Averikan Territory — Fort Talon
Age: 12–13
Netoshka learned quickly that Averika smelled different from Rosalvya.
Not cleaner. Not richer.
Just… louder.
The air itself felt inflated — saturated with confidence, chatter, engines, marching boots that struck pavement like the world owed them space. Even the sky above Fort Talon seemed broader, bluer, as if it had been stretched to accommodate the nation beneath it.
She stood in line with the others, hands behind her back, posture perfect. Her file name here was Anna. She repeated it silently like a prayer.
Anna. Anna. Anna.
Names were tools. Tools were disposable.
The Averikan drill instructor paced before them, mirrored shades reflecting twelve cadets at attention — boys and girls barely into adolescence, all wearing identical gray uniforms stripped of insignia.
"Welcome to Fort Talon Military Academy," he barked.
"You're here because you were selected. Not lucky. Selected."
Netoshka's eyes remained forward. Peripheral vision only. She counted exits. Windows. Cameras. The nearest weapon rack.
She had already memorized the building schematics three days ago.
THE SQUAD
They placed her with Squad C-7.
Six others. All sleepers. All Rosalvyan assets.
She knew this because she could feel them.
Not emotionally — Netoshka did not think in such terms — but neurologically. A subtle distortion in the air around them. Like static barely beneath hearing range. Psychic dampeners buried deep, same make, same calibration.
They introduced themselves using their cover names.
She acknowledged them politely and forgot them immediately.
Attachments create inefficiency.
That was Colonel Sokolov's voice, smooth and paternal, echoing in her mind.
"You do not need comrades, Anna. You need clarity."
She trained harder than the others. Faster reflexes. Sharper marksmanship. When instructors paired them for sparring, she ended matches quickly — controlled joint breaks, pressure points applied without hesitation.
The others began to fear her.
Good.
Fear maintained distance.
THE TOWN
The liberty pass came two months later.
A test disguised as a privilege.
They were escorted into a nearby Averikan town — shops, neon signs, civilians laughing openly. No ration lines. No watchtowers. Children ran through streets without fear of artillery.
Netoshka observed everything.
This is what they defend, she thought, clinically.
She split from her escort briefly — intentionally. A deviation within acceptable parameters. She wanted to see how the system responded.
That was when she heard shouting.
An alleyway. Narrow. Three older boys surrounding someone smaller.
A local boy. Dark hair. Bruised lip. Hands shaking but clenched.
Netoshka stepped in before she consciously decided to.
"Leave," she said.
The boys turned. Smirked.
"This ain't your business, freak."
She assessed them in under a second.
No weapons. Poor balance. Excess confidence.
She moved.
It took twelve seconds.
A broken wrist. A knee dislocated. One slammed into a dumpster hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. She stopped herself before lethal force — not out of mercy, but discipline.
The boy stared at her, wide-eyed.
"Please don't hurt me?"
"I won't do anything to you, however i must ask, why did they gang up on you? Ans what is your name?" Netoshka replied.
"M-Myy name's Jer... they ganged up on me because they always pick on the weaker ones.."
Netoshka took that info for granted, and told him this:
"Well, you must find ways to defend yourself ya know? You don't want to always allow others to bully you until you break, or else you will lose yourself completely, stand up and fight back"
Jer, who was in awe of netoshka's speech was very intrigued and asked for her name.
"What is your name? If i may ask.."
She hesitated.
Names were dangerous.
"…Anna."
He smiled.
It felt… strange.
THE ANOMALY
They met twice more.
Brief encounters. Conversations about nothing important. School. Food. Stories about his abusive family, About wanting to leave town someday.
Netoshka listened.
She did not know why.
There was no tactical advantage.
Yet something in her chest felt… misaligned afterward. Like a piece shifted out of its proper slot.
That night, the Voice stirred.
Attachment detected, it murmured — colder than Sokolov's, older.
Deviation introduces vulnerability.
She increased her meditation cycles. Suppressed the feeling.
Jer became a variable she planned to eliminate from thought.
THE COMPROMISE
Three weeks later, she returned from training to silence.
Too much silence.
Squad C-7's quarters were open.
Blood on the walls. Not splatter — execution patterns. Efficient. Professional.
She checked pulses.
None.
Her breath did not change.
Her mind accelerated.
Cover blown.
She moved instantly. Burned identifiers. Destroyed her issued comm unit. Altered her appearance — hair bound differently, posture shifted.
Extraction point. Now.
She ran.
But the streets felt wrong.
Too empty.
She doubled back toward the alley.
"Jer?" she called once.
No answer.
The space where he usually waited was vacant. No trace. No psychic residue. Clean removal.
A lesson.
CAPTURE
She did not see the team until it was too late.
No uniforms. No insignia. Perfect spacing. Non-lethal rounds.
Professional.
Averikan military did not move like this.
She fought anyway.
Telekinesis flared — dampened, but lethal enough to fracture pavement. She nearly escaped.
Nearly.
A shock collar activated. Psychic suppression surged through her skull like ice water.
As darkness crept in, she caught a glimpse of one man kneeling beside her.
Not Rosalvyan. Not Averikan military.
Intelligence.
"Easy," he said calmly.
"You're safe now."
She tried to scream.
TRANSITION
When she woke, she was restrained.
Dark room. Dim light, No corners. No sense of time.
The Voice was quiet.
Sokolov was gone.
For the first time since birth, Netoshka felt something dangerously close to fear.
And somewhere deep inside her fractured mind, something else was watching — patient, curious, waiting to speak.