The interior of the mountain base, dubbed "The Aerie" by a cheerful Warner, was a masterpiece of hidden technology. The hangar bay gave way to wide, well-lit corridors carved from the rock itself but finished with smooth, modern paneling. There was no natural light, but the illumination from the ceiling was a perfect mimicry of a sunny day.
A calm, synthesized voice guided us through a high-speed tram system to the residential sector. The doors slid open to reveal a common area that made my old apartment look like a storage closet. It was a vast, open-plan space with sleek furniture, a fully stocked kitchen, and a massive viewscreen that currently displayed a real-time, panoramic vista of the ocean from a hidden camera on the mountainside.
"Whoa," Warner breathed, sprinting inside and jumping onto a plush sofa. "This is way better than my dad's basement!"
"Each of you has a private suite through those doors," the synthesized voice announced. "Your belongings have been delivered. You have one hour to settle in before your next appointment."
The suites were, in a word, luxurious. My room wasn't just a room; it was a penthouse suite. A large bed with a mattress that seemed to mold to my body, a desk with a state-of-the-art computer terminal, a private bathroom with a shower that had more controls than the VTOL aircraft. It was sterile, perfect, and felt utterly surreal. I placed my small bag of belongings on the bed—a few changes of clothes, my journal—and they looked pathetically insignificant in the grandeur.
Exactly one hour later, we were summoned. The same tram whisked us to a different part of the base, depositing us outside a door labeled Design & Fabrication: Sub-Section Theta.
Inside was a creative chaos of holographic displays, rolls of unfamiliar fabrics, and half-finished designs floating in the air. A tall, willowy woman with hair the color of spun silver and wearing a dramatic, tech-infused smock greeted us. She introduced herself as Calista.
"Welcome, my new canvases!" she said, her eyes sparkling as she circled us. "I am here to translate your essence into armor. Your public identity. Your hero costume."
The process was surprisingly personal. Calista interviewed each of us, asking about our preferences, how we moved, what image we wanted to project.
Warner was first. "Something cool! Red and black, like a race car! Maybe a flame motif? Gotta look fast, you know?"
Merrill, shuffling nervously, muttered something about "flexible fabric" and "good for... uh... acrobatics," while his eyes darted toward the girls' measurements being taken. Serena fixed him with a glare that could freeze lava.
Henry was all about practicality. "Pockets. Multiple, reinforced pockets. Durable, abrasion-resistant material. No capes. Capes are a tactical liability."
Carrie was decisive. "Streamlined. Aerodynamic. Something that says 'winner'. Green and gold. Make it look professional."
Josefa giggled and spun around. "I want something fun! And pretty! Maybe with a little tail-hole? And my horns are a must! Can you make it sparkle?"
Serena was the most specific. "Functional armor plating in key areas. No unnecessary embellishments. A color scheme that denotes authority—navy and silver. And a communications system integrated directly into the collar."
Then it was my turn. Calista looked at me, her head tilted. "And you. The cornerstone. What does the Molten Core wish to wear?"
I thought about it. My power was destructive, volatile. "I need something that can withstand extreme heat," I said, my tone pragmatic. "Beyond what normal materials can handle. It needs to be flexible but incredibly durable. As for the design... keep it simple. Utilitarian. Dark colors. I'm not there to be seen. I'm there to contain the threat."
Calista nodded, a knowing smile on her lips. "A fortress, not a flag. Understood."
After the design session, we were taken next door to Tech Lab: Sub-Section Gamma. This room was a geek's paradise, filled with humming servers, 3D printers the size of cars, and workbenches strewn with circuitry and exotic components. The tech expert, a man named Finn who couldn't have been older than twenty-five with energetic eyes and fingers stained with nano-gel, greeted us with a rapid-fire speech.
"Okay, people! Calista's designs are syncing to my station now. My job is to make them work. We're talking integrated comms, multi-spectrum HUDs in your visors or lenses, biometric monitors, tracking beacons—the works. Any special requests? Environmental controls? Supplemental propulsion?"
The others began throwing out ideas. Warner wanted "rocket boots, for sure!" Henry asked for a portable forensic scanner. Carrie requested a tactical computer with real-time threat analysis.
I thought about my weaknesses. The collateral damage. The loss of control. "I need a limiter system," I said, catching Finn's attention. "Something that can monitor my internal energy output. If it spikes beyond a certain threshold, or if my vitals indicate a berserker state, I need a way for my team or command to shut me down. Safely."
Finn whistled, impressed. "A built-in kill switch. Bold. Risky. I like it. We can work with that."
By the time we returned to our residential suite, a strange exhaustion had set in—not physical, but mental. The sheer speed and scale of it all was overwhelming. We were being processed, outfitted, and equipped like weapons on an assembly line.
The others lingered in the common area, buzzing with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Warner was trying to get a game on the viewscreen, while Josefa and Carrie debated the merits of different costume materials. Henry was already buried in a technical manual he'd borrowed from Finn. Merrill was, unsurprisingly, trying to peek into the girls' suites.
I watched them for a moment, this strange new family I'd been thrust into. Then, with a quiet word to Serena that I was turning in, I retreated to my own luxurious room.
The bed was impossibly comfortable, but sleep didn't come easily. My mind raced, replaying the day: the aircraft, the mountain, the costume designs, the tech. It was all so concrete, so real. There was no going back.
Tomorrow, the cover story began. Sandalwood High School. A normal day at a normal school, on a secret island base, while preparing to be a government superhero.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the faint, steady hum of the base buried deep within the mountain. It was the sound of my new life. A life of impossible contradictions.
And in the quiet dark, I promised myself one thing: no matter what costume they put me in, or what tech they gave me, I would never let them forget that I was more than just a weapon. I was Arthur Prott. And I was just getting started.