---
"No! I stink…"
A young Mikey, no older than six, pulled back the worn rubber band of his slingshot and fired a pebble toward the tree. He wanted to sink it into the hollow, the dark little cavity in the center of the trunk, but it veered far off and plopped uselessly into the grass.
He let out a sharp groan and dropped the slingshot, letting it thud onto the dirt.
The park in Sector D stretched wide around him, the same place his parents took him on slow afternoons, where the old benches leaned and the air always smelled faintly of cut grass and rusting swings. Today was no different. His parents stood chatting with another family nearby—Desmond with his easy laugh, Darla with her warm presence—and yet Mikey felt alone with his failure.
"Help him?" Darla's voice drifted, gentle but concerned.
Desmond turned his head, catching the slump of his son's shoulders. "Yeah, sure, hon'."
He walked over, boots crunching the gravel path, and crouched down beside his son, resting a heavy, calloused hand on the boy's shoulder.
"What's wrong, buddy?"
"I keep missing!" Mikey's voice cracked as he swiped angrily at his wet eyes.
Desmond's laugh was loud and unbothered. He ruffled Mikey's hair—thick and curly back then.
"Go again. I'll be right here."
Mikey nodded, sniffled, and picked up the slingshot. He pulled back, squinted hard, and fired. The pebble didn't even come close. His lower lip quivered before he plopped onto his butt with a soft thud. Tears spilled down his cheeks.
Darla noticed this time. She excused herself with a smile to the family she was talking to and crossed over.
"What's going on?"
Desmond shrugged, spreading his hands.
"Uh… he just can't hit his shot."
She looked down at her son, at his red, blotchy face, and her heart tightened. Kneeling beside him, she tilted her head.
"Why are you crying, sweetie?"
"I can't hit a shot, Mommy… all the other kids can, but I-I…" His voice wavered as he collapsed into sobs.
Darla frowned, then smiled, her voice like music in the breeze.
"Let's try again, sweetie. Let me help you."
Desmond chuckled, rising to his feet again.
"Perfect. Sharpshooting was always your thing, babe. I was more of a knife guy myself—"
"Shh," Darla smacked his chest lightly, giggling. Desmond laughed, then he gave her a soft kiss on the lips, grinning as he walked back to the conversation.
Darla turned back to Mikey and gently lifted him onto his feet. "Come on, baby." She placed the slingshot back into his tiny hands, guiding his elbows up with careful precision. "Close your left eye, Michael. You had both open." Her soft laugh made him feel safe again.
"O-Okay…"
She crouched beside him, posture straight as her hair blew softly across her face. She picked up two small pebbles by his feet and handed him one.
"Try again. But this time… pretend."
"Pretend?" he sniffled, confused.
Her green eyes—the ones Mikey inherited from her—locked with his. "Mikey, you'd protect us, right? Me and Daddy?"
The boy's brow furrowed as he thought about it. Then he nodded firmly.
"That's my strong boy," she whispered, ruffling his hair. "Now… imagine this tree wants to hurt us. Imagine it running at us with sharp teeth, trying to take us away. What do you do?"
Mikey sniffed again, but the tears slowed. He stared at the hollow in the tree and, in his imagination, it grew fangs, sprouted legs, snarled as it barreled toward his family. He straightened, he pulled back, and when he released, the pebble cut through the air with perfect arc and precision.
CRACK.
It landed dead center in the hollow.
Mikey's eyes widened before he jumped up, hands raised in triumph. "I did it! I DID IT!"
Desmond came running, scooping him up, spinning him high until his giggles rang across the park. Darla clapped, laughing softly, her voice a balm.
"I told you," she said, smiling through the breeze, "you're a talented boy."
---
The present roared back.
The Blood Bear's massive frame thundered across the concrete, its mouth wide, its yellow fangs dripping, the bottle clutched between them. The monster was less than ten feet away, the ground trembling under its weight. Mikey's scope locked in. He inhaled sharply, exhaled slow.
BANG!
The rifle bucked against his shoulder. The bullet tore through the air, and in that instant, time fractured. He didn't hear the chaos, the gasps, the screams. He only heard the echo of his mother's voice.
"For your family… you can do the impossible…"
The bullet struck dead center into the bottle, the same way the pebble had disappeared into the tree hollow so many years ago. The impact sparked the wired battery jammed inside, igniting the alcohol and gasoline-soaked rag.
BOOM!
The explosion ripped outward in a blinding burst of fire and gore. The Blood Bear's head erupted, fragments of skull and flesh catapulting skyward as a fountain of blood sprayed across the dome. The shockwave rolled through the air, silencing everything in its wake. Its heavy body thudded on the concrete, finally it was dead. The rest of itself was either ripped or torn off.
Mikey staggered but rose to his feet, chest heaving, his body drenched. The blood fell on him like thick, warm rain, running down his face, streaking his torn clothes, dripping from his jaw. It clung to his eyelashes, slid down his nose, soaked into the concrete at his boots.
He tilted his head back, letting it wash over him, then fixed his eyes upward. Through the rain of red, he found Isaak and the Brass, their figures caught in the glaring lights. His stare was unyielding. A fury smoldered in it, but deeper still was the unbreakable steel of survival, the fire of his mother's words burned brighter than fear could ever attempt to conjure. The crowd remained stunned, whispers rattling through the dome. Not cheers, not yet—just disbelief.
Up in the stands, Isaak's knuckles whitened around the microphone. His eyes locked with Mikey's, the weight of the moment pinning the air heavy and tense. Behind him, the Brass members leaned forward, wide-eyed, their usual smug composure cracked by raw astonishment. The blood still dripped from Mikey's chin as he stood unmoving, staring back at them as though daring them to speak.
Isaak's throat tightened. His voice finally broke free in the microphone, carrying through the dome from the speakers:
"Phase One of the Test is over… Michael Grant…" He paused, eyes narrowing, the corners of his lips twitching.
"… you pass."