A week passed. A week of uneasy silence and sidelong glances.
My body, thanks to a combination of advanced MRA medical technology and a disconcertingly fast natural healing I'd never experienced before, was almost fully recovered. The bruises had faded from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green. The sharp, stabbing pain in my ribs had subsided to a dull, persistent ache. But the internal scars were fresh and raw.
School was a different kind of battlefield. The story of the "Baseline" who'd somehow survived an encounter with Kragg had spread, mutating into wild rumors. Some said I'd gotten lucky. Others whispered that a mysterious, powerful Gifted had intervened. Elara had become a ghost, avoiding me with a new, skittish intensity. The few times our eyes met, they were filled with a question she was too afraid to ask.
Benji, to his credit, had stuck by me, a nervous but loyal shadow. He bombarded me with questions I carefully deflected. "I got lucky, Benji. He threw me into a wall and got distracted. That's all."
It was a flimsy story, but it was all I had.
The summons came during third period. A school administrator appeared at the classroom door, her face unreadable. "Arthur Prott, Elara Vance, and Benji Morris. Please gather your things. Headmaster Orion wishes to see you in his office immediately."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. This was it. The other shoe was dropping. Benji looked at me, his eyes wide with panic. Elara, from across the room, went pale.
The walk to the headmaster's office was a silent, funereal procession. The rich carpeting and polished wood of the administrative wing felt alien and intimidating. Headmaster Orion's office was exactly as I'd imagined: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and a large window overlooking the school grounds. The man himself stood before the window, a tall, imposing figure with a mane of silver hair and a presence that seemed to bend the light around him.
"Please, sit," he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that held no room for argument. We sat in the three chairs arranged before his desk like errant children.
Orion turned, his gaze sweeping over us. It was a penetrating look, one that felt like it was weighing our very souls. "I will be direct. The incident involving the Rogue Inhuman known as Kragg has created a… complex situation. The official MRA report is a masterpiece of obfuscation, but certain facts are undeniable."
His eyes settled on me. "Arthur Prott, a registered Baseline, sustained injuries consistent with an attack from Kragg. Yet, Kragg himself was defeated by an energy signature of immense, unprecedented power. A signature that does not match Elara's known abilities."
Elara flinched. Benji was holding his breath.
"This discrepancy," Orion continued, "has drawn the attention of parties for whom 'obfuscation' is not enough. For your own safety, and for the security of this institution, the three of you are being transferred. Effective immediately."
"Transferred?" Benji squeaked. "Where?"
"Sandalwood High School," Orion stated. "It is a specialized academy located in the Glaciora Atolls, Sector 12."
The name meant nothing to me, but 'Sector 12' had the ring of a classified, remote location. An island nation. Isolated. Contained.
"This is not a negotiation," Orion said, seeing the protest forming on Elara's lips. "Your families have already been contacted and have agreed. The official story is an exclusive, merit-based scholarship for gifted students. You will leave this afternoon." He gestured to Benji and Elara. "You two may go. Pack your belongings. A car will be at your homes in two hours. Arthur, remain. There is… additional information pertaining to your specific situation."
Benji and Elara stood, their faces a mixture of shock and confusion. Elara shot me one last, unreadable look before she was ushered out. The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the headmaster.
The silence in the room was profound. Orion walked back to his desk and sat down, steepling his fingers.
"The MRA agent you met, Kaito Valerius, is a capable field operative. But this situation has been elevated beyond his paygrade." He pressed a button on his desk intercom. "You may send him in."
A moment later, a hidden panel in the wall behind his bookshelf slid open with a soft hiss. A man stepped through. He was not what I expected. Where Valerius was a sleek weapon, this man was a bureaucratic fortress. He was in his late forties, with a receding hairline, a slightly rumpled suit, and a pair of intelligent, tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carried a simple briefcase. He looked like an accountant or a mid-level manager.
"Arthur Prott," the man said, his voice surprisingly warm and calm. He offered a hand. "My name is Marcellus Gears. I represent a branch of the government that doesn't, officially, have a name."
I shook his hand. His grip was firm, dry.
"Headmaster," Gears said with a polite nod. "Thank you for the use of your office."
Orion simply inclined his head and turned to look out the window, effectively withdrawing from the conversation.
Gears sat in the chair Elara had vacated, placing his briefcase on his lap. "Arthur, let's dispense with the fiction. We know what happened in that underpass. We have the residual thermal readings. We have the obsidian shard Agent Valerius recovered. Your Metagene manifested under extreme duress. An event we classify as a 'Singularity Point.' The ability you displayed, which we are designating Molten Core, is not just powerful. It is… unique. A category we haven't seen in decades."
He opened his briefcase, not with a dramatic flourish, but with the mundane efficiency of a man opening a lunch pail. He slid a single sheet of paper and a small, black credit chip across the desk.
"The world is a more dangerous place than the public realizes, Arthur. The Rogues you see on the news are just the symptoms. There are organized threats, syndicates, and ideologies that would see our society torn apart. We need individuals who can stand against that tide. We need you."
He tapped the credit chip. "This is a signing bonus. Five million dollars. Tax-free. It is linked to an account that will be replenished with an annual salary of the same amount, adjusted for inflation, for as long as you are in our service."
The numbers were so large they were almost abstract. Five million. It was more money than my father would see in ten lifetimes. I thought of his tired face, the constant worry about bills. The offer was a sledgehammer aimed directly at the foundation of my entire life.
"In return," Gears continued, his tone becoming deadly serious, "you will come to the Glaciora Atolls. You will attend Sandalwood High as a cover. And you will train. You will learn to master your ability, not as a curse or a freak accident, but as a tool for the greater good. You will become a member of a covert team we are assembling. A team of heroes who operate in the shadows to keep the light shining for everyone else."
He leaned forward, his tired eyes now sharp and intense. "This is not a conscription, Arthur. It is an offer. But it is an offer you cannot refuse. The knowledge of what you are cannot be allowed to roam free, untrained. The alternative is not a return to your old life. The alternative is a life spent in a secure, windowless facility, where we can 'study' your potential in a controlled environment."
The choice was an illusion. A gilded cage or a concrete one.
I looked at the credit chip. I thought of my father, finally free from financial worry. I thought of the terrifying, exhilarating power that slept in my core. The power to protect, not just Elara, but maybe others. The power to truly change things.
I looked at Marcellus Gears, this unassuming man who held my future in his hands. My mind, my analytical engine, whirred. The probabilities, the outcomes, the strategic advantages. It was all there, clear as day.
It was the most pragmatic decision I would ever make.
I reached out and picked up the credit chip. It was cool and light in my palm.
"What's the name of the team?" I asked, my voice steady.
A small, genuine smile touched Marcellus Gears's lips. "We're still working on that. We were waiting for the right cornerstone."
The deal was struck. Arthur Prott, the quiet Baseline, was gone. Now, I was something else. A government asset. A nascent hero. A millionaire.
A prisoner of my own potential.