The summer air was thick and oppressive, the kind of humidity that clung to your skin and made even breathing feel like a chore. Zachariah Trench sat on the porch of his parents' modest two-story home in a sleepy upstate New York town, nursing a glass of lukewarm iced tea. His thoughts swirled with uncertainty, frustration, and an edge of defiance. At just twenty years old, he had already sprinted through college, earning his degree early in a desperate attempt to prove something—to himself, to his family, to everyone. But now that it was done, he felt hollow, burnt out before he'd even really begun.
"You can't just sit around all summer, Zachariah," his father had said over breakfast that morning, the words heavy with expectation.
"I'm not," he'd replied tersely, though he wasn't sure he believed it himself. The truth was, he had no idea what his next move should be, and the constant pressure to figure it out only made him want to dig his heels in and do nothing.
The sound of cicadas filled the air, a droning backdrop to his restless thoughts. He didn't know it yet, but everything was about to change.
It started with a strange light in the woods. Late one evening, as Trench wandered aimlessly through the trails behind his house, he saw it: a pulsating, otherworldly glow emanating from a grove of ancient oaks. He hesitated, his logical mind warning him to turn back, but curiosity pulled him forward. As he approached, the air grew colder, and the sound of cicadas fell away, replaced by an eerie, low hum that seemed to vibrate in his bones.
What he found defied explanation. A swirling vortex of light and shadow hovered above the forest floor, tendrils of energy snaking outward and distorting the space around it. Objects nearby seemed to flicker and shift, as if caught between two realities. Trench's breath hitched, and he instinctively reached for the camera he always carried, snapping photos despite the shaking of his hands.
The vortex pulsed once, twice, and then collapsed in on itself with a deafening crack, leaving behind a patch of scorched earth and an unnatural silence. Trench stood there for what felt like hours, his mind racing to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.
The next day, the FBC came knocking.
The man who introduced himself as Agent Roland had a sharp suit, sharper eyes, and an air of authority that made it clear he wasn't someone to trifle with. Trench's parents watched from the doorway, concern etched on their faces, as the agent explained the situation in vague, carefully worded terms. He described the Federal Bureau of Control as a "government organization specializing in unusual phenomena" and told Trench they had taken an interest in his encounter.
"We need people who are observant, resourceful," Agent Roland said, sliding a business card across the table. "People who don't shy away from the unknown."
Trench's heart raced as he stared at the card. It felt like an opportunity—an escape from the monotony of his life and the endless arguments about his future. He didn't hesitate for long.
The Federal Bureau of Control's training facility was not what Trench had expected. While the Oldest House in New York City was the Bureau's enigmatic headquarters, the training site was hidden in plain sight, tucked away in Virginia at Quantico alongside the FBI's Hogan's Alley. It was a nondescript collection of buildings and a mock town designed for scenarios ranging from urban operations to high-stakes negotiations. But beneath its mundane exterior, the FBC's facility was anything but ordinary.
On his first day, Trench was introduced to the fundamentals: the study of Altered World Events, the handling of paranatural objects, and the psychological resilience required to navigate the unexplainable. The instructors were a mix of seasoned agents and enigmatic figures who seemed to know more than they let on. One in particular, Director Broderick Northmoor, loomed large over the proceedings, his stern gaze making even the most confident recruits falter.
"The Bureau isn't for everyone," Northmoor said during his opening speech. "What we deal with here defies logic, reason, and often sanity. If you can't adapt, you won't last. But if you can..." He paused, his eyes scanning the room. "You'll be part of something greater than yourself. Something vital."
Trench felt a flicker of determination ignite within him. For the first time in months, he had a sense of purpose, however nebulous it might be.
The training was grueling, both physically and mentally. Days began at dawn with intensive conditioning, followed by hours of lectures on topics like dimensional theory and the properties of paranatural materials. Evenings were spent in simulations that tested their ability to think on their feet under pressure. Trench's burnout lingered like a shadow, but he pushed through it, driven by a mixture of curiosity and stubborn resolve.
One night, as he sat in the facility's sparse dormitory, flipping through the photos he'd taken of the vortex, a fellow recruit leaned over. Her name was Prim Lewis, a sharp and enthusiastic trainee with a penchant for asking too many questions.
"That's an AWE, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.
Trench hesitated before nodding. "Yeah. It happened near my house. That's how they found me."
"Lucky you," she said with a grin. "Most of us had to jump through hoops to even get an interview."
Her words stuck with him. For all his doubts and frustrations, Trench realized he'd been handed something rare: a chance to be part of something extraordinary. And as the weeks turned into months, he began to find his footing, his once-uncertain path becoming clearer with every challenge he overcame.
By the end of the summer, Trench was no longer the burnt-out kid who'd stumbled upon a mystery in the woods. He was an agent in training, on the cusp of a journey that would lead him into the heart of the unknown—and ultimately to the position of Director. But for now, he was content to take it one step at a time, his future finally beginning to take shape.