The elevator descended for what felt like an eternity.
The polished concrete and bright fluorescent lights of the upper levels slowly gave way to rusted grating, flickering amber hazard bulbs, and the oppressive smell of machine oil. The two guards escorting Ren did not say a word. They simply stood with their kinetic batons resting on their shoulders, staring straight ahead.
When the rusted doors finally groaned open, the guards shoved Ren out into a dimly lit, narrow corridor.
"End of the line, Null," one of them grunted. He pointed a heavily armored finger down the hall. "Barracks 9 is at the very end. Do not wander. The automated turrets in the maintenance shafts do not ask for identification before they fire."
The elevator doors slid shut, leaving Ren entirely alone in the suffocating gloom.
He took a slow, deep breath of the stale, recycled air. He closed his eyes and let his [Echolocation] ripple outward. The sensory map painted itself across his mind in vivid, three-dimensional lines of sound. He could hear the low, rhythmic thumping of the Outpost's primary water purifiers three floors down. He could hear the frantic scuttling of mutant centipedes in the ventilation ducts above him.
He focused his hearing down the corridor.
Behind the heavy steel door labeled with a faded, peeling '09', he heard two distinct heartbeats.
The first heartbeat was erratic, aggressive, and thudding heavily, accompanied by the sharp, metallic sounds of a wrench violently turning a rusted bolt. Someone was angry, and they were taking it out on a piece of machinery.
The second heartbeat was the exact opposite. It was slow, perfectly measured, and eerily calm. It was accompanied by the soft, precise scraping of a scalpel against bone.
Ren opened his eyes, filing the acoustic signatures away in his mind. He walked down the corridor, his boots making absolutely no sound on the metal grating. His muscle memory refused to let him walk like a normal person. Every step was calculated to minimize noise and maximize balance.
He stopped in front of the door and pushed it open.
The Barracks of Squad 9 was not a military dorm. It was a junkyard.
The room was massive but claustrophobic, packed wall-to-wall with salvaged machinery, blown-out Resonance Cores, and stacks of empty nutrient paste crates. Four metal bunks were shoved into the corners, looking more like operating tables than beds. The air smelled intensely of burnt ozone, strong antiseptic, and cheap instant noodles.
"I told you," a loud, abrasive voice barked from the center of the room. "If Command sends another Upper City inspector down here to check our quotas, I am going to feed them to the scrubbers."
Ren stepped fully into the light.
Sitting on an overturned ammunition crate was a young man built like a brick wall. He wore a grease-stained grey tank top that revealed arms covered in thick, jagged scars and crude tattoos of soundwaves. But the most striking thing about him were his hands, or rather, what he was wearing on them.
Massive, mechanical gauntlets encased his forearms. They looked like heavy engine blocks, complete with exhaust vents and thick hydraulic pistons running along the knuckles.
This was Jax.
Jax looked up from the gauntlet he was tuning. He froze. His dark, aggressive eyes scanned Ren from the top of his unkempt black hair down to his completely empty hands.
"You are not an inspector," Jax stated. He dropped his heavy wrench onto the metal floor with a loud clang. He stood up, towering over Ren by a good three inches. "Let me guess. You are the anomaly Krell just dragged out of the canyon. The naked Null."
Ren did not flinch. "I was assigned to Squad 9."
Jax let out a harsh, barking laugh. It had absolutely no humor in it. "Is that a joke? Command thinks they can just dump their broken toys down here with the janitors? We haul unstable battery packs through the Metro ruins. We do not babysit amnesiacs."
"I do not need a babysitter," Ren said quietly. His voice was perfectly even.
Before Jax could respond, a cold, analytical voice echoed from the dark corner of the room.
"His heart rate is currently sitting at forty-five beats per minute, Jax. His pupils are undilated despite the aggressive posturing you are currently displaying. He is not afraid of you."
Ren turned his head. Sitting at a makeshift metal desk in the corner was a young woman in a pristine, perfectly ironed white medical coat. It was the only clean thing in the entire room. She had sharp, aristocratic features and pale blonde hair tied up in a severe bun. She was currently wearing high-tech magnification goggles, meticulously dissecting the severed vocal cords of a Screamer with a glowing blue scalpel.
She did not even bother to look up at Ren.
"Elara," Jax growled, not taking his eyes off Ren. "Stay out of this. I do not care what his heart rate is. He smells like Upper City politics. He is probably a spy sent by the Choir to figure out how we are smuggling surplus rations."
"If he were a spy, he would have been given a cover story," Elara replied flatly, peeling back a layer of mutant tissue with her forceps. "Amnesia is a statistically terrible cover. It draws immediate suspicion. Furthermore, Krell authorized his transfer. Which means Krell either wants him dead, or wants us to figure out what he is."
Jax cracked his neck. The heavy hydraulic pistons on his gauntlets hissed, venting a small cloud of pressurized steam.
"I prefer the first option," Jax sneered. "We have a quota to meet tomorrow in the ruins. I am not having a Null drag down my survival rate. Let us see if your muscle memory is as good as the rumors say, freak."
Jax did not give a warning. He did not charge up the Seismic Pistons with his heartbeat. He just stepped forward and threw a raw, brutal right hook aimed directly at Ren's jaw. It was a punch meant to shatter bone and establish absolute dominance.
Time seemed to slow down for Ren.
A blue translucent window flickered across his vision.
[COMBAT PROTOCOL INITIATED]
[THREAT LEVEL: MINIMAL]
[TRAJECTORY CALCULATED]
Ren did not use the Silent Palm. Using a destructive frequency on a human would liquify their organs, and he needed this squad to survive the Outpost. Instead, he relied on the terrifying martial arts ingrained in his very cells.
He did not block the punch. Blocking would pit his frail, untrained muscles against Jax's overwhelming mass.
Instead, Ren stepped smoothly inside the arc of the swing. He brought his left hand up, catching Jax's heavy wrist not to stop it, but to guide it. He pivoted on his right heel, dropping his center of gravity. He added his own momentum to Jax's massive swing, pulling the larger man forward while simultaneously sweeping Jax's lead leg.
It was a perfectly executed, flawless redirection of kinetic energy.
Jax let out a startled grunt as his feet completely left the floor. He flew through the air, carried by his own aggressive force, and slammed violently into a row of metal lockers. The impact dented the thick steel doors and sent a shower of sparks raining down from a broken light fixture.
Absolute silence fell over the barracks.
Jax groaned, untangling himself from the dented lockers. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at Ren with wide, shocked eyes. He had not even seen the smaller boy move. It was like trying to punch water.
In the corner, Elara finally stopped cutting. She pushed her magnification goggles up onto her forehead, revealing piercing green eyes that locked onto Ren with intense, terrifying curiosity.
"Fascinating," Elara whispered. She picked up a datapad and began typing rapidly. "His center of gravity shifted a full three inches before your muscles even tensed, Jax. He did not react to your punch. He predicted it based on your micro-expressions and weight distribution. His nervous system is operating at a highly anomalous efficiency."
Ren let out a slow, controlled breath, forcing his adrenaline back down. He looked at Jax, who was slowly getting back to his feet.
"I am taking the bottom bunk," Ren said simply.
Jax stared at him for a long, tense moment. The heavy brawler looked at the dented lockers, then back at Ren. Slowly, a begrudging smirk broke across Jax's scarred face.
"Fine," Jax grunted, dusting off his tank top. "You get the bottom bunk near the air vent. It smells like rat corpses. But if you try to pull that martial arts garbage in the Metro ruins tomorrow, a Mimic is going to bite your head off."
Jax walked back to his overturned crate and picked up his wrench, the hostility draining out of the room, replaced by a cautious, rough acceptance.
"Bravo," Valen's voice echoed softly in the deep recesses of Ren's mind. The unseen author sounded mildly amused. "The meathead and the sociopath. A truly inspiring supporting cast, Conductor. Try not to get too attached to them. Secondary characters have such tragically short lifespans in my drafts."
Ren ignored the voice. He walked over to the rusted metal cot in the corner, sitting down on the thin, lumpy mattress. He looked at his shaking hands.
He was trapped in an underground hell, surrounded by monsters on the outside and traitors on the inside. He had no true weapons, no memories, and a voice in his head promising him a horrific death.
But as he looked at Jax tuning his gauntlets and Elara sharpening her scalpel, Ren realized one very important thing.
Squad 9 might be the trash squad, but they were not weak. If he was going to survive long enough to figure out who he was, he was going to need them.
The orchestra was finally assembling.