting. All he could do now was wait. And hope. Hope for an opportunity. Hope for a mistake in his captors' careful design. Hope that survival wasn’t just a fleeting thought but something within reach. But for now, he was trapped. Alone with the silence. Alone with the persistent drum of his heartbeat.
Panic coiled around Nolan’s mind like a vice, tightening with each passing second, sinking its teeth into the fragile edges of his resolve. The weight of his predicament pressed down, suffocating, unrelenting. This was no longer just confinement. It was war. A silent, brutal clash of wills—him against the bonds that held him, against the unseen force that dictated his fate. Two choices. Break free, or force their hand. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, then counted backward from five. A final act of control. A desperate summoning of every ounce of dormant strength locked within his muscles. Five. His fingers twitched. Four. His heart beat roared. Three. His breaths shortened, sharpened. Two. His body coiled, gathering force. One— He tore against the restraints, every fiber screaming, every muscle straining against the brutal resistance. Pain flared. The binds held. But so did he.
A searing flash carved through the darkness, white-hot and merciless, stabbing into Nolan’s vision. His bindings slackened—no, dissolved—as if they had never existed at all. He jolted upright, his breath catching as reality warped around him.
The room pulsed under a dim, spectral light, its edges wavering like a distorted reflection in rippling water. Familiar—but wrong. A ghost of the derelict building, remade with unsettling precision yet layered with something more.
Scattered across the space lay discarded objects—scraps of metal, fractured devices, a graveyard of abandoned technology interwoven with advanced gear eerily reminiscent of the equipment from back at base. A warning, a message, a trap—he couldn’t tell. His legs carried him upward, unsteady, untrusting. His mind reeled, a maelstrom of questions clashing against the silence. Something was very, very wrong.
“I guess he decided to calm down. Check his vitals again.”
The voice cut through the silence—calm, clinical—yet something in its tone sent a spike of unease through Nolan’s chest. It was familiar, but distorted, as if heard through water, stretched at the edges of recognition. He turned. His pulse slammed against his ribs as his gaze locked onto the impossible.
Himself.
Lying motionless on a hospital bed, face pale beneath the stark fluorescence. A cluster of figures loomed over his body, their movements precise, detached. Strangers—or were they? Their hands ghosted across his exposed scalp, weaving through a tangled nest of wires and cables snaking deep into his skull.
Brain surgery.
A low, sickening dread unfurled in the pit of his stomach, colder than fear, heavier than panic. Whatever was happening, whatever this was—it wasn’t just wrong. It was something beyond understanding.
“His heart rate is rising steadily, but otherwise, he seems stable.”
The voice drifted through the air, measured, unconcerned, yet the words sent Nolan’s world tilting violently.
Was he dead? Was that his body lying motionless on the bed? He staggered, reaching out instinctively, grasping for stability—only for his hand to pass straight through the table. The solid surface dissolved beneath his touch, intangible, weightless. Then he fell.
Silence swallowed him whole. The descent was swift, seamless, as if gravity itself had lost meaning. There was no impact, no jolt of pain—only the abrupt stillness as he found himself standing on the first floor, breath unsteady, mind reeling. Everything was wrong. His gaze swept the room, searching for something—anything—to anchor him.
Then, through the doorway, a figure. Their eyes met. A silent assessment, a quiet recognition, two beings caught in the same impossible moment. Then the figure spoke.
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A voice, spectral and resonant, rippled through the void—vast, unbound, an echo threading through the obsidian darkness.
“Nolan?! It must be you! The spark—it’s palpable! The One Mind has woven our destinies together, here in this realm.” The words slid across his skin, unnerving in their familiarity.
Nolan stood frozen, his breath trapped in his chest, his voice strangled by fear. What kind of arcane force were these insurgents wielding? His gaze darted frantically through the dim expanse, searching—grasping—for the source of this phantom presence. Movement. The figure advanced, arms outstretched in an unnerving display of peace.
He recoiled.
“Fear not,” she spoke, lilting, soothing—but he was already retreating, the weight of unease pressing in.
“I bear a message for you, and all of Earth. Have you accessed your spark?” She glided forward—levitating, moving as if gravity were a mere suggestion. The motion was eerily effortless, unnatural. Cornered, Nolan’s heart pounded as she descended, her feet finally kissing the ground. Now, he saw her. Tall. Towering. Her skin shimmered with a deep, celestial blue. Her hair—silver as charged storm clouds—framed a face that carried something unsettling. Recognition. She wore a uniform. Familiar. Too familiar. Her voice, when she spoke again, was both music and command, luminous in its certainty.
“You are the chosen one, though you remain oblivious. You are destined to be this world’s savior.”
The being studied him, gauging his silence, feeling the stir within herself—the unspoken call of the One Mind. If words failed, revelation would do what language could not. She reached for him, fingers poised— And then— Nolan vanished. A breath. A flicker. A void where he once stood. Alone in the shadows.
Nolan found himself bound once more, his body rigid against the unforgiving mattress. Restraints bit into his flesh, pressing him into the sterile confines of what had to be the same hospital bed. Yet something felt different.
His muscles twisted, spasming in protest, as if rejecting his own form. His weight returned—heavy, certain—his dimensions regaining their shape, solidifying. The shift sent a wave of nausea through him. Dead? Alive? Dreaming? His thoughts unraveled in frantic succession. Or had sanity finally abandoned him? He forced his focus inward. His breathing. His heartbeat. Anchors in the storm. But then—the memory resurfaced. He knew what he saw.
Two figures. Towering over his body. Working with meticulous precision—performing brain surgery. He replayed the image in his mind, unraveling the details, isolating their forms. A man. A woman. And then— The voice. Clear. Sharp. Echoing from before the blast.
It was her. The woman behind him. A pulse of recognition flickered at the edges of his mind, agonizingly familiar yet just beyond reach. He studied her face, dissecting his own memories in search of a name, a connection—something. But there was nothing. Only the ever-ending loop of recollection, playing over and over, threading through his thoughts like an unfinished equation. And each time, the dread deepened.
#
Fear tightened its grip on Tiny, settling in the furrow of her brow, stiffening her fingers until they hovered motionless above the console. Her thoughts churned, tangled in the storm of data flashing across her screen. Were the processors the spark?
The video looped again.
Her eyes glazed over, pupils dilating as the monitor flickered erratically—files opening, closing, shifting like restless ghosts trapped in the machine. More memories surfaced, fragmented, disconnected, spilling across the system like shattered pieces of a puzzle. But what was Nolan looking for? Who was he searching for? And how much longer would this go on?
Then—stillness. A file stabilized, its contents locking into place. Tiny barely breathed as the footage began to play—grainy, war-torn, too familiar. The hospital bombing. Her pulse quickened as the footage rolled forward, images shifting, narrowing. A section of the video isolated itself—tracking her, following her until— The frame froze. Her own face stared back at her, stark against the screen. Nolan had found something. Her.
I know who you are.
Tiny jolted, her seat creaking beneath her as the words sliced through the quiet. Across the room, Jax spun sharply in his chair, confusion flickering across his face.
“I know, Tiny, that you are my captor.
The voice hummed through Nolan’s operating system, cold, measured, stripped of human warmth. A mechanical declaration—calm yet laced with something unsettling.
Tiny’s breath caught. As she analyzed the spectral woman frozen on her screen, so was he. He was watching. He was studying. A slow realization settled in. This could work in her favor. Carefully, deliberately, she raised a finger to her lips—a silent command for Jax to hold his tongue. Then, with controlled precision, she flicked on the microphone. It was time to address her son—directly.
“And just how do you know that…? Seems like an outlandish assertion!”Tiny’s voice was sharp, probing—carefully measured to test the machine’s limits. She wasn’t just challenging Nolan’s response; she was baiting him. Pushing. Waiting. There was an ulterior motive buried beneath the statement—an echo from the past, a phrase she had uttered countless times to Nolan and his brother when they were children. Would he remember?
The screen flickered, lines of data pulsing erratically as Nolan burrowed into his memories, his system unraveling layer after layer, deeper and deeper. A vault of hidden folders surfaced. Fractured caches spilled into view. Tiny swallowed hard. She had meant to provoke something—but not this.
How are you in my head? That expression—I’ve heard it before. Tell me, Tiny, where did it come from? How do you know it?
The words coiled around Nolan’s mind, wrapping tighter with each passing second. His pulse hastened, thudding against his ribs in uneven beats. The familiarity gnawed at him—too close, too precise. Yet the answer—the connection—remained just out of reach.
“Again, you call me this ‘Tiny’ person. I believe you are sorely mistaken. That is not my name.” Her words were crisp, deliberate, edged with quiet defiance. A beat of silence followed—a pause thick enough to feel.
Nolan’s system flared to life, his algorithms shifting, recalibrating. He dissected the voice, thread by thread, comparing each tonal frequency, each cadence, each inflection against the hospital footage.
The screen flickered erratically—windows opening, closing, shifting at impossible speeds, a frantic unraveling of data as his system hunted for alignment. And then—stillness. Everything settled. Nolan had his answer.
Then what do you call yourself…? Nolan’s voice drifted, edged with quiet exasperation. He wasn’t amused by the game unfolding before him. Not now. Not here. He needed answers—real ones—yet they remained just out of reach, tangled in riddles, slipping through his grasp like sand. His patience thinned, stretched taut beneath the weight of too many questions. Too much uncertainty. He inhaled slowly, steadying his composure, forcing back the simmering frustration threatening to crack his resolve. Losing control wouldn’t get him anywhere. Maybe—just maybe—if he played along, he could unravel the truth, forcing it into the light.
“Today isn’t about me, Captain. I think you’ll find that today is all about you.” Tiny leaned forward slightly, savoring the weight of the words before delivering them. This was the moment—one she had long anticipated, methodically prepared for. She didn’t need a dossier, didn’t need to cross-reference files. She knew everything.
“Nolan Michaels. Thirty-four years old. La Jolla, California. Son of Gavin and Joy Peters. Shall I continue?” She already knew the answer. Tiny did not hesitate—did not stop. Every detail spilled forth with calculated precision: Social Security numbers, addresses, military assignments, commendations, deployments. Every moment of his life cataloged, dissected, laid bare. She even knew the measurements of the uniform he wore now. When she finally paused, her gaze locked onto him, unwavering. “Do I have your attention, Captain?”
Noel’s gaze lingered on the screen, her expression unreadable—a quiet war playing out behind her eyes. Was she gathering her thoughts? Or waiting for him to gather his?
Twenty years. Two decades since her eldest son had last looked her in the eye. More than thirty years since she had held him—truly held him. Yet, despite knowing every detail of his existence—his childhood, his triumphs, his failures, his fears—she remained nothing more than a spectator in his life. A shadow. An outsider. And now, his captor. The bitter irony twisted in her gut. In most families, he would’ve been invited to dinner. Not hunted. Not trapped like prey. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was measured, steady—but beneath it lurked something heavier.
“There are only a few things about you I don’t know.” A pause, just long enough to let the weight settle between them. “How did you know we were here? Why didn’t you go to the Pentagon? Those were your orders, were they not?” Another beat. “Based on your record… That’s not like you, Captain.”
Nolan remained motionless, every muscle locked in restraint, every breath measured. His mind emptied, forcing back the surge of defiance that threatened to crack through the silence. This wasn’t just a capture. This was strategy. The Rebels were more coordinated than he had given them credit for. Too precise. Too deliberate. And rescue? He swallowed hard against the thought. Perhaps it wasn’t coming.
What do you want? If you know how disciplined I am as an officer, you know I won’t tell you anything. His heart steadied, his expression indiscernible. My body is the only thing you’re going to get. I hope you enjoy it.
The screen flickered wildly, an erratic pulse of light and data—each flash tightening the coil of panic winding through Nolan’s chest. His anxiety was rising.
And that was exactly what she needed.
She understood his mind—not just as a mother, but as its architect. She had built him. Programmed him. Designed every subconscious process to seamlessly blend into his existence.
He did not know he was a machine.
By design, his subconscious was tethered to the OS, operating beneath layers of secrecy, concealed beneath the illusion of human instinct. Every framework, every encoded response was crafted to react—to biological triggers, to emotional stimuli, to environmental shifts.
And fear?
Fear was their key.
If they could push him far enough—if they could crack through the barriers of his subconscious—they could infiltrate HIVE.
Under normal circumstances, the captain remained in constant sync with HIVE and his major at the CSS. His onboard CPU buzzed with real-time transmissions—location updates, biometric readings, even live video feeds.
In the event of an attack—or if Nolan was incapacitated—reinforcements could deploy in an instant, sweeping in to recover him and his unit. But not here. Not now. The building had been rigged to repel the CSS network uplink, severing the invisible lifeline that should have tethered him to his command. It was a necessary safeguard for their operation to work. Yet, the cost was steep—it blocked their own access to CSS radio towers. Only one channel remained open, and Noel tread carefully, reluctant to use it prematurely. And then there was the final, gnawing question— Secured traffic, messages relayed steadily for days, had suddenly been intercepted. Right when it mattered most.
Noel needed time. A few hours. Maybe less. Just enough to complete the preparations. Nolan’s panic had unraveled something unexpected. Piece by piece, through the course of their exchange, he had exposed fragments of his file system and memory—delicate, locked sectors that should have remained untouchable.
Had circumstances been normal, those files would have been locked under CSS administrative security—untouchable behind the ironclad firewall of restricted access banners. But Nolan had overridden them. Whether by unconscious impulse or systemic failure, he had left them wide open, vulnerable, allowing Jax and the others to clone his entire file system—an archive now stored locally, ready for extraction by foot once their mission was complete.
Still, they needed more time. If they could push the transfer further, if they could extract deeper layers, they would gain access to the fragmented portions of HIVE—enough to rebuild it. Enough to weaponize it. Enough to plant their virus. There was only one channel left—a restricted communication portal from Noel’s years within CSS, a relic of a past she had long left behind. A remnant that had never been erased.
The windows on the monitor flickered shut, one by one—until only one remained. The hospital footage. But this wasn’t what the news had shown. Nolan had bypassed the carefully curated reports. He was playing back raw security feed—unedited, unfiltered. The truth, laid bare. Noel’s breath faltered, her chest tightening as the images unraveled before her. Her darkest moments. She fought against the flood rising in her throat, the sting in her eyes, the memories clawing their way to the surface. But she had to watch. She needed to see.
Is this not you? Are you not the person behind this heinous attack? You—you’re a monster. The worst. I know you’re Tiny. And these filth around you now—these are the terrorists.
The video stilled. Then—frames reversed. A glitch? No. A deliberate search, a calculated rewind.
We seem to have met before, Terrorists.
The playback resumed. Noel’s stomach twisted as the screen revealed the moment—the impossible intersection—she and Nolan, passing each other in the hallway of the facility.
Did you know who I was then? Am I allowed to ask questions?
“Yes, yes, you are.” Her voice trembled—just for a fraction of a second. A crack in the surface. A flicker of hesitation. Then, just as swiftly, she steadied. Cold. Composed. Calculated. “And you are entitled to answers.” Another moment of heartbeat counted the seconds. “But not quite yet.” Noel exhaled, her fingers tightening around the tablet as she pulled it into view, her movements deliberate, unhurried. “Because I have something to show you too.” She lowered her gaze, threading cables together with precise efficiency. This moment wasn’t just about truth. It was about revelation. Exposure. She was not the only monster in this room. And it was time for Nolan to see why.
