TRAINING BEGINS
Brock was careful. He knew that in this facility, a "useless item" was often eliminated. If he played the vegetable role too convincingly, he'd be dead before he could even test his new strength.
When the researchers approached him a second time, snapping their fingers and shining lights into his dilated pupils, Brock shifted his act. He didn't give them the cold, calculating stare of Subject 088, nor the blank void of a brain-dead husk. Instead, he looked at the penlight with wide, innocent wonder.
"Light," he mumbled, his voice thick and clumsy, reaching out a hand to grasp at the air with the uncoordinated curiosity of a toddler.
The researchers froze, then let out a synchronized, shaky sigh of relief.
"He's responding," the first one whispered, wiping cold sweat from his brow. "The higher functions are scrambled, but the core is intact. It's like his mind has been reset to infancy."
They scribbled furiously onto their digital clipboards. The final report for Subject 088 no longer labeled him as "waste." Instead, it read:
Brain Washing Successful.
Subject displays low level Cognitive Functioning.
Moderate neuroplasticity detected.
Recommend immediate transition to Basic Combat Training.
Because they believed he was effectively a two-year-old in the body of an elite athlete, they saw him as the perfect clay to mold.
Brock was immediately moved from the sterile ward to the Combat section of the facility. He was assigned to a Training Instructor, a man built like a wall of scarred granite, whose new job now was to teach this "infant" how to be a weapon from scratch.
As Brock sat on the floor of the training hall, playing with the hem of his gray jumpsuit to keep up the act, his internal gaze was fixed on the blue screen only he could see.
[Host: Brock Velazquez]
[Age: 16]
[Race: Half-Human]
[Status: Awakened]
[Level: 1 (Sublevel 5)]
[Stats:]
Strength: 20(i)
Agility: 15(i)
Stamina: 17(i)
Endurance: 30(i)
[Talents:]
Combat Sense (i)
[Skills:]
Adrenaline Rush (i)
Brock sat on the dusty floor of the training hall, his head tilted in a faux-clueless slump, but his internal focus was a sharp contrast to his outward appearance. He had been pulled out of his mental space too quickly before he could do a proper check, but now he had the time to truly look.
The "Level 1" made sense—it was a beginning—but the "Sublevel 5" left him scratching his head. What does the 5 even represent and why 5? he wondered. His eyes drifted to the Stats column. Seeing the 20 in Strength ,15 in Agility and 17 in Stamina, he figured those were the "elite bodybuilder" numbers the researchers had been grumbling about. But the 30 in Endurance stood out like a beacon,
Wanting to know why He curiously focused his mind on the word, and a sub-menu shimmered into view:
[Endurance: A stat which is a combination of physical body defense and mental defenses.]
That's it, he realized. His physical body was strong, but his mental fortress, the one that had just withstood a deep-cycle brainwashing—was what pushed that number so high.
His gaze moved to the next tabs the Talent and Skills tab, Intrigued, he shifted his focus to his Talent and Skill tabs. As he concentrated, drop-down menus unfurled like digital parchment.
[Talent: Combat Sense]
{High Battle Perception and Awareness: (Applies only when host is in battle)}
{Sixth Sense: (Host has a good sense of danger, can view the killing intent of others)}
{Weak Point Detector (Active): (Greyed out) (Unlocks at Level 2)}
{Duration: 10 min}
{Cooldown: 3 min}
[Skill: Adrenaline Rush (Active)]
{Effect: Increases basic stats by 30%}
{Cost: 5 stamina per 10s}
{Duration: Until stamina hits zero}
{Cooldown: None}
Brock's internal "face" was a mask of pure, stunned disbelief. His heart did a frantic somersault in his chest. Is this the kind of secret they keep from the public? This wasn't just a "power" it was a blessing.
However, the sight of the greyed-out "Weak Point Detector" hit him like a cold splash of water. A surge of childish frustration boiled up in his mind, breaking through his calm. Why? He protested internally, his mental voice practically screaming. Why can't you unlock now? Argh! He felt like a man holding a master key who had just discovered it didn't fit the most important door yet.
As brock digested all the information in, he knew that he must escape, he formulated in his mind that he will lay low for the time being and absorb whatever teachings and skills they were going to throw at him.
With his resolve set, he prepared to leave his mental space, only to be hit by a sudden realization. He didn't know how. Every other time he had returned to his body, he had been violently forced out, first by the pulse-like wave that shattered the void, then by the searing agony of the brainwashing machine. He had never exited on his own accord.
Panic began to rise. Within the black void, he started rolling around, his mental projection flailing as he wondered if he was trapped in his own head until some external force dragged him back to reality.
In the real world, Brock looked like a statue. He sat in a daze, eyes glazed and fixed on nothing. Standing directly in front of him was a man who had clearly been watching him for several minutes.
The instructor turned his head toward the researcher who apparently oversees Brock, his expression one of pure, unadulterated skepticism. "I thought you said he had the intelligence of a two-year-old," he grumbled, "From where I'm standing, I'm seeing someone who doesn't have enough brains to even be called an idiot."
The researcher began to sweat, his voice fumbling as he tried to explain. The instructor cut him off with a sharp gesture, snatching the tablet to look at Brock's diagnosis. When his gaze fixed on the "Null-Awakener" classification, a look of sudden understanding crossed his face.
Without a word, the instructor walked to the back of the training room and grabbed a heavy, reinforced bat. He returned to the motionless boy and without a second of hesitation, swung it with all his might toward Brock's head. One did not need to imagine what happened after.
A sudden splash of ice-cold water shook Brock's entire being. His eyes snapped open wide, and he gasped, his consciousness slamming back into his physical body. The transition he hadn't been able to figure out had been forced upon him once again by sheer trauma. He sat up, shaking, trying to process the throbbing ache in his skull.
he started to look trying to figure out what exactly happened as he did his saw a titan of a man, standing over him was. He had a massive, hyper-defined physique of a world-class heavyweight, shoulders as broad as boulders and arms that looked as thick as Brock's own torso. He stood with the effortless, intimidating posture of a man who had spent his entire life in combat. In his hand, he loosely gripped the bat while a small, terrifyingly sharp smile was plastered on his face.
"How are you doing?" the man asked, his voice low and vibrating. "I'm going to be your training instructor for now, and you're going to do exactly what I ask. Got that?"
He leaned in closer, the shadow of his massive frame swallowing Brock. "My name is Stone. Instructor Stone."
Brock didn't hesitate. He gave a series of quick, frantic nods, his eyes wide and mimicking the terror of a child, while his mind already began to calculate the threat level of the man standing before him.
Stone's smile widened. "Good. The training starts today."
..................…
Beyond the reinforced walls of the underground facility, the world remained in its relentless grinding motion. It was the time of the year again.
since the awakenings happened at the age of sixteen the military adopted the practice of drafting all of them sixteen-year-old whether awakened or not and where to be trained for a period of two years after which they will be sent back, unless they chose to enlist permanently.
The armored convoys combed through all 15 sectors of the planet, stripping thousands of teenagers of their childhoods.
Whack!
The sound of a bat meeting skull rang out through the hall. This had been the interaction between Brock's skull and the bat in the Stones hand, and it has gone on for what felt as the hundredth time. Before the stars could even clear from Brock's vision, a bucket of ice-cold water drenched him, shocking his nervous system back into his painful awareness.
"Again!" Stone's voice roared, echoing off the high ceilings.
Brock lay on the floor, his head a mess of white bandages that were already beginning to bloom with fresh red spots. For the last few hours, this hadn't been a combat drill; it had been a systematic execution of his patience. Stone wasn't teaching him how to punch or kick but rather he was obsessed with Brock's inability to leave his mental space on his own.
"To exit that void voluntarily, you have to stop treating your mind like a single room," Stone growled, looming over him like a mountain of scarred muscle. "You must divide your consciousness into two. One half stays in the space to maintain the connection, while the other half reaches out to pilot the body. If you can't walk and think at the same time, you're no different from a sitting duck waiting to be slaughtered."
Brock wanted to scream. He wanted to cry but had no tears. Why? He thought bitterly. You're a combat instructor. Your job is to teach me how to fight, not how to perform mental gymnastics. To Brock, this was the researchers' job.
and every time he tried to protest, he was met with a swinging bat.
Stone didn't care about the command of the facility's hierarchy. He wanted a weapon that was always "on," and as long as Brock remained trapped inside his own head every time he entered, Stone considered him a defective tool.
After another failed attempt Brock was finally dismissed. Instructor Stone didn't offer a word of comfort; he only returned the bat to where he took it from and turned away leaving Brock collapsed in the wet floor.
The researcher who had been assigned to Brock going by the name Paul came in to fetch him. He first properly dressed the wounds on Brock's scalp, replacing the blood-soaked ones with clean ones.
after which he escorted brock to a cell near the living area near the living area specifically made for test subjects. Brock's cell wasn't just a cell it was a functional box. It contained a small table and a single chair where he ate his rations, and a tiny washroom for basic hygiene and a bed for resting.
Now alone in the dark in bed, Brock began to replay his training session even though it was brutal and he protested a bit. He knew it was for his own good and if he wanted to successfully escape this place he had to be able to access his system without having to get stuck in his mind every time he entered.