Jones opened his eyes.
Light assaulted him instantly—harsh, white, unforgiving. It flooded his vision until instinctively he tried to raise a hand to shield his face.
Nothing happened.
He lay staring at a white ceiling, smooth and seamless, like it had been carved from a single slab. The walls around him matched it perfectly, broken only by a large glass screen directly in front of him. The room felt sterile, artificial—less like a hospital and more like a research unit.
Where… am I?
He became aware of the surface beneath him. It wasn't a bed. It was too firm, too cold, too precise. Whatever material it was, it didn't feel human.
As his vision slowly adjusted, figures came into focus.
People in white coats.
They stood around him in a loose semicircle, frozen in place, staring at him with wide eyes—as if they had just seen a ghost rise from the dead.
Jones tried to speak.
His mouth didn't move.
Before panic could fully set in, a sudden surge of pain exploded inside his head.
It wasn't sharp—it was overwhelming. Like information being forced into him all at once. Data. Systems. Schematics. His vision blurred as his head throbbed violently.
The last clear memory slammed into him.
The Dark Tower.
The trap.
Delta falling.
Beta screaming.
Stealth's voice cutting out.
"No…" he tried to whisper.
Inside his mind, something shifted.
"Quickly! Inform the head scientist!" one of the researchers shouted. "Number sixteen has regained consciousness!"
"Call the guards!"
The room erupted into chaos.
Jones realized something strange—despite the noise, despite the overlapping voices, he could hear everything with unnatural clarity. Even as the researchers rushed out, their footsteps fading down the corridor, their words still reached him.
"Back to life…"
"Subject sixteen…"
"Guards, now!"
Number sixteen?
What the hell are they talking about?
Footsteps thundered closer, heavy and fast.
A cold thought crept into his mind.
Should I run… or stay still?
Jones had never been the type to wait for things to happen to him.
He made his decision in a split second.
He forced his body to move.
At first, it felt wrong—delayed, heavy, like his limbs weren't responding naturally. He pushed himself upright, swung his legs over the side—
And collapsed.
His face hit the white tiles with a sharp crack.
Pain registered, but it felt muted. Different.
Gritting his teeth, Jones pushed himself back up, only to see a guard rushing toward him, electric baton raised high.
Before Jones could react—
"Defense mode activated."
The voice came from inside his head.
His body moved on its own.
His arm snapped up with impossible speed, intercepting the baton mid-swing. The impact sent a violent jolt through him.
"Right arm damage overload. Shutting down system for self-repair."
Jones barely had time to process the words before the world tilted. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, and his legs gave out.
He hit the floor again—this time unconscious.
When he woke again, everything felt… restrained.
He was sitting upright now, locked inside a reinforced room. Cold metal walls replaced the sterile white. Two guards stood at attention on either side of the door, weapons ready, eyes fixed on him.
Jones stared down at his hands.
They weren't hands.
They were metal.
Smooth, dark alloy shaped like human limbs, but unmistakably artificial. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching joints and servos respond with perfect precision.
His chest tightened.
A voice in my head.
A body that isn't mine.
They called me number sixteen.
"What's going on?" he muttered. His voice sounded the same—but echoed slightly, like it didn't fully belong to him.
"Why am I… like this?"
Footsteps approached.
Heavy doors slid open with a hiss.
A woman stepped inside.
She wore a pristine white coat, her expression calm, controlled, and sharp. Her eyes studied him not with fear—but with calculation.
"Good," she said. "You're awake."
Jones looked up at her. "You're going to start explaining. Now."
She didn't flinch.
"My name is Dr. Sylvia," she said. "Head scientist of this division."
Jones clenched his metal fists. "Why was I called number sixteen?"
Dr. Sylvia met his gaze. "Because you are the sixteenth integration."
The words hit harder than any weapon.
She explained everything.
The mission. The ambush. His body being beyond saving. His brain—barely alive. The decision to transplant it into a newly developed droid frame. A last resort. An experiment no one expected to work.
"You were declared dead," she finished. "But your mind survived."
Jones was silent.
Images of Team Z filled his thoughts.
"They died," he said quietly.
"Yes," Dr. Sylvia replied. "And you didn't."
His jaw tightened.
"Why lock me up?"
"Because you woke up early," she answered honestly. "And unstable."
She turned toward the door. "Come. There's somewhere you need to be."
The guards escorted him through long corridors until they reached a massive reinforced chamber. Training equipment lined the walls. Target drones hovered silently. The floor bore the scars of past tests.
Dr. Sylvia gestured forward.
"This is your new beginning."
Jones stepped inside.
As the doors sealed shut behind him, he felt the systems within his body come alive—power humming beneath metal skin.
His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface of the wall.
Not human.
Not machine.
"They took everything from us," he said softly.
His fists clenched.
"I won't waste this second chance."
In the silence of the training room, Jones made his decision.
The droids would pay.
Every last one of them.