Leo’s POV
Through blurry vision, I stared at the massive emblem mounted on the wall ahead. Four metal rays stretched upward from a half-circle base, their polished surfaces standing out against the wall. The broken circle—like a sun half-buried or half-destroyed—watched over everyone passing beneath. I recognized it. Every public board in the domes projected it between announcements. Every ration package bore its stamped imprint.
The Resistance Nations symbol.
In the engineering program, before every class, the professor would stand beneath a projection of that same emblem. “From the ashes of conflict comes unity,” the mandatory recitation that began each session. Most students mouthed along, gazes vacant, minds already on the day’s lessons or the energy credits they were spending to be there.
I’d usually move my lips, not bothering with the words. Those official lines didn’t change the cold reality of my apartment, the deaths of my parents, or the empty feeling in my stomach most nights.
Now, my gaze drifted to the words emblazoned beneath that familiar symbol, words I’d only seen in carefully edited propaganda videos: “ECHO-5 BASE.”
Ice filled my chest. They’d let us see enough of their well-stocked facilities to remind us what we’d never have. Yet here it was, flaunting its presence above the busy corridor where uniformed personnel walked with certainty, their clothes clean, their bodies well-fed. This was the image they sold, the promise dangled to convince desperate domers to sign their lives away. Nothing like the half-starved MPs back home who looked like they’d fought for the same meager scraps.
Callan pulled me closer, his arms secure as he carried me past a group of officers who stopped mid-conversation to stare. Their eyes widened, taking in my borrowed clothes, the too-large jacket that slipped off my shoulders. My feet dangled from Callan’s arms, pale and bare. A woman with silver pins on her collar nudged her companion and pointed toward us, her mouth moving in quick, hushed sentences I couldn’t hear.
“Pierce!” Another voice, deeper and carrying more authority than the officers’, cut through the corridor din.
Callan faltered mid-stride but didn’t stop. I caught sight of a man approaching, tall and broad-shouldered, almost matching Callan in height and build. His brown skin had a healthy glow that no domer ever possessed, and his black hair was cropped short in a precise military cut. Something about him seemed familiar, like I’d seen his face somewhere before. A face from the background of some official broadcast? A recruitment poster? It was hard to place.
“Not now, Reeves,” Callan muttered, his arms tightening around me as he picked up his pace.
The man, Reeves, barred our path, forcing Callan to come to a stop. His dark, intense gaze flicked from Callan to me, his expression hardening as he took in my appearance.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded, gesturing toward me like I was contraband. “Everyone’s going crazy. You can’t—”
“Move,” Callan ordered, his tone flat but dangerous.
A small crowd had gathered now. I felt exposed. A dirty secret dragged into the open. This was Echo-5, the legendary fortress housing the Aegis units, the command center of the entire defense network, the place where resources flowed while dome residents froze in the dark.
“You lunatic, why am I here?” I managed to croak, but Callan didn’t answer, his expression set in grim determination as he sidestepped Reeves and rushed through the corridor.
People stepped aside, some saluting, others staring, making no attempt to hide their scrutiny—a thin, malnourished domer carried by their golden hero. I should have felt special. Instead, I felt like a stray rat that had somehow wandered into their pristine, privileged little world.
The shock of it all was almost too much. The Nephilim attack, waking up in a strange place, and now this. I’d never imagined I would see in this lifetime the inside of Echo-5. No domer who hasn’t sold their soul to them would imagine being here; nobody does.
Callan’s breakneck pace jolted to a halt at what I first thought were elevators. The polished metal doors mirrored our distorted images. He looked towering and driven; I was small and disheveled in his arms. Shock shot through me as he whirled without warning.
His eyes darted wild. Pupils blown wide, like overloaded circuits about to fail. A chill traced my spine despite the heat radiating from his body. Before I could react, he spun and slammed his shoulder against a plain door to the side. The metal shrieked and buckled under his weight, the sound setting my teeth on edge. Stairwell. Emergency access.
He plunged downward, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time. My body slammed against the hard planes of his chest with each jarring descent, stealing my breath. The stairwell spiraled down. The gray walls smearing together in a dizzying blur. Metal steps clanged under his heavy boots, the echoes chasing us.
Ten floors? Twenty? My disoriented mind couldn’t track it as we stepped deeper into the facility’s guts. My fingers dug into the unfamiliar fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, the only anchor I had as my own limbs hung useless and disconnected. My head spun with the unceasing turning.
Each level we passed melted into the next, marked only by sterile numbers stenciled on identical walls and glowing directional symbols I didn’t recognize. The air turned colder, carrying a biting, clean antiseptic undertone that pricked at my nostrils and sat wrong in my lungs.
We burst through another door into a narrow corridor, and people flattened themselves against the metal walls as we barreled past. Their startled faces swam into focus for a second, eyes wide with surprise, then flicking to me with open curiosity. I thought I saw judgment on one face, maybe disgust on another, before they swam out of focus again.
“Make way!” Callan’s command cracked through the passageway, bouncing off the hard surfaces, leaving no room for question. Bodies scrambled aside, the scrape of different uniform fabrics against the walls reaching my ears as people pressed back to clear our path.
The hall ended at a set of imposing double doors, twice as wide as standard dome entrances. They sensed our approach and parted with a pneumatic hiss, revealing words emblazoned above them in glowing blue: “MEDICAL BAY.”
My blood froze mid-pulse. The sight alone was terrifying in its clean difference. Nothing like the dome’s medical centers, where hope went to die amid the coughing and stained floors. This place gleamed with spotless counters, monitors with vibrant displays, and equipment that looked unmarred rather than salvaged and jury-rigged.
“Oh no, no, no,” I thrashed against Callan’s hold, my elbows connecting with his ribs, my palms shoving with panicked force against the solid wall of his chest. “Drop me now!” The scream tore from my throat, splitting on the last syllable as panic clawed its way upward. His jaw remained tight, his focus fixed ahead, completely ignoring my struggles.
A woman with kind eyes set in a warm brown face at a desk in the corner stood and hurried toward us. “Oh, honey, you can’t get in here again like last night. I just started my shift,” she said, and her expression was as worried.
She offered me a small, strained smile meant to reassure. Pity. Not reassurance. It was the familiar look people showed strays. “Are you okay, young man?” She tried to move Callan’s arms away, but he didn’t budge an inch.
“Martha, I need Ava.”
Martha’s eyes widened. She tapped something in her ear, her words a rapid, low whisper into the comm. “Callan is here. He’s experiencing an episode.”
Within seconds, several people in standard grey uniforms rushed into the bay. Then she strode in, and the others froze, shuffling back a step. Her uniform was not grey like theirs. It was a deep, almost black material cut close to her body, unlike the looser uniforms on everyone else.
Her hair was just as black, cut straight and hanging smooth around her face. The black of her silky hair against the black of the uniform brought raven pictures from old books to my mind. An injector stayed clenched in her hand, her knuckles white. On her collar, a small metallic symbol shone. It was not the Resistance Nations one, just some other shape I did not recognize. She muttered something low as she advanced, her dark eyes fixed only on Callan, blind to everyone else in the room.
“Don’t do this again, Callan,” she warned. “Let him go.”
“Can you stand, sweetheart?” Martha asked again, her kind gaze focused on me.
It took all in me to process the question. I attempted a nod, a tiny jerky movement that strained my neck muscles as if lifting concrete. For a beat, Callan’s arms remained locked around me, then with slow care, he began to lower me. His grip released only when my bare feet touched the slick, cold floor. My legs threatened to fold. I locked my knees, my hand shooting out to brace myself against Callan’s hip to stay upright.
Once stable, panic overrode the pain. Medical bay meant bills, but this was Echo-5. Being here, seeing this place… what price would they demand for saving a stray domer? It wouldn’t only be credits. The thought of being trapped, indebted in ways I couldn’t even imagine, spurred me into action. I had to get out. I tried to wrench myself away from Callan, intending to make a break for the door, any door.
My first attempt to move was cut short when a warm hand closed, a touch that paradoxically soothed even as its firmness held me fast. It was Martha.
“Easy now,” she said, her gaze holding no judgment. “Nowhere to run off to just yet. Let’s get you looked at first, alright?” Her grip wasn’t painful, but it was solid, holding my weak frame in place.
Seeing my escape attempt thwarted, Callan spoke, turning towards the raven-haired woman, Ava. “He, he almost…” Callan stammered, his words disjointed and slurred. “It’s my fault, Ava.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you take the neural stabilizer?”
“I doubled the dose,” Callan admitted.
Ava’s face drained of color. Without warning, she pressed the injector against Callan’s neck. The device hissed as it delivered whatever medication it contained.
My mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. The room wasn’t spinning anymore, but a veil pushed everything away, like I was watching from behind thick glass. Did piloting those giant machines fry all their pilots’ brains, or was their precious hero batshit crazy?
Ava stared at Callan as he swayed, her face hardening into blankness. Anger? I couldn’t tell for sure. Her gaze snapped away from him to Martha. The other two medics shifted closer to Callan, hands hovering near his arms, ready to support him.
“Martha,” Ava directed. “Get him to Exam Room Three.”
Martha nodded, her gaze softening again as she looked at me. “This way, dear,” she said, gesturing toward an open doorway down a short hall branching off the main bay.
Instinct screamed to pull back, to fight her gentle guidance, to run anywhere but deeper into this place. But my strength had abandoned me, leaving only the hollow ache of hunger and exhaustion. My limbs wouldn’t cooperate beyond holding me upright; my own body betrayed the panic clawing inside me.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, the words scraping past my dry throat. I looked back at Callan, who stood statue-still between the two medics, his head bowed.
Martha avoided the question. Instead, she reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were warm, calloused, belying their roughness with a gentle touch against my skin. She gave my hand a brief, light squeeze, a small attempt at comfort that felt alien.
“It’s… the price they pay, honey,” she said, with deep sadness as she guided me toward the exam room. “An unavoidable one, for all of them, sooner or later.”
