"Welcome, Ms. Nina. Is there something I can help you with?"
The moment they crossed the threshold, the front desk attendant practically flew over to greet Nina. This administrative building was situated on the northern side of the complex, a short walk from the eastern sector where the Captain and Prisma usually stayed. From the outside, it looked surprisingly mundane. There was no thick, blast-proof metallic door; it seemed entirely ordinary, featuring a standard glass door with a polished handle. Even the receptionist's desk was a simple table crafted from dark wood. The only indication of its true purpose was the large, bold lettering mounted on the wall above: Employee and Armory Management.
"I'm here by order of Squad Leader Prisma," Nina explained, gesturing toward the man standing beside her. "We need to register our new recruit into the squad."
"Understood. Let him follow me. He needs to fill out some documentation first, Ms. Nina." The attendant turned, and Edgar followed her closely into the secure back room.
"Now, here is the registration tool. Mechanically speaking, you just need to feed your blood into it." She pointed toward a terminal that closely resembled a self-check-in kiosk found at a high-speed train or bus station. The only bizarre difference was a small, smooth indentation carved like a shallow bowl right in the center of the console.
"What exactly do I do with it?" Edgar asked, staring at the device with genuine uncertainty. It was his first time seeing such technology. Back on the streets, even when using public transport, a simple tap-card was all it took. This was entirely different.
"Simple. Drop a small amount of your blood into the middle," she explained in a practiced, mechanical tone. "Once your information appears on the display, you can make minor sight adjustments to edit your file. After that, tap your newly issued key card. Your current information will immediately sync with the card and your tactical communication orb."
Edgar stared at the dark metallic bowl, wondering if he should attempt to rig his own data. The moment he completed this registration, his entire biological and metaphysical identity would be completely naked to the organization. 'Then again, what is there to worry about right now?' he reasoned. 'I'm just a freshly graduated street thug trying to survive.'
Taking the small blade resting beside the terminal, he sliced the tip of his finger. A few heavy, crimson drops fell into the center of the bowl.
Ting...
The screen flickered to life. Edgar's face filled the display, captured with unsettling accuracy. He frowned. He didn't remember ever taking an official ID photo, let alone providing it to a corporate military syndicate. Just how deeply into the dark web did this company's data-harvesting network reach?
Below his photo lay a detailed history of records he had long since forgotten. Scrolling through, he spotted an entry from five years ago—a temporary contract where he had acted as a wilderness guide to Mount Krakatoa. He had been assigned to lead a pair of tight-lipped researchers into the volatile caldera to collect rare, mutated herbs sprouting near the volcanic vents. He had never found out what those samples were used for.
Further down, the log grew even more intrusive. Even during his days operating as a street-level hypnotist, the terminal listed specific incident reports regarding his activities and the identities of his targets. A cold wave of appreciation washed over him. His old syndicate back home had been terrifyingly competent; the steep protection fees he had paid them every week hadn't been a scam after all. No wonder the police had never knocked on his door.
Scrolling further down, his eyes locked onto his trait data:
Trait: Wavelength Detection (Awakener)
Classification: Tier 1 - Receiver
Special Attribute: Wavelenght Detection
Functionality: Enhanced tracking capabilities; immune to geographical disorientation.
The terminal had logged this immediately after his initial awakening. Edgar tapped the 'Edit' menu. His fingers moved quickly across the interface, adjusting the data : March 3, 2677 — Junior staff employee at ACD Solution, Ltd. He hit save, then shifted his focus back to his trait column. He changed the classification to Tier 2 Receiver and began expanding the special attributes list:
Special Attributes:
Able to detect Earth's magnetic poles.
Able to detect human brainwaves.
Able to detect electronic wave signals.
Able to visualize the—
Edgar paused, his finger hovering over the screen. He glanced over his shoulder. The attendant was deeply occupied, her eyes reflecting the glowing text of her own floating holograms. Realizing he wouldn't be suspected of rigging the terminal, Edgar quickly deleted the unfinished sentence. Instead, he replaced it with a safer, more technical alternative: Capable of analyzing electronic wave interference. Satisfied, he pulled the heavy metallic key card from his pocket and tapped it against the scanner.
Ting...
[Congratulations, Mr. Edgar de Lankat. Your biological profile and personal data have been successfully updated. Synced information will be transmitted to your assigned equipment shortly. Thank you.]
Hearing the automated synthetic voice, Edgar walked back over to the reception desk. "Excuse me. The registration is complete."
"Ah, excellent, Mr. Edgar," the receptionist replied, looking up from her interface with a professional smile. "You are now officially registered as part of the Cleaning Department under Squad Leader Prisma. I look forward to reading about your future achievements. Please follow me; we need to issue your basic tactical gear."
She gestured for him to follow her through a heavy set of double doors at the back of the room. The moment they stepped inside, Edgar's eyes widened. The walls were lined with racks of firearms, advanced military ammunition, and tactical supplementary tools.
The attendant walked straight toward the sidearm rack, pulling down a standard Glock 17. With a fluid, practiced motion, she loaded a fresh magazine, raised the weapon, and fired a single shot at a bullseye target mounted in the reinforced testing corner of the room.
Dorr...!
The gunshot echoed sharply in the enclosed space. Smiling, she moved down the line, plucking a tactical leg pouch—identical to the ones he had seen the squad leaders wearing—from a hook. Finally, she stopped at a glass case containing a vast array of combat knives and selected a sleek, black-coated blade.
She walked back to Edgar, handing over the heavy leg pouch, the combat knife, and the cold metal of the handgun.
"These are your basic tracking and survival provisions," she said, her voice entirely pleasant despite the lethal weight of the items. "I highly advise you not to lose them. If any issued gear is misplaced, the cost will be deducted directly from your merit credits. What you hold now is a standard Glock 17 semi-automatic. It features a highly predictable recoil, making it the perfect weapon for beginners. It costs exactly 200 credits. The tactical knife is valued at 25 credits. Consider the leg pouch a welcoming gift from management."
Edgar nodded, stepping further into the armory to survey the inventory. The racks extended deep into the room, divided into distinct sections: handguns, assault rifles, specialized sniper rifles, heavy shotguns, and even a massive, belt-fed RPD machine gun. Beneath each weapon, a glowing ledger displayed its price in credit points, ranging anywhere from 200 to a staggering 15,000 credits for the heavy squad-support weapons.
"Can I get a bulletproof vest as well?" Edgar asked, his eyes lingering on a rack of tactical armor plates. "I'd prefer not to catch a random piece of shrapnel on my first night."
"Certainly," the attendant replied cheerfully. "However, you must earn the necessary credits first. Merit points are distributed upon the successful completion of squad missions, and the company also offers specific bounties for confirmed enemy kills. Once you have accumulated enough credits, you are welcome to return here anytime to upgrade your loadout. For now, you have met the minimum requirements for the field. I truly hope you survive long enough to become a regular customer here. Follow me, let's head back to Ms. Nina."
Edgar quietly process the information as they walked back out. No wonder he had received so many physical gold pieces during his recruitment; the company paid well because the mortality rate was catastrophic. This was a meat grinder where a single mistake meant losing your life in some dark, forgotten corner of the dome. 'Sigh... I miss my street life already,' he thought bitterly.
Stepping into the main corridor, he securely strapped the tactical pouch around his right thigh. He carefully stowed the Glock, the combat knife, his communication orb, and the key card into the various compartments.
"You look a bit more like a soldier now, Mr. Edgar," Nina remarked, watching him adjust the straps. "But I highly recommend you change out of that tuxedo before the operation tonight. High-society fabric is a massive hindrance when the tempo of a battle spikes or when the squad hits a sudden crisis. Anything that slows your reflexes by a fraction of a second will get you killed."
After thanking the desk attendant, Nina turned and led the way out of the building.
"Have you ever undergone formal firearms training?" she asked without looking back.
"Never," Edgar replied honestly. "I've also never used a blade to cut open a human being before."
Nina stopped in her tracks, swearing under her breath. "Shit. For your first deployment tonight, the probability of you dying on the field is astronomical without basic muscle memory. Even an experienced combatant like Daniel lost his life today, let alone a raw recruit who doesn't even know how to properly grip a sidearm. Let's move. The clock says 4:00 p.m. You have exactly six hours until deployment to practice."
She picked up the pace, her voice tight with urgency. "I need you to be familiar with the firing mechanics before 10:00 p.m. Focus strictly on close-range targets. And remember Edgar—always aim for the head. If your shot misses, you're a corpse."
The cold reality of her words made Edgar's stomach twist with nervousness. 'Can I actually survive this night?'
A few minutes later, they arrived at the training center. The facility was incredibly spacious, lined with reinforced concrete walls designed to absorb heavy impacts. Nina led him through a set of automated doors into a specialized close-quarters shooting range. Several other recruits and low-tier personnel already occupied the firing lanes, the air thick with the smell of burnt gunpowder and the repetitive cracks of small-arms fire. Most of them were working with handguns, desperately trying to familiarize themselves with new equipment.
"This is your lane," Nina said. She stepped up to the control platform and tapped her key card against the interface. A small display lit up, deducting points from her profile. 'So that's how you rent a slot here,' Edgar noted internally.
"The range charges credits by the hour," Nina explained, drawing her own heavy, silver-plated handgun from her holster. "For this session, I'll cover the cost using my personal allowance—it's two credits per hour. You can repay me once you survive your first paycheck."
She stepped into a classic combat stance, aligning her sights with a steel target shaped like a human silhouette.
Ctingg...! Ctingg...!
Two sharp metallic clangs echoed as her first two bullets found their mark, followed by a dull crack as her third shot clipped the outer edge of the frame. She grimmaced slightly. Even a seasoned Tier 2 combatant could miss under pressure.
"Now it's your turn," Nina said, stepping back to give him space. "Perform repetitive cycles of ten shots. Each successful hit will calculate your base accuracy on the monitor. Make every round count. I can't stay to watch the rest of your session; I have my own tactical preparations to finalize before tonight. One last thing—if you run out of ammunition, take your empty magazines to the armorer at the back desk. Standard training ammunition is completely free, but extra physical magazines cost credits. Since you only have the one gun, you'll have to walk back and forth to refill your mag every time you run dry."
She looked at him one last time, her narrow eyes cold but serious. "I hope whatever muscle memory you manage to build in the next few hours is enough to keep you breathing. Remember: target the head, and keep your stability above sixty percent accuracy. See you before ten."
With that, she turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Edgar alone in the loud, smoky firing lane.
Ctingg...!
Edgar squeezed the trigger for the first time. The mechanical recoil jerked his wrist, but the sound of metal striking metal echoed back cleanly. His very first bullet had smacked right into the center of the steel plate.
A wide, cocky grin spread across his face. 'Am I a natural genius at marksmanship too?' he thought, chuckling to himself. This handgun felt incredibly balanced, and the recoil didn't kick nearly as hard as he had anticipated. All he needed to do was mimic Nina's exact skeletal posture, lock his elbows, and grip the frame firmly with both hands.
Reassured, he reset his footing, tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white, and rapidly pulled the trigger four more times.
Creak... crukkk... shiuuuu... ctingg... shiuuu.
Edgar blinked, staring at the distant silhouette in utter disbelief. Out of his five-shot burst, only one bullet had actually clipped the metal plate. Two of the rounds had completely missed the entire backboard, burying themselves harmlessly into the rubberized background wall.
The smug grin vanished instantly. 'What the hell? Am I actually not a genius? Me? The future genius who's supposed to stand equal to the legendary Einsteinn?'
A cold sweat broke out across his neck. The reality of the coming midnight operation settled over him like a suffocating blanket. He needed to take this seriously, or he wouldn't live long enough to see tomorrow's sunrise.
For the next several hours, Edgar threw himself into the training. His arms grew heavy, his shoulders ached from the continuous tension, and the repetitive concussive blasts began to make his ears ring. Every time his slide locked back, indicating an empty magazine, he jogged back to the ammunition desk, refilled the casing, and hurried back to his lane to shoot again.
Ctingg... Cting... Creak... Shiuuu... Shiuuu.
"FUCK!" Edgar barked, his voice raw from the gunpowder smoke as another pair of rounds went wide. "Why is this so damn hard?!"