By evening, the streets had begun to empty, the last stragglers quickening their pace as the dying sun bled across the horizon. Metal grilles screeched as they rattled into place, iron teeth biting down over shopfronts. Windows slammed shut one after another, a chain of gunshots echoing through the street. Doors banged with frantic finality, bolts clattering, chains snapping into place. The air shook with the panic of a world rushing to lock itself away before the global curfew fell.
Tee joined the other troopers in escorting citizens to the nearest shelters. Families huddled together, clutching bags and children, moving with anxious steps toward the safety of reinforced doors. Curfew was not a suggestion. Once darkness fell, the monsters came.
Xenosapians.
Creatures born from a cursed idiopathic condition, once human, suddenly twisted into predators that craved flesh. They came from the sewers, from the cracks in the city floor, from the shadows no one wanted to imagine. And the longer one lived after mutation, the stronger, faster, and more terrifying they became.
Even the shelters weren't perfect protection. That was why MG officials risked their lives on guard during the nights—posted at doors, rooftops, sewer gates, their silhouettes outlined against the dim glow of floodlamps. Their duty wasn't just to fight the monsters. It was to remind the civilians inside that someone stood between them and the dark.
Tee's eyes narrowed when she spotted a person in the crowd, a faint crest glinting around their neck. A trooper noticed too and quickly trailed them. Soon, others joined in, circling like wolves.
"Wrong way, scum!" one of the troopers mocked, flicking gum wrappers and crumpled papers at the figure. "Trash goes in the can!"
The victim kept walking, head down. On their arm, visible through the torn sleeve, was a curse mark. Black lines under the skin, writhing like ink trapped in glass. An X-victim.
Tee's chest tightened. She forced her gaze away, though the cruelty burned her. Only another X-victim would care. And she had already sworn she would never wear the leash society put on their kind. She would never let herself be branded, never let them dictate her life.
Soon the streets were clear. Back at headquarters, troopers filed into lines, handing over their weapons and voice-coms. Each item was inspected with clinical precision, every discrepancy noted on their permanent records.
Dinner followed in one of the great halls, where Tee joined the others. The air hung heavy with the smell of roasted meat and the clatter of cutlery. The food looked hearty, but tasted bland—meals engineered more for sustenance than pleasure, packed with starch and vitamins to keep a trooper strong.
Afterward, they split off into groups. Some crammed into rattling elevators that climbed the tower, others made for the training wings. Tee was on late shift, which gave her an hour of free time for her meal to settle before drills began.
The training rooms were divided by gender, each lined with exercise stations: timed treadmills, weight benches, sparring poles, and more. Every trooper carried a card, stamped by an official once their time at each station was complete. It was meant to guarantee fairness—though everyone knew some officials took bribes, stamping cards for soldiers who hadn't lifted a finger.
Tee stripped down to her undershirt and wrapped her fists in bandages. Jack's face flashed in her mind, that cold indifference he always wore when he brushed her off. Her jaw clenched until it ached. She launched herself at the punching bag, pounding it with sharp, furious blows until grains of sand leaked from its seams.
"Hey," the station official barked, stepping in. He reached for her card hanging around her neck. "That's enough. Why is it always you who ends up with the bags ready to burst? We'll need to replace it." His tone made it clear—he didn't believe her fists could have caused the damage.
Tee bit back a retort, accepted the stamp, and moved on.
The treadmills came next. She ran hard—five minutes at a punishing pace—before the machine beeped her time out. Another stamp.
At the weight benches, a crowd gathered around a girl struggling with the heaviest bar. Several MG officials watched, entertained. Tee ignored them, grabbing a dumbbell and settling into her own rhythm. A trooper from Denzel's gang dropped onto the bench beside her.
"Nice work on the bag," the girl muttered. "Denzel will want to hear about that."
Tee didn't look up. She gave the smallest of nods and focused on her lift.
Finally, the sword station. Thick wooden practice blades slammed against reinforced poles. Tee's grip tightened. Rage flared hot in her chest, and with a single furious strike, her blade splintered in two.
The official blinked. "Huh. Never seen that happen before."
By the time training ended, exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. Late-shift troopers were always assigned light chores afterward—that night, helping in the kitchens. Those on the early shift had done prep work for dinner. It was the cycle of life at headquarters, endless and grinding, with no room for softness.
Tee hated kitchen duty. Sorting stacks of greasy plates into the dishwashers, replacing the cracked ones, tallying inventory—all the menial chores no trooper wanted. It was thankless work, the kind that gnawed at her patience more than any sparring session.
Her dorm room was dim when she returned. Her roommate was already there, no longer buried in DGS but withdrawn behind the curtain that divided their space. They hadn't had a good conversation in weeks and Tee didn't care to change that.
She collected her clothes and toiletries, slipping into the bathroom for a quick five-minute shower. The water was lukewarm, the pipes groaning above her, but it was enough to wash the grime from her skin.
When she finally collapsed onto her bed, she pulled her own curtain shut, sealing herself in darkness. She lifted her wrist and tapped the small device clipped there. A holographic grid shimmered above her, glowing faint blue. Her calendar flickered to life, each square a reminder of days gone and days ahead.
Her chest tightened as she saw the mark she had been waiting for. Her yearly visit.
Mid-Guard troopers were allowed to return home only twice during their two years of service, sent back in rotating batches. And her time was approaching. She could almost feel the pull of home, the thought of walking those familiar streets again.
Tetra.
Her heart softened at the name. She couldn't wait to see Tetra again.
Phone reception was blocked in the dorm levels—deliberately, of course. They wanted soldiers to rely on the program, not on the comfort of voices from home. Only in specified areas could one make a call, and even then it was monitored. Tetra was busy anyway, their schedules rarely lining up. But soon, Tee would see her in person.
And maybe, for a moment, she wouldn't feel so alone.