The hidden lab, once a sanctuary, now felt like a war room.
A tense energy filled the air, thick with the smell of stale coffee, and the sharp scent of impending violence.
Their new army was a strange, mismatched collection of broken toys and hopeful rebels.
The tournament fighters they had rescued from The Nursery were gathered around the central holographic table, their faces a mixture of gratitude, fear, and a burning, newly-kindled desire for payback.
They were a walking, talking museum of Cross Corp's cruelty.
There was a girl whose system allowed her to generate sonic blasts, her vocal cords now permanently scarred from their experiments.
There was a boy who could manipulate light, now half-blind in one eye.
They were all survivors.
They were all angry.
And they were all looking to him for a plan.
"This is great," Miles's internal monologue whispered, a low, panicked hum beneath the surface of his calm, composed exterior.
