][A Telos in the Trial ][ (1)
The wind whispered through the streets of Nkor, carrying the faint tang of salt from the southern coast and the earthy petrichor of last night's rain. Dawn unfurled violet and gold across the skyline, scattering across glass towers and weathered stone alike. The city stirred, but the air clung to a fragile hush—a pause before the day's inevitable clamor, as if the world itself hesitated to awaken fully.
In a seventh-floor apartment, Sylin fastened the dark blue blazer of her new uniform. The fabric resisted her movements, stiff and unyielding. Its rectangular chest pocket remained empty. Pewter hair fell with mechanical precision to her shoulders, framing pale blue eyes that glimmered faintly in the dim light. She betrayed nothing. A small case slid into her luggage. Checked once, checked twice—perfectly. Then she stepped into the hallway, the sound of her boots silent against worn linoleum.
The lobby smelled faintly of varnish and stale tea. Behind the reception desk, the landlord glanced up.
"Morning, Sylin."
"Morning."
"You've been here a long time. Today might be your last."
"Yes."
"I'll miss you."
"Acknowledged."
A new tenant lingered near the door.
"She never smiles," the landlord murmured.
"Not once," the tenant replied. "Shame. She'd look better if she did."
The landlord only nodded, as if conceding an irrefutable fact.
Outside, the streets came alive. Shutters clattered open, café steam hissed thickly with the scent of coffee. A tram rumbled past, windows fogged by warmth. Sylin's boots clicked in perfect rhythm, pausing beneath a billboard that loomed overhead.
A man in a tailored suit filled the screen, voice smooth as honey.
"What do you feel in your heart? Sadness? Anger? If you are troubled, we are here for you."
The image wavered, then resolved into the Ministry's emblem: a hollow circle surrounding a triangle, a plus sign at its heart, wings outstretched.
Sylin's gaze lingered for a fraction longer than necessary, detached yet precise. Emotions are commodities here, she thought. A map to weakness, or a key to survival. I carry neither. I need only function.
Ahead, the fortress rose—a labyrinth of layered walls and watchtowers, the central building a truncated pyramid. Scars marred the outer walls, faint reminders of old assaults. Guards flanked the gate, rifles at rest, eyes sharp.
"Pass," one said.
She presented her authorization card. The guard scanned it, nodded, and waved her through.
Inside, scanners hummed lightly. A vast hall opened, banners of the Ministry suspended from high rafters. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal polish. Candidates stood in formation, faces taut with determination and unease.
A man in a ceremonial coat stepped forward. His tone was sharp, precise, each syllable deliberate.
"I am Hexram, Minister of Internal Defense. You stand here because you were chosen—not for strength alone, but for the potential to endure. The trial ahead will be difficult; most will fail. This is not cruelty but necessity."
His eyes swept the room, cold and assessing, as if weighing each candidate against some invisible scale.
"Our enemy is not always a beast of the wild. Sometimes, it is a neighbor. A friend. A loved one. When emotion spirals beyond control—rage, despair, hatred—it corrupts the human form, transforming it into a monstrous hazard beyond salvation. We call them Aberrants.
The Ministry exists to protect society from such threats: to contain them, to exterminate when we must. Strength without control is useless. Courage unchecked is deadly. You will be tested on both.
Remember this: when you face an Aberrant, you are not confronting a mindless creature. You are confronting what remains of a human soul. That is why we must be stronger than fear, colder than pity. If you cannot, you will not leave here as one of us."
"Now… let the trial begin."
Officers split the candidates into four groups. Sylin was assigned to Group B. Weighted body armor was strapped to her chest; a green glow pulsed steadily at its center. A random weapon set was placed before her: an MP5, a SIG P226, and a Wharncliffe knife.
An officer stepped forward, eyes cold, voice sharp.
"Attention! The armor you wear is weighted. The green glow is your life indicator. Turn red, you're eliminated. How it happens? That's for you to discover. Adapt. Survive. Move out."
Group B was ushered into a chamber. The pearlescent door slammed behind them with metallic finality. Sylin blinked. The room was not a room at all—it was a ruined city block under a pale, washed-out sky. Crumbling buildings leaned over cracked streets. Dust, rusted metal, and a sharp chemical tang stung her nose.
Silence pressed down, broken only by distant metal creaks and crunching grit. Somewhere far off, a hollow clang echoed like a pipe striking concrete.
Candidates clustered into small groups, voices low and tense. Sylin moved through the ruins with fluid precision. Less distraction. Better. But the others… information is leverage. Her thoughts ran like gears, detached from any trace of fear.
She adjusted the weight of her armor. The emerald glow pulsed steadily. Other groups moved toward the north end of the street or slipped into alleys.
A gust of wind stirred loose papers across the asphalt. She caught glimpses: Ministry slogans, recruitment posters, public safety warnings about "emotional instability." One flyer depicted a snarling figure beneath the words: "Control Yourself, Control the World."
Above, a drone drifted between rooftops, lens glinting pale. Surveillance.
Sylin advanced down the street with urgent, measured precision, scanning doorways and windows. A toppled streetlight sprawled across the road, glass shattered. Acrid smoke from burnt wiring lingered near a collapsed tram stop.
A sharp metallic scrape broke the stillness. She froze. The sound came again—deliberate, irregular.
Inside a nearby shop crouched a pale humanoid creature, skin stretched tight, scratching at its face. Aberrant. Anxiety-fueled. Weakness personified. A faint hologram shimmered.
It lunged. Sylin pivoted, delivering a roundhouse kick to its midsection. As it staggered, she raised the MP5 and fired a short burst to its head. The hologram dissolved into static.
Scanning the street, she spotted a barricaded building. Survivors? Or another simulation? She pried the barricade open and swept the ground floor—empty.
On the stairs, a shadow moved. A gun barrel leveled at her. Reflexively, her weapon rose, sights locking on the girl aiming back. Time stretched. Every microsecond sharpened: her mind calculating trajectories, reactions, possibilities. Silence was dense, taut. Each considered the other, an unspoken interrogation of skill, intent, and resolve.
Sylin's thoughts were still, detached. No emotion. Only survival. Only observation. Only function.
And in that instant, the first true challenge of the trial crystallized before her—not a monster, not the ruins, but another human being. Another variable. Another test.