The world was a blur of harsh fluorescent light and a steady, sterile hum. Eleven blinked against the brightness above her, her head throbbing as though her thoughts were fighting to surface from a thick fog. The cold metal beneath her hands felt foreign, and the faint smell of antiseptic stung her nostrils.
Her fingers twitched instinctively, reaching up to the unfamiliar weight around her neck. The smooth, metallic band pressed against her skin—a Soteria device. Her trembling hands fumbled with it, her breath quickening as panic began to claw its way through the haze.
Before she could find the latch, a wave of dizziness rolled over her. Eleven gasped as the room spun wildly, her strength vanishing in an instant. She collapsed back onto the hospital bed, her vision darkening at the edges.
A steady hand caught her shoulder, guiding her down gently. Through the haze, she recognized the face hovering above her—calm, calculating, and painfully familiar.
"It's only a precaution, Eleven," Dr. Brenner said, his voice a controlled murmur. The clinical detachment in his tone grated against the softness of his touch. "I never intend to activate it. I very much hope our fighting has come to an end."
Eleven's gaze narrowed, her groggy mind struggling to process his words. Her body refused to respond, but the mistrust in her eyes was unmistakable.
Brenner hesitated, his gaze searching hers for any hint of understanding—or perhaps agreement. When none came, he adjusted the blanket over her with mechanical precision before stepping away.
The sharp, rhythmic wail of an alarm shattered the sterile silence, accompanied by red lights strobing against the cold, white walls. The sound grew louder, echoing through the hallways like a warning siren before an air raid.
Dr. Brenner emerged from Eleven's room, his expression hardening as he stepped into the chaos. The once-ordered corridors of the Nina Project were now a frenzy of movement. Scientists in lab coats rushed past him, their faces pale with panic, while guards barked orders, their radios crackling with fragmented updates.
Brenner's eyes darted between the flashing lights and the scattering personnel. His calm veneer fractured only slightly as he grabbed the arm of a passing soldier, forcing the man to halt mid-stride.
"What's going on?" Brenner demanded, his voice clipped and authoritative.
The soldier barely managed to meet his gaze, his breath quick and shallow. "It's Sullivan," he stammered. "They found us."
Brenner's jaw tightened, the words settling like a weight in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he didn't move, his mind working rapidly behind his cold, calculating eyes.
"Secure the entrances," Brenner ordered, releasing the soldier's arm with a sharp motion. "And prepare to initiate lockdown procedures."
The soldier nodded before sprinting down the hall, disappearing into the crimson-hued chaos. Brenner turned back toward Eleven's room, his steps purposeful but laced with urgency. The time for controlled experiments was over.
The desert stretched wide and unbroken, a barren wasteland of cracked earth and jagged rock under a relentless sun. The only sign of life came in the form of two military helicopters circling like vultures, their blades chopping through the dry, oppressive air. Below them, a convoy of military vehicles formed a tight perimeter around a small, unassuming surface entrance to the Nina Project bunker.
Dust and grit whipped across the scene as soldiers in tactical gear moved with precision, their weapons glinting in the harsh sunlight. At the center of the operation stood Lt. Col. Jack Sullivan, his calm authority radiating as he surveyed the scene. His sharp, assessing gaze moved between his men and the nondescript metal hatch embedded into the ground—a door that now stood as the only barrier between him and his target.
"Set the charges," Sullivan ordered, his voice carrying over the sound of the helicopter blades.
A pair of soldiers moved quickly, crouching by the hatch as they secured explosive sheets to its edges. The rest of the team pulled back, taking cover behind the vehicles. Sullivan stood tall, his stance unyielding even as dust swirled around him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"Charges are set!" one of the soldiers called out, his voice muffled by his helmet.
Sullivan raised a hand, signaling for the detonation. "On my command," he barked.
The soldier's finger hovered over the trigger. "Three! Two! One!"
The desert air exploded with a deafening boom as the hatch blasted inward, sending shards of metal and debris flying in all directions. The ground shuddered beneath their boots, the once-quiet landscape now a cacophony of chaos and ringing ears.
Sullivan didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise. "Go, go, go!"
The soldiers surged forward, pouring into the darkened abyss below, their boots crunching over scattered debris. Sullivan followed close behind, his expression unreadable but his pace steady.
The Nina Project's labyrinthine halls had been sterile and silent moments ago, their white walls and fluorescent lights pristine and clinical. Now, they pulsed with red emergency lights and echoed with the blaring wail of sirens. Scientists raced through the corridors, clutching computer monitors, data drives, and hastily packed files, their panicked shouts blending into the cacophony.
"Move out! Go!" Guards shouted as they directed the chaos, their rifles gripped tightly in gloved hands.
"Evacuate now!" another voice bellowed.
Overhead, the PA system droned an automated warning, calm yet unnerving against the chaos. "Evacuate immediately. Please proceed to the nearest exit. This is not a drill. Evacuate immediately…"
Amid the pandemonium, guards took their positions, forming a defensive line down one of the long, sterile hallways. Their shields were raised, rifles trained on the far end of the corridor. The bright fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their usual stark glare interrupted by the strobing red emergency lights.
And then the lights began to flicker.
One by one, the overhead fluorescents sputtered and died, plunging the hallway into an eerie darkness. The red emergency lights cast jagged shadows along the walls, creating a fragmented, almost otherworldly glow. The only sound was the faint hum of the PA system continuing its relentless announcement.
The silence that followed was deafening. The guards shifted nervously, their fingers tightening on their triggers.
Then came the boom.
The force of the underground breach echoed through the bunker, shaking the walls and sending loose equipment crashing to the floor. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling as the air filled with the sharp tang of explosives.
The guards braced themselves, their weapons aimed into the black void of the corridor ahead. A faint, metallic clinking grew louder, boots crunching on the tile floor as the military forces began to push through the underground perimeter.
"Hold the line!" one of the guards shouted, his voice hoarse with urgency.
The war zone was no longer hypothetical. It had come to them.
The sterile hum of the facility was gone, replaced by distant gunfire and the heavy clang of boots on metal floors. Dr. Brenner moved with purpose, his normally composed demeanor cracked by urgency. He pushed open the door to Eleven's room, his sharp gaze scanning the dimly lit space.
Eleven lay slumped on the hospital bed, her limbs heavy and uncooperative as the remnants of sedation clung to her like a weight she couldn't shake. Her head turned weakly toward the door, her unfocused eyes narrowing as she registered Brenner's presence.
"What... is happening?" she mumbled, her voice hoarse and barely audible.
Brenner didn't answer immediately. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his movements precise as he crouched by her side. His hands moved to lift her, his strength belying his age as he scooped her into his arms.
"They've come to kill you," he said, his voice low but firm.
Eleven's brow furrowed, her body instinctively flinching at his words, though she lacked the energy to protest. Brenner adjusted his hold on her, his expression a mix of frustration and determination as he carried her toward the door.
The hallway outside was a war zone.
The sharp staccato of gunfire echoed through the labyrinthine corridors, punctuated by the occasional scream and the metallic clang of falling debris.
Emergency lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows along the walls.
Brenner moved swiftly, his steps measured despite the chaos around him. Eleven's head lolled against his chest as she struggled to stay conscious, her mind a foggy swirl of confusion and fear.
"Where... are we going?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"To safety," Brenner replied curtly, his jaw tight. "You'll understand soon."
A deafening explosion somewhere in the distance shook the walls, and Brenner adjusted his grip on Eleven as a cloud of dust and smoke rolled through the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as the sounds of Sullivan's forces grew closer.
"We don't have much time," he muttered to himself, his pace quickening.
The chaos in the Nina Project facility was suffocating, but Lt. Col. Jack Sullivan moved through it with unsettling calm. His polished boots echoed against the tile floor as he strode through the labyrinthine hallways, flanked by a squad of heavily armed soldiers.
"Clear!" a soldier called out from a nearby room, his voice sharp and clipped.
Sullivan didn't break stride as the man stepped back into the hallway, his rifle slung across his chest. "Quarter and search by twos," Sullivan ordered, his voice calm but laced with authority.
"Hicks, take the upper level."
"Yes, sir," came the crisp reply, and a smaller team broke off, their boots pounding against the grated stairs as they ascended.
The squad moved with military precision, sweeping each room in methodical silence. Sullivan's presence was like gravity, pulling everything around him into sharp focus. His expression remained unreadable, his movements deliberate as he stepped over the occasional body left in his soldiers' wake.
"Evacuate immediately. Please proceed to the nearest exit," the automated PA announcement droned overhead, its monotone voice eerily calm amid the carnage.
In the distance, a soldier's voice crackled through a radio, muffled by static. "Sir? We found something you're gonna wanna see."
Sullivan paused, tilting his head slightly toward the radio before lifting his own to respond. "Go ahead."
"It's one of the labs, sir," the soldier continued, his tone uneasy. "There's... data. A lot of it. Experiments."
Sullivan's lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Secure it," he ordered, his voice as steady as ever. "I'll be there shortly."
As the radio cut out, Sullivan's gaze swept the darkened hallway ahead, his steps resuming their steady cadence.
He didn't need to hurry. The inevitable was already closing in.
The room was stark and cold, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, sterile glow. Dr. Owens sat slumped in a chair at the center of the room, his hands cuffed in front of him. His clothes were rumpled, his face lined with exhaustion, but his eyes remained steady—calm even, though the faint hum of chaos outside the room's steel walls was impossible to ignore.
The rhythmic click of boots echoed through the hallway, growing louder with each deliberate step until they reached the door. It opened with a metallic groan, and Lt. Col. Jack Sullivan stepped inside, his posture as rigid as his expression. The faint glow of the emergency lights outside the door highlighted the sharp lines of his jaw, his movements controlled and methodical as he approached the table.
He didn't speak at first, letting the sound of his boots hitting the concrete fill the room as he crossed to Owens. Sullivan's hands rested behind his back, his presence exuding quiet menace as he stopped just short of the table, looming over his captive.
"Well, well," Sullivan drawled, his voice low and laced with mockery. He tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze raking over Owens as if evaluating every crack in the man's resolve. "And what happened here? Hmm?" He paused, his lip curling into a faint smirk. "Are Mommy and Daddy fighting?"
Owens didn't flinch. His shoulders remained square, his cuffed hands resting calmly on the table. When he finally responded, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Okay."
Sullivan chuckled, the sound dry and humorless as he leaned forward slightly, his palms pressing against the edge of the table. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he said, his tone smooth but carrying an undercurrent of threat. His face was inches from Owens now, his eyes narrowing. "Where's the girl?"
The question hung in the air like a dagger, but Owens didn't waver. His silence was pointed, his steady glare meeting Sullivan's with quiet defiance.
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in around the two men as the tension thickened. The distant sounds of the assault—the faint rumble of explosions, the distant bark of gunfire—were muffled but ever-present, a reminder of the stakes beyond this small room.
Sullivan straightened slowly, his gaze still locked on Owens. He took a measured step back, clasping his hands behind his back once more. "You know," he said conversationally, his voice dripping with calculated menace, "I've found that everyone has a breaking point."
Owens didn't reply, his silence louder than any words.
For a long moment, Sullivan simply stood there, his penetrating gaze unwavering. He didn't need to rush. Time, after all, was on his side.
The wind howled mercilessly, carrying a haze of sand and dust that blurred the harsh desert horizon. The barren landscape stretched endlessly, broken only by the small, gaping entrance to the Nina Project bunker. Dr. Brenner stumbled into the open, his arms straining to hold Eleven's limp form.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed and unfocused, her body still heavy with sedation. The Soteria device around her neck glinted dully in the faint sunlight that pierced through the swirling storm. Brenner grunted as he adjusted his grip, his movements slowed by exhaustion and the weight of the moment.
The sharp crack of warning shots shattered the desert's eerie quiet.
Bullets ricocheted off the rocky terrain around him, kicking up shards of stone and sending shockwaves of adrenaline through his already taxed body.
Brenner staggered, nearly dropping to one knee as a shot grazed uncomfortably close. His breath came in ragged bursts, his graying hair whipped into disarray by the fierce wind.
Above, helicopters circled like vultures, their rotors a deafening roar against the desert's ominous stillness. From a high vantage point on a nearby ridge, two snipers crouched, their rifles trained on the fleeing figure below.
The first sniper smirked, his voice crackling over the radio. "Where do you think you're going, Doc?" he drawled, his tone mocking as he adjusted his scope.
The second sniper remained silent, his eye pressed firmly to his sight. He steadied his breath, the crosshairs of his rifle tracking Brenner's every labored step.
Sniper one chuckled, tilting his head as if enjoying the chase. "Why don't you give 'em some lead?"
"I got it," Sniper two replied flatly, his voice devoid of humor.
The rifle kicked against his shoulder as the first shot rang out.
The first bullet struck Brenner in the side, spinning him slightly as a sharp, guttural cry escaped his lips. He stumbled but didn't fall, his grip on Eleven tightening as if sheer willpower alone could carry him forward.
Another shot tore through his shoulder, and his body jerked violently under the impact. Still, he refused to let her go, his blood leaving a dark trail in the sand behind him.
The snipers fired again, their volley relentless. Bullets ripped through him, shattering bone and tearing muscle until his legs finally gave out beneath him.
Brenner collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud, a weak grunt escaping his lips as blood pooled rapidly beneath his broken form.
Eleven lay cradled in his arms, her head rolling slightly as she blinked up at the helicopters above. Her dazed gaze took in the carnage around her-the crimson stains on Brenner's shirt, the sand caked with blood, the ominous shadows of the circling aircraft. She tried to move, but her body remained powerless, the Soteria device holding her in check.
"Down he goes," Sniper two muttered, lowering his rifle.
Sniper one pressed a finger to his radio.
"Victor-Two-Sierra, this is Charlie-Lima-Golf. Do you copy, over?"
The helicopters hovered ominously, their rotors stirring the sand into a storm as the radio crackled with faint replies.
Back inside the Nina Project facility, the chaos of the assault was muffled by thick steel walls and concrete floors.
The fluorescent lights cast a harsh, unflattering glow over the small office, where Dr. Owens sat slumped at the table. His hands were still cuffed in front of him, his expression strained but controlled.
Lt. Col. Sullivan stood a few feet away, his posture relaxed, one hand resting casually on the edge of the table. In his other hand, he held a radio, the faint chatter of his snipers crackling through the receiver.
"Victor-Two-Sierra, report," Sullivan said calmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel.
The radio buzzed before a voice replied.
"Target neutralized. Over."
Sullivan didn't react. He set the radio down gently on the table, his eyes shifting to Owens. "It's over," he said, his tone as cold as the fluorescent glare above.
Owens' jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. His hands clenched slightly, his knuckles white against the steel cuffs.
Sullivan smiled faintly, his gaze unwavering. "You tried to save her. I'll give you that. But in the end, you knew how this would go."
The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the faint, distant echoes of the battle raging deeper within the facility.
The cold, fluorescent light of the room reflected off Lt. Col. Sullivan's polished boots as he stood near the edge of the metal table. He picked up the radio, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical, as if he were already rehearsing the outcome in his mind.
"Victor-Two-Sierra, I copy. Over," Sullivan said, his voice steady, devoid of emotion.
The radio crackled before Sniper 1's voice came through, clear but tinged with anticipation. "We've got the target in our sights. Requesting permission to take the shot. Over."
Sullivan didn't respond immediately. He placed the radio down on the table gently, as if weighing the enormity of the decision he was about to make. His gaze shifted to Owens, who sat across from him, cuffed and powerless.
Owens' hands tightened into fists, the chain of the handcuffs rattling slightly against the metal table. He could feel the inevitability of Sullivan's next move pressing down on him like a weight.
"No," Owens said suddenly, his voice cracking the silence. He leaned forward, his desperation boiling over as he fixed Sullivan with a pleading stare. "Jack, you don't have to do this."
Sullivan's eyes didn't flinch. He straightened his posture slightly, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke, his tone flat. "It's over, Sam."
"Wait! Wait! Wait!" Owens' voice rose, the cuffs on his wrists clanging against the table as he gestured wildly. "I can put her in a coma. A medically induced coma. We have the drugs—we can do it right here, right now."
Sullivan's expression didn't change, but he paused. His silence was the only opening Owens needed.
"If you're right," Owens continued, his voice frantic, "if this is all because of her, the killing ends. And you can pull the plug on her. In fact, I'll do it myself."
Sullivan's lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it was devoid of warmth. "And if I'm wrong?"
Owens leaned in further, his voice trembling but determined. "If you're wrong about this... God, Jack, are we gonna need her. You know that. You've seen what she can do."
He paused, his breath catching as the weight of his words sank in. "Jack," he said softly, his tone almost breaking,"don't do this. I'm begging you."
The room fell silent again, the faint crackle of the radio the only sound between them. Sullivan's expression remained unreadable as his gaze lingered on Owens, calculating.
The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching painfully as Dr. Owens' words hung in the air. Sullivan remained unmoved, his expression cold and impenetrable as he stood tall, the weight of his decision bearing down on the room.
He inhaled deeply, his gaze steady as he picked up the radio. Owens leaned forward, his voice breaking as he pleaded one final time. "Jack... don't do this. I'm begging you."
Sullivan's jaw tightened, his hand tightening around the radio as he brought it to his lips. His voice was calm, devoid of hesitation. "Take it," he said flatly.
The words hit Owens like a hammer. His face contorted with a mixture of fury and desperation as he slammed his fists against the table. The metallic clang of the cuffs reverberated through the small room.
"You son of a bitch! No!" Owens roared, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
"You son of a bitch!"
Sullivan didn't react. He let the outburst wash over him, unflinching.
Without a word, Sullivan turned on his heel, his boots clicking against the cold floor as he strode toward the door. His back was straight, his movements measured and deliberate, his resolve unshaken.
Behind him, Owens continued to shout, his voice echoing through the room, desperate and raw. "Jack! Jack, don't do this!"
Sullivan didn't pause, didn't turn back.
He opened the door and stepped into the fluorescent-lit hallway, his silhouette stark against the brightness. Owens' cries faded into the background, swallowed by the mechanical hum of the facility as Sullivan disappeared into the maze of corridors.
The door swung shut with a resounding clang, leaving Owens alone. His ragged breaths filled the silence, his hands trembling against the table as the weight of Sullivan's cold indifference settled over him like a crushing force.
The barren desert stretched wide and lifeless, the howling wind stirring up swirls of sand that danced in the dimming light. Through the sniper's scope, the scene came into sharp focus: Eleven, limp and powerless, cradled in Dr. Brenner's arms. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and viscous, staining the cracked earth.
The sniper adjusted his aim, the crosshairs centering on Eleven's motionless form. His breath was steady, audible in the stillness of the scope's view, each exhale deliberate and controlled.
The radio crackled in his ear, Sullivan's voice calm and unyielding. "Green light," came the order. "Light her up."
The sniper's finger hovered over the trigger, the weight of the command settling into his muscles like a practiced routine. The steady rhythm of his breathing continued, unbroken by the enormity of the act he was about to commit.
For a moment, the scene held still-the sniper, his scope, and the fragile, blood-soaked figure of Eleven framed in the center of his sights.