Over the next few months, the Round Table—all fifteen members, including the five core leads and their two lieutenants—plus Mallory, were constantly in motion. Even with nearly ten weeks passed since Elliot Voss’s departure, the task lists in front of them still stretched for miles.
Trevor Gant’s Limbo
First on the docket: what to do with Trevor Gant.
While the other five executives targeted by Bureau 121 had walked away with bonuses and added surveilnce, Gant had crossed a line far more serious. He hadn’t just been tempted—he had acted. Attempted bckmail. Prepped the data for exfiltration. All for personal gain.
That sat poorly with Grim and Brick.So, they kept him on ice.
They assigned a rotating member of their “spook team”—as Darian had taken to calling them—to monitor him around the clock. Gant was treated humanely: soft sheets, hot meals, access to Netflix, Hulu, even cable news. But no outgoing or incoming communication. But no phone. No email. No visitors.
By now, he seemed broken. Not defiant—just adrift. They were more worried about him taking his own life than they were about escape.
He would be given a chance inside The System—eventually. Perhaps even offered a Peacekeeper path, if he proved himself.
For now, his fate would be left in suspension.Let the System decide.
The Silence of North Korea
As for Bureau 121’s colpse?Nothing. Not a word in the press.
Kim Jong Un, it seemed, preferred silence. No retaliation. No saber-rattling. Just an information bckout. Which only made it easier for the CIA and JSOC to act on the treasure trove of intelligence Grim’s team had handed them.
Speaking of that treasure trove of information, in recognition, Grim and his entire crew were quietly awarded the Distinguished Intelligence Cross—the CIA’s highest honor, rarely given, never publicized. No press. No ceremony. Just a sealed envelope and a cssified medal, engraved with a simple truth:
“For acts of extraordinary heroism involving the acceptance of existing dangers with conspicuous fortitude and exempry courage.”
Yeah. That fit.
Darian was, of course, furious.“Come on! Everyone knows there’s room for six swimmers on a SEAL Delivery Vehicle. You couldn’t have added me to the roster?”
Grim sipped his coffee. “The fact that you called it a ‘SEAL Delivery Vehicle’ instead of an SDV is the reason you weren’t along for the party. Jesus, man. Learn the lingo—or go on home.”
They loved jabbing at each other like that. Part frustration. Part friendship. But mostly because men of action hate waiting. It was like a wound spring.
Or better yet: like SpecOps warriors the night before a mission.
You know the one. No sleep. Too much adrenaline. No card game in the world could hold their attention. So they spar. They crack jokes. They pick fights they don’t mean—just to pass the time until the green light finally drops.
Countdown to Transformation
Everything had gone exactly as expected.
Almost boringly so.
Vitalyx and Rejuvenex performed exactly as promised. Side effects were minor. Bathroom breaks were nasty as fuck. Sleep came heavy and deep. Their bodies were slowly rebuilt from the inside out—disease eradicated, telomeres restored, muscuture reset.
They woke stronger. Clearer. Lighter.And then, the date arrived.
September 25th.
The day they would enter The Tutorial at st.
The fifteen members of the Round Table.Mallory McInnis.Sienna Bck.Nina Vosper.
Eighteen in total. Eighteen who would step into the new world first.
At ten o’clock that evening, they gathered on the tenth floor of Voss Tower, in the room that had been prepared weeks earlier.
A hum filled the air. The lights dimmed. The moment had come.
Induction
Elise Draven’s medical team moved quietly, professionally, making sure everyone was comfortable on the luxury beds arranged across the high-security floor.
IV drips stood by each bed, alongside monitors tracking blood pressure, heart rate, and EKG. Once pushed through the IV, the sedative cocktail Elise and her team had developed would gently induce REM sleep in about forty-five minutes. After that, the IVs could be removed.
The System had already been programmed to begin integration the moment their synthetic bio-constructs detected REM sleep.
Elise gave a few final instructions, then y down in the bed assigned to her. One of her colleagues—an old friend—attached the IV line to her hand with a touch so practiced it felt like a gesture of reassurance. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Darian Sirova leaned back and closed his eyes. He could barely contain his anticipation. Being on the precipice of true evolution—in his own lifetime—was a kind of miracle. Something he could never have imagined before meeting Elliot Voss.
Voss had brought Darian into the fold early. Had recognized something in him—a sharpness of thought, a hunger for progress without greed. They had debated the ethics of the Framework long before others even knew what it was. In Voss, Darian had found a kindred spirit.
So it was with a sense of reverent exhiration that he finally drifted into sleep, awaiting his own, personalized introduction to The System.
Mallory y still in her bed, surrounded by seventeen others she knew well—but had never slept beside. Well, sixteen of which she had never slept beside, anyway.Aside from the military types, who could probably doze off in a moving tank, few people ever get used to drifting off in a room full of beds, bodies, and quiet motion.The nurses moved like shadows. Elise had gotten the cocktail just right. The adrenaline was already fading. Her heartbeat slowed.She took a final breath. Then let it go.
And so, one by one, each of the eighteen pioneers surrendered to sleep.
The nurses and attendants moved gently, nodding to one another as monitors confirmed REM onset. With enhanced physiology now supporting their systems, there was no need for further medical assistance. Saline drips were unnecessary. The body would care for itself. The System would do the rest.
IV leads were removed. Monitors silenced.
They didn’t know what waited for them on the other side.
Only that they were the first.
Outside the sealed windows of Voss Tower, the city of San Francisco glowed under a shroud of clouds—holding its breath.
And deep within each sleeper, a spark began to shimmer.Not quite a dream.Not yet a world.But very soon… something more.
Ronan Vale opened his eyes to the soft glow of moonlight, filtering through a narrow window high on the stone wall beside him. A flickering ntern outside cast amber shadows across the room, its fme dancing in rhythm with the gentle creak of wooden beams overhead. Somewhere beyond the window, he could hear the distant rustle of wind through trees.
The room was small, sparse, and unfamiliar—but not unfriendly. A heavy quilt covered him. The bed beneath was firm, but far from uncomfortable.
He sat up and stretched.
And then paused.
Something was wrong.Or rather—something was perfectly, impossibly right.
The stiffness in his spine, the tension in his neck, the dull ache that had long ago become the white noise of his existence—it was all gone. Just... gone.
Even at thirty-five, Ronan had lived the st two decades folded around keyboards, hunched over design terminals, absorbed in the quiet war of creation. His back had paid the price. His wrists. His sleep. But now?
He rolled his shoulders and twisted his torso experimentally. No pops. No tightness. Just fluid motion, smooth and pain-free.
The absence of discomfort was so alien, it made him grin.
That, he thought, is a hell of a side effect.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Bare feet touched cool wood. He was dressed only in what amounted to loose linen undergarments—a pair of boxers. Simple but clean.
To his right stood a sturdy wooden dresser with intricate detail, carved meticulously by hand. Sitting atop it, next to a folded bundle of clothing, was a note in an elegant hand, like it had been written with a quill pen dipped in a bottle of ink.
He leaned closer to read it.
Don’t panic. You’re not dead. Not yet, anyway.Get dressed, step outside, and find the pza.I have a feeling you’re thirsty.— Sincerely, The Management
Ronan blinked, then chuckled.
“Well. Points for style. Quill pens are definitely cool. Very cool.”
He unfolded the clothes: a forest-green tunic, dark breeches, and a pair of soft leather boots. All perfectly tailored to his frame. The fabric felt hand-woven but unusually comfortable—System-generated, no doubt.
He ced his boots, ran a hand through his still-bed-tousled hair, and walked to the door.A simple iron handle. No lock. No sound from beyond.Ronan took a breath, exhaled slowly, and opened it.
He found himself in the upper hallway of a medieval inn. There was a railing in front of him, and beyond he could see a tavern with a bar lining one wall, a door alongside that he knew led to a kitchen. Nobody was around now, so he walked down the stairs to the main room and exited the inn.
The cool air that met him was fresh, tinged with woodsmoke and moss. Fme nterns lined the street like fireflies caught in gss. The buildings were old-world beautiful—hand-hewn beams, thatched roofs, glowing windows.
And at the center of it all, several blocks down, a stone pza waited. A tall, obelisk-shaped monument stood at its heart, pulsing faintly with light.
Ronan stepped outside.