Chapter 4: Pleasant Kidnapping

  The past 30 minutes passed in a blur—literally. Rusty’s gym, a kaleidoscope of shouts, flashing lights, and the distinct sensation of being dragged through a hallway that smelled like burnt popcorn. Consciousness flickered in and out like a dying lighter.

  Then—snap—reality rebooted.

  He was slumped in a chair that was so aggressively ergonomic that it felt like it was cradling him in an intimate embrace. The room reeked of lemon disinfectant and existential dread. Across a mahogany desk sat a woman who looked like a suburban book club host who’d discovered dark magic. Her bifocals were comically thick, magnifying eyes the colour of expired aspirin.

  “Ah, you’re back with us!” Her voice was warm milk laced with arsenic. “How’s the head, dear? Temporal displacement can be such a nuisance.”

  Calum’s tongue felt woolly, his thoughts slogging through molasses. “Did… did you roofie me?”

  She laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. “Such a vulgar term. Let’s say we… expedited your commute. Coffee?” She slid a porcelain cup toward him. It smelled wrong—like almonds and bad intentions.

  He didn’t touch it. “Where’s Margo?”

  “Unimportant.” She slid a photo across the desk: a security still of him fusing the duct tape and plate. “Your power’s volatility is fascinating. How many objects can you fuse before losing coherence?”

  Calum’s tongue felt like it had been dry-cleaned. “Margo?”

  Rolling her eyes at his repeated question she spoke "Oh, she’s fine. A little distracted, perhaps.” The woman tapped her tablet, and security footage bloomed on the wall: Margo outside Meta-Fit, arguing with a small army of police officers.

  Calum’s fingers twitched. The threads here were different—synthetic, sterile.

  “What do you want?”

  “Straight to business! I admire that.” She steepled her hands. “You can call me Dr. Voss. I’m here to discuss your potential. That little stunt with the fly? Fascinating. We haven't seen a power that could do something similar in decades. Not since…”

  “But let’s not dwell on the past.” Dr. Voss slid a file across the desk.

  The file cover bore a blood-red X . Dr. Voss’s manicured nail tapped the symbol. “You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Vey. X-grade. A designation reserved for powers with… existential scalability.”

  Calum snorted. “My registry card says C-class. ‘Low-risk manipulator, non-combative applications.’”

  “A necessary fiction.” Dr. Voss’s smile tightened. “We don’t announce X-classifications to the recipients. We smile, we stall, we let you think you’re harmless while the Blackstone Division races to your location."

  The words hit like a gut punch. Calum’s grip whitened on the chair. “You’re saying I could—what, crack the planet open?”

  "Precisely. Hence your draft notice.” She leaned in, bifocals reflecting his pale face like funhouse mirrors.

  Calum’s throat constricted. The room’s sterile threads hummed louder now.

  Dr Voss stood, smoothing her pumpkin-spice cardigan. “The good news? You’re being fast-tracked into Vanguard. Top-tier training, purpose-driven community. Any questions”

  Calum’s voice frayed. “What if I refuse?”

  Her grin widened, all teeth and no warmth. “ That's the fun part, you can't.”

  ***

  Being kidnapped by the government wasn’t nearly as bad as Calum had imagined. The facility he now called home was essentially a five-star hotel—Michelin-level cuisine, impeccable service, and amenities that would make even the most jaded executive blush. Still, the subtle tension in the eyes of the staff made it abundantly clear: to the powers that be, Calum was less a guest and more a walking, ticking arsenal of potential destruction.

  But now he found himself in a place significantly more familiar. After all, he’d spent nearly a decade in a similar environment in his previous life—a college-style lecture hall. This one was modest, seating at most a hundred people, yet at this moment, it lay completely empty. He had been escorted here by a small army of soldiers who offered no instructions or directions. Although it was pretty clear this is presumably a part of the so-called "top tier training" he was meant to receive.

  The old wooden double doors behind him creaked open, groaning like coffin lid being pried open. A figure stepped inside—a tall, dark-haired college-aged kid. Standing there he looked like someone had fed an Abercrombie catalogue into an AI art generator—jawline sharp enough to cut glass, hair styled by a team of wind machines.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  His eyebrows knit into a frown as he scanned the room. When his gaze landed on Calum, a puzzled expression bloomed across his face. He backtracked swiftly, ducking into the hallway to verify the room number. Calum heard a muffled “Huh,” followed by the squeak of sneakers returning. The guy strode back in, raking a hand through artfully tousled hair.

  The stranger’s sneakers squeaked against polished linoleum as he slouched into the seats directly in front of Calum, sprawling across three chairs like a sunbathing cat. He threw a casual grin over his shoulder, the kind of smile that belonged on a toothpaste commercial or a cult leader.

  “You waiting for Orientation too?” he asked, his voice all lazy confidence.

  Calum blinked. “Uh… maybe?”

  “Hah! Well, that’s reassuring.” The Stranger pivoted, extending a hand that glinted with a silver thumb ring shaped like a serpent. “Name’s Enoch. Nice to meet you. I’m new here, so… y’know. Go easy on me.”

  Calum stared at the hand and then shook it “Ha. Join the club. I’m still half-convinced this is a fever dream.”

  Enoch plopped backwards into the seat beside him. “Right? Place is wild. Got picked up yesterday after I, uh… 'allegedly' did a little domestic terrorism. Long story. You?”

  Just as Calum opened his mouth to respond, the doors creaked open again—this time disgorging a small crowd. His eyes flicked over the newcomers. The group split like oil and water: a handful in civilian clothes and a larger contingent of college-aged kids clad in light grey and burgundy uniforms that screamed military academy meets Hunger Games cosplay.

  The uniformed pack moved with eerie synchronicity, marching into the first two centre rows like they’d rehearsed it in a previous life. Their jackets bore a crest—an eagle clutching a lightning bolt in its talons—and their stares carried the warmth of freshly sharpened scalpels as they glanced at the "civilians". One girl with a platinum braid coiled tighter than a noose actually tsked when a guy in a Nirvana shirt tripped over his own laces.

  Enoch leaned over, stage-whispering, “Bet you five bucks the one with the braid has a stick shoved so far up her bum that it shows when she opens her mouth."

  “She also apparently has quite good hearing,” Calum muttered as the woman hit Enoch with a glare sharp enough to flay skin.

  Enoch twisted in his seat, meeting her death-ray gaze with a lazy wave. “Y’know what? On second look, she’s kinda cute. Like a haunted porcelain doll.”

  "Ahem."

  The sound cracked through the room like a gavel. Behind the lectern stood a man so aggressively professorial he might as well have been assembled from clichés: tweed blazer with elbow patches, thin-rimmed circular glasses and a beard trimmed to mathematically precise scruff.

  The man’s fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the lectern, his gaze sweeping the room with the intensity of a hawk eyeing field mice. The uniformed students snapped to attention, spines rigid as steel rods.

  Then, like a deflated balloon, his posture crumpled into something far more casual. He slouched against the lectern, grinning like a kid who’d just shoplifted a jawbreaker. “Hah! Look at all your faces. Priceless."

  After taking a moment to recompose himself he spoke up again " I’m Provost Cain, head chef of this little experimental dumpster fire. Typically, we babysit X-grades one-on-one. But lately?” He whistled while mimicking a plane taking off with his hand. “Turns out apocalyptic demigods are trending. So the higher-ups decided dumping you all into the S-grade class might ‘promote camaraderie’ or whatever HR bull they’re peddling."

  “Well!” Cain clapped, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Enough dilly-dallying. Let’s make our way to the playground.” He strode toward the doors, tweed jacket flapping like a demented cape.

  Enoch twisted toward Calum, eyebrows raised. “Wasn’t this supposed to be a lecture course?”

  Calum shrugged. “Not a clue, man.”

  The S-grades rebooted like glitching androids, their pristine composure briefly short-circuiting at Cain’s whiplash tone. They rose in unison, marching after him with the enthusiasm of condemned prisoners. The platinum-braided girl lingered, shooting Enoch a look that could curdle milk.

  ***

  The walk to the training hall confirmed two things:

  Enoch had never encountered a silence he couldn’t smother with chatter.

  He was weirdly good at it.

  By the time they arrived, Calum knew about Enoch’s obsession with vintage sneakers, his hatred of cilantro (“tastes like soap and lies”), and his theory that the facility was built on an ancient alien burial ground (“explains the WiFi dead zones”).

  “—and that’s why I’m banned from PetSmart,” Enoch finished, just as Cain shoved open a pair of blast doors with a dramatic flourish.

  The training hall wasn’t a room. It was a landscape. The vaulted ceiling soared high enough to house storm clouds, and the floor stretched into a horizon line of polished black composite. It looked less like a gym and more like an obsidian hellscape and at the far end, a cluster of combat drones hung dormant in charging cradles, their faceless heads tilted skyward like worshippers of the dark gods that called this place their home.

  Calum’s eyes snagged on the ceiling—ribbed with glowing conduits that pulsed like veins. The threads here were alive, humming with a predatory static that made his molars ache.

  Enoch whistled. “Could fit a Walmart in here.”

  “Several,” Cain corrected. “But let’s start small.” He snapped his fingers, and panels in the floor disgorged what looked like nightmare playground equipment: obstacle courses studded with rotating blades, floating drones armed with paintball guns firing neon gel, and a pit filled with—

  “Is that lava?” an X-grade girl squeaked.

  “Molten wax,” Cain said. “Same scream, less cleanup.”

  Cain hopped onto a floating platform, hands jammed in his pockets. “Welcome to the Sandbox! Today’s agenda?” He snapped his fingers.

  Holograms exploded into being LIMIT TESTING!!! :D. The S-grades stiffened, recognition flashing across their faces. The rest of them just looked nauseous.