The steady beeping of a vitals monitor filled the sterile white expanse of the medical wing.
Soft blue light filtered through the transparent panels lining the far wall, mixing with the clinical glow of overhead luminars. The scent of antiseptic hung faintly in the air.
Cassian walked at the front.
Kyrion followed with an almost carefree, self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips, faint cracks still visible across his armor from the earlier fight. Behind them, Malachai moved in silence — though the subtle flicker of starlight at his shoulders betrayed the storm of thoughts beneath his calm exterior.
Captives are showing stable vitals. Eighty percent have begun waking from induced stasis.
Recommendation: terminate lower-value subjects to preserve medical resources.
"Inject ten milliliters of the sedative into each of them," Cassian replied evenly. "Avoid overdosage."
Data indicates only one percent of captives occupy high-ranking positions. I highly sugg—
"Helios."
A pause.
"…Acknowledged."
A faint red glow dimmed in Cassian's eyes as they entered the primary operation chamber.
The room was pristine. Polished. Orderly.
Several autonomous drones hovered silently around the central surgical platform, recording data, adjusting instruments, and monitoring the vitals of the towering woman restrained upon it.
"…She's more interesting up close," Malachai murmured.
Though his expression remained unchanged, small constellations flickered briefly near his temple.
Cassian stepped forward.
"According to Helios' scans, she is structurally human," he said quietly.
For a moment, even the drones seemed to slow.
"A human?" Kyrion let out a low whistle, leaning against the wall. "To think there'd be more survivors from that era."
His gaze drifted over her powerful frame.
"She's strong. Just thinking there might be more like her… gets the blood pumping."
"…Settle down, Kyrion," Cassian sighed. He folded his arms and studied their captive.
"She looks human… but has humanity truly evolved to reach this scale?"
Statistically, that statement from you is ironic, if not hypocritical.
"…Shut it, Helios."
Cassian ignored the faint impression of digital sulking within his psyche and continued observing the readings hovering above the surgical bed.
"…Strangely enough," he added, more to himself than the others, "the rest of her legion share nearly identical genetic markers. Enhanced musculature density. Reinforced skeletal lattice.. But still… human."
"…Holy— no wonder she hits like a freight carrier," Kyrion muttered. "If her body can handle producing offspring of that—"
"Manners, Kyrion."
Cassian cut him off sharply, the faintest red tint rising along his cheekbones as he turned toward Malachai.
"…Noticed something?"
Malachai had not taken his eyes off the woman.
"These nails…" he murmured softly.
Dark storm clouds flickered faintly above his head as he reached out, fingers hovering just above the metallic implants embedded into her skull. He barely brushed one — and her body twitched violently even in sedation.
He withdrew immediately.
"…According to Helios," Cassian began carefully, "the implants are neural aggression amplifiers."
A display flickered to life beside them, projecting a three-dimensional model of her cranial structure.
"They stimulate the limbic system continuously," he continued. "Suppressing higher emotional regulation while artificially triggering rage responses. When alternative emotions surface — fear, doubt, joy — the device responds with extreme neural pain stimuli."
The hologram pulsed red along highlighted pathways.
"In simpler terms," Cassian finished quietly, "they reward anger with relief. And punish everything else."
Silence fell.
"…What?" Malachai's voice dropped.
A dark mist rolled slowly down his shoulders.
"These implants also appear to have replaced significant portions of her neural tissue," Cassian added. "Improper removal would likely result in catastrophic cerebral trauma."
"The ones who did this…" Malachai's hand fell to his side, fingers tightening faintly. "Monsters."
For someone like him, the word carried weight.
"…Cassian," he said softly, though something dangerous simmered beneath the tone. "You can remove them, can't you?"
"…Yes," Cassian admitted. "But we do not know if this was imposed or willingly accepted. To make a decision for them is highl-"
Structural analysis indicates forced implantation.
Scarring patterns suggest restraint during procedure.
"…And how would you even know that, Helio—"
"This is no way to live," Malachai cut in quietly.
Both men looked at him.
"For emotions to be used to this degree… for something like this, this… experiment is simply inhumane."
The faint stars around him dimmed into something colder.
"I agree, Sovereign," Kyrion added, pushing off the wall at last. "Fighting without fear is not glorious combat."
His golden eyes narrowed slightly.
"It is simply a dignified form of suicide."
Cassian exhaled slowly.
He looked between the two of them.
Then back at the woman lying motionless beneath the surgical lights.
"…You two…"
A pause.
"…Fine."
The drones shifted immediately, instruments aligning with quiet precision as Helios recalibrated surgical projections.
Initiating extraction protocol.
-
Hyppolita's eyes shot open.
White.
Blinding, sterile white greeted her vision, accompanied by the steady beeping of a monitor recording the strong, rhythmic pulse of her heart. For a brief moment, she could not remember where she was.
Then everything returned in fractured flashes.
Silver grass.
Descending moon.
A bronze man's calm eyes.
She inhaled sharply and pushed herself upright—
Pain lanced through her skull.
Her hand flew instinctively to her forehead, fingers brushing against tender skin where metal had once been embedded. She winced at the sting, brows furrowing.
"You shouldn't do that."
The voice was calm. Almost idle.
It was only then she became aware of the man seated beside her bed.
He had not looked up from the notebook resting against his knee, pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes as though documenting something mundane. His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other.
"Your wounds have not fully healed," he added softly.
Though he was a head shorter than her, though he appeared almost fragile in comparison to the warriors she commanded—
Her instincts screamed louder at him than they ever had at the armored giant she fought.
Danger.
Rage surged upward on reflex.
A battle cry prepared to tear free from her throat—
—and then she froze.
No relief followed.
Her body waited for it.
For the familiar wave.
The soothing burn that came when anger drowned everything else.
Nothing came.
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, dreadfully, another emotion surfaced.
Confusion.
She flinched violently, shoulders tensing as she braced for it—
For the Nails to answer.
For the agony to rip through her skull for daring to feel something else.
She waited.
And waited.
There was no pain.
Only the steady, irritating beeping of the monitor.
Her hand shot to the crown of her head again, fingers pressing harder this time despite the sting of healing flesh.
Metal.
There should have been metal.
There should have been—
Her fingers found only smooth skin.
Tender.
Scarred.
But empty.
Her breathing grew uneven.
Not rage.
Not relief.
Something unfamiliar.
"…Impossible," she muttered hoarsely.
"Here you go."
The man finally spoke again.
She turned sharply toward him.
He held out an orange.
The small fruit looked almost absurd in his pale hand — a splash of warm color in an otherwise sterile room.
She stared at it warily.
Then at him.
His face was unreadable. Smooth. Detached.
But beneath that stillness, she sensed something else.
Not hostility.
Concern.
"Take it," he said gently. "Go on."
A faint curve touched his lips.
"You're free to feel gratitude now."