Chapter Text
Patient Zero
A white butterfly drifted slowly through the afternoon air, its wings catching the sunlight as it floated above the university courtyard. The insect Pieris brassicae, the large white, moved lazily between the walkways where students crossed the campus carrying books, laughing with friends, or hurrying toward lectures. The butterfly circled once above a bench before settling gently onto the open page of a textbook a student was reading.
The student noticed it immediately. He had been reading, though not very carefully, and the delicate movement caught his attention. He lifted a finger toward it, curious, and the butterfly stepped onto his skin. For a moment, he watched it quietly, studying the thin lines running through its wings as they opened and closed in the warm light. It was a peaceful, almost fragile moment, one that seemed strangely disconnected from the busy campus around him.
Then he glanced down at his watch. “...Oh shit.”
The butterfly fluttered away as he jumped to his feet. He quickly gathered his books and hurried across the courtyard toward the university research building. Inside, the halls were filled with students moving between lectures, their conversations echoing through the corridors. He pushed past them apologetically as he rushed toward the elevators. The display above the doors read 6. He pressed the button once. Then again. The number didn’t change.
“Come on,” he muttered, pressing it repeatedly. The elevator remained on the sixth floor.
With a frustrated sigh, he turned and sprinted toward the stairwell. By the time he reached the sixth floor, his lungs burned, and sweat clung to the back of his neck. He stumbled into the locker room, dropped his bag on the bench, and hurriedly pulled on his lab coat before rushing toward the research classroom.
When he opened the door, the lecture stopped.
Every student in the room turned toward him. At the front stood Dr Edwin, his hands folded calmly behind his back.
“Well, Mr Vos,” he said evenly. “We expected you to be late.” A few students snickered.
“Although usually you manage to arrive five hours after the class begins. Today you’ve improved.”
Vos tried to steady his breathing as he slipped into his seat. “My apologies, Dr Edwin.”
“Just don’t be a distraction,” Edwin replied before turning back toward the board.
At the front of the room sat a large glass tank containing a grey fish. Beside it rested a metal tray holding a thick piece of pale fish skin. Dr Edwin gestured toward it as he resumed speaking.
“Science has extended human life in extraordinary ways,” he said. “But today we are discussing something more specific. Regenerative biology.”
He tapped the tray with a pen. “Tilapia skin.”
A student near the front raised her hand slightly, waiting just long enough to be acknowledged. “Are we looking at the microorganisms in fish?” she asked.
Dr Edwin glanced toward her, a small nod following as he adjusted his stance at the front of the room. “Not quite,” he said, his tone even, measured. “That’s a different field entirely.” He tapped lightly against the glass of the tank, drawing the class’s attention back. “What we’re looking at is structural,” he continued. “Material. The skin itself.”
There was a brief pause, just enough for it to settle. “Tilapia skin has already been used in burn treatments,” he went on, gesturing toward the slab beside him. “Not as a cure, not as something revolutionary, but as support. It protects damaged tissue, reduces pain, and helps the body do what it already knows how to do: heal.” He let his hand fall back to his side.
“What makes it interesting,” he added, his voice lowering slightly, “is how effective it is despite how different it is from us.”
He paused before continuing. “Now imagine if those regenerative traits could be applied directly to the human body. Imagine tissue capable of repairing itself, rebuilding damaged skin… perhaps even regenerating lost limbs.” The room fell silent.
Vos slowly raised his hand. “Wouldn’t reptiles make more sense?” he asked. “Lizards regenerate limbs naturally,” Vos said, leaning forward slightly as he spoke. “They don’t just assist the healing process; they complete it. Entire structures come back.”
He glanced briefly toward the tank before continuing, more measured now. “Fish—tilapia, specifically as you said, it’s been used for burn victims. It helps. It supports the body while it heals. But it doesn’t actually cause regeneration.”
He shook his head faintly. “They don’t really correlate in that sense. One assists what’s already there… the other does something we’re actually trying to achieve.”
Dr Edwin studied him for a moment before adjusting his glasses. “That is an interesting observation, Mr Vos,” he said thoughtfully. “Would you be willing to explain to the class why this is so?”
Vos straightened slightly in his seat, surprised to have the attention of the entire room suddenly. A few students turned toward him with mild curiosity, while others looked vaguely annoyed at the interruption. He cleared his throat before speaking.
“Well… regeneration in reptiles works because their cells can revert to a sort of undifferentiated state after injury,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “When a lizard loses a limb, the cells at the wound site form something called a blastema. Those cells behave almost like stem cells; again, they can divide and reorganise into bone, muscle, nerves, whatever the limb needs to grow back.”
He glanced briefly toward the fish tank at the front of the room “Fish don’t regenerate the same way. Tilapia skin helps with healing because it contains abundant collagen and has antimicrobial properties, making it effective for treating burns and preventing infection. But that’s more about supporting tissue repair rather than actually triggering full regeneration.”
Vos paused, then added, “If the goal is to make human tissue regenerate entire structures instead of just healing wounds,” he continued, “then studying animals that already regenerate complex body parts like reptiles or amphibians might give us a better model for how those biological signals actually work. Their cells can reverse into a more flexible state after injury, which is something human cells normally can’t do.”
He gestured slightly toward the tray of tilapia skin at the front of the room.
“But tilapia skin is still valuable,” he added. “It’s extremely rich in collagen and antimicrobial compounds, which is why it works so well in burn treatment. So instead of choosing one over the other… it might make sense to combine the strengths of both.” A few students leaned forward in their seats.
“You could study the regenerative signalling pathways found in reptiles,” Vos said, warming to the idea as he spoke, “and use tilapia-derived collagen structures as the biological support system. The fish tissue could act as a scaffold for regeneration while the reptilian genetic triggers activate the cellular regrowth process.” He paused before finishing his thought.
“Essentially, the tilapia helps the tissue survive and rebuild, while the reptile biology tells the body how to regenerate the structure in the first place. Together, that might actually produce something closer to true regeneration rather than just accelerated healing.” Vos shifted again, suddenly self-conscious.
“Not that the current research is wrong,” he said quickly. “It just seems like tilapia alone solves a different problem.” The classroom was silent.
Dr Edwin stared at him for several seconds, his expression unreadable behind the thin frames of his glasses. For a brief moment, Vos wondered if he had said something completely foolish.
Then the professor gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “That,” Dr Edwin said, “is a very ambitious idea, Mr Vos.”
He adjusted his glasses and looked down at his notes before glancing back up again.
“Perhaps a bit ambitious for a first-year research discussion… but interesting nonetheless.”
A faint murmur moved through the classroom. Dr Edwin pointed toward Vos with the tip of his pen. “Mr Vos, I would like you to stay after class.” Vos blinked. “Yes, sir.”
Edwin turned back to the board as if nothing unusual had happened.
“Now then,” he said calmly, continuing the lecture, “as I was explaining before Mr Vos decided to revolutionise regenerative medicine in the middle of my classroom…” A few students chuckled.
“…tilapia skin remains one of the most effective biological dressings for severe burns currently being studied in modern medicine.”
Several hours later, Vos stood inside a laboratory he had never been allowed to enter before. Four senior scientists worked at separate stations.
While Dr Edwin introduced them, he gestured toward them as he spoke, “Dr Loan is head of Adaptive Modification Biology. Her work focuses on controlled genetic restructuring, accelerating human adaptability under environmental stressors.” He takes a breath before introducing the next senior scientist, “Dr Shande is in the Neural Systems and Cognitive Enhancement field. He specialises in memory retention, behavioural conditioning, and the expansion of neural processing limits.”
They all acknowledged him politely before returning to their work. Edwin explained Vos’s suggestion, and the scientists began testing an experimental regenerative compound on laboratory rats.
The first test produced incredible results. A rat missing a forelimb began regrowing the limb rapidly, muscle and tissue forming in minutes. But the moment the regeneration completed, the animal’s behaviour changed. It began throwing itself violently against the cage, snapping its teeth and wildly scratching the metal bars.
“It worked,” Dr Shande said quietly. “But something is wrong.” “The dosage triggered the aggression centres of the brain,’’ thinking out loud, Dr Cherie says, “Biological energy has to come from somewhere. The first law of thermodynamics still applies you don’t generate complex tissue like that without an immense caloric demand and a severe neurological cost.” The scientists listen to what Dr Cherie said and go back to their own drawing board separately. One of the scientists, Dr Loan, says, " and we see that cost instantly’” she says as she moves closer to the now deceased rat Dr Edwin says ‘’how can we administer it without triggering that part of the brain”.
Vos watched the rat carefully. “What if the problem isn’t the compound,” he said after a moment, “but the way it’s delivered? You’re injecting it directly into the bloodstream. What if it were ingested instead, in smaller doses?”
The scientists exchanged glances. Dr Cherie nodded slowly. “That might stabilise it.”
They spent the next several hours converting the liquid compound into a powdered form and mixing it into the food of several test mice. This time, the animals showed no aggression, but they also showed no visible regeneration. Still, the scientists were encouraged. “It may take time,” Edwin said. “We’ll observe them tomorrow.”
Late that evening, the scientists packed their equipment and left the lab, thanking Vos for his help. He offered to remain behind to clean up. Alone in the quiet laboratory, Vos leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to imagine the future. A discovery like this could change medicine forever. Nobel prizes. Research positions at the world’s greatest universities. A career that would define a generation.
While collecting equipment from one of the tables, his elbow accidentally struck a small container. The vial fell to the floor and shattered.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
A cloud of fine powder lifted briefly into the air as he knelt to clean the spill. He wiped the powder onto a cloth and threw the broken glass into the trash without much thought, as the particles drifted invisibly through the air.
After finishing the cleanup, as he made his way to turn off the lab lights, one of the several test mice convulsed and groaned, oblivious, he left the building.
The irritation in his throat began not long after. At first, it felt like dryness, the kind that came from talking too much during the day. But the sensation grew stronger as he walked through the evening streets. He coughed once, then again. By the time he reached a small corner shop, his eyes had begun to water.
He picked up a box of chocolates and a small bundle of flowers. His parents had driven hours to celebrate his acceptance into a prestigious science academy. He couldn’t show up empty-handed.
At the counter, the cashier looked at him carefully. “Have you been drinking?”
Vos looked up and frowned. “No,” the cashier looked at him in disbelief “, Your eyes are red.”
“I’m just tired.” The cashier shook his head. “You look messed up.”
Vos coughed violently, covering his mouth. When he lowered his hand, he noticed blood on his palm. “Seriously?” he asked weakly. “Yeah,” the cashier replied. “You need to leave.”
Vos walked out of the shop without arguing. Outside, he wiped his mouth and continued toward the underground station. The platform was crowded with commuters. When he boarded the train, he collapsed into an empty seat, coughing uncontrollably. Passengers nearby glanced at him nervously before quietly moving to other seats.
Within minutes, he fell asleep.
Vos slumped deeper into his seat, the train’s rhythm lulling him under. His breathing had steadied, but sweat still beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. In the haze before full unconsciousness, fragments of thought drifted through.
He muttered under his breath, barely audible over the wheels on the tracks. “See mum and dad, tell them about.”
A woman from the next carriage shuffled past, coughing once, wet and sharply, before sitting a few rows ahead. She glanced back at Vos, frowning at his pallor, then turned away. Another passenger nearby cleared their throat, rubbing their eyes as if irritated by dust.
Vos stirred as the train slowed into the station, the brakes hissing like a warning he couldn’t quite hear. His head throbbed, a dull pulse behind his eyes, and his skin felt too tight, fever-hot under his damp clothes. He pushed himself up on unsteady legs, gripping the grab rail for balance. The doors slid open.
A few passengers brushed past him without a glance, eyes on phones, earbuds in, hurrying into the night. Others noticed that an older man in a suit stepped back sharply when Vos swayed toward the exit, muttering to himself, “Jesus, you alright?” but kept walking faster toward his train that was soon departing.
A woman with a shopping bag wrinkled her nose at the strong sweat tang coming off him, pulled her coat tighter, and veered to the far side of the platform. No one stopped. No one asked twice. In a city of millions, one sick stranger was just another thing to sidestep.
Vos staggered up the escalator, each step heavier than the last. The cool night air hit him like a slap, but it did nothing to clear the fog in his head. He walked the familiar blocks home on autopilot, muttering to himself, “It’s nothing.” He reached the apartment building and fumbled his key into the lock. The door swung open. His mother was in the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Vos? You’re home early—oh God, look at you.” Her face crumpled with worry as she took in his pallor, the sweat, the glassy eyes. “What’s wrong? You look terrible because you haven’t been eating right,” she said, looking back at his father. His father appeared from the living room, remote in hand, TV flickering behind him. “Son? You sick? Don’t worry, your mother made her special roast, she hasn't let me eat it all day waiting for you, sit down.” Vos tried to smile, to wave it off. “I’m fine… just tired, I must have caught a col-”
The room tilted. His knees buckled. He collapsed forward into the entryway, his head hitting against the floor like a dropped sack. The metallic scent bloomed stronger now, faint but unmistakable. “Vos!” His mother dropped to her knees beside him, hands fluttering, touching his forehead with blood lacing her hands. “He’s bleeding! Call an ambulance, Burt!” His father was already on the phone, voice shaking. “Yes, my son—he just walked in and fainted. He’s bleeding… no, we don’t know what’s wrong. Hurry.” They hovered over him, helpless, whispering reassurances he couldn’t hear. No idea that the thing inside him, the regenerative breakthrough, was already rewriting his system and reaching out through the air between them.
Vos never woke up. The fever burned through him.
First, the surge of unnatural energy that made the monitors spike, then the violent collapse as his body turned on itself. His mother refused to leave his side until her own skin flushed with the same faint bruising rash. His father lasted a day longer, while the doctors scrambled for answers that never came.
All three were gone before the city even realised what was spreading. It slipped in quietly, through coughs on trains, handshakes in offices, hugs in living rooms. Hospitals were overflowing at first, then it died down when the entire medical sector was either infected or scared to contract. The government could not control it with civilian panic, denial, and the slow unravelling of trust.
Leaders promised cures that never materialised. Riots burned capitals. Militaries fractured. What was left of authority dissolved into warlords, militias, and the cold logic of survival. High concrete walls topped with razor wire encircle the few “safe” districts, former stadiums, university campuses, and industrial parks repurposed overnight. Inside, generators hum day and night. Rations are doled out under armed guard. Children play in fenced courtyards that once held parking lots. Adults trade stories of the Before in hushed tones, careful not to mention the names of the lost too loudly. Now, these quarantine zones have become many people’s only home. Beyond the walls, the infected roam. Some look almost human, pale, twitching, eyes too bright until the aggression takes hold. Others are worse swollen, veined with dark lines, moving in packs like something the Strain rewired for hunting. No one knows how many are left outside. No one really wants to.
Quarantine zones never sleep, even in their quieter moments; there are always low voices carrying through narrow streets, the distant hum of generators, and footsteps echoing where crowds once stood. Along the perimeter, patrols move in steady rotations, watching, listening, making sure the line holds. “I’m still not surprised about what happened last night, Eldon.” Eldon keeps his eyes forward as he walks, his grip resting loosely against his rifle. The ground beneath his boots is uneven, worn down by the same repeated paths, the same endless circuits. He exhales through his nose, steady, controlled. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Heard about it.”Beside him, the other guard lets out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “The poor bastard tried to stretch out the fence near sector Three.” He glances ahead, then back again, uneasy. “I didn’t know it was electrocuted.”
Eldon’s expression tightens slightly, but he doesn’t slow. “Carter, people have been talking about getting out for weeks now. This was bound to happen,” he says, finally turning his head just enough to look at him, “ he probably won't be the last, too.” Carter scoffs under his breath, adjusting his hold on his weapon as they continue walking.
“Yeah, but not like that. Not over… rumours.” His voice dips, like he already knows how it sounds. “Somewhere none of this reached,” he gestures toward the city’s rotting structures, split roads and green swallowing everything whole in the distance. He says, “It’s so stupid people actually believe it.” He trails off.
Eldon looks ahead again, scanning the perimeter, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, something he doesn’t quite show. “It’s not new,” he says. “No,” Carter replies, sharper this time, “but people are starting to believe it.” He pauses, then adds, quieter but firmer, “Hope like that… it gets people killed, a kid died because of it.” Their footsteps fall back into rhythm. For a few seconds, neither of them speaks.
Carter looks around, really taking it all in. If it weren't for the circumstances, he would have even said it's beautiful, seeing nature in its glory. Then he turns to Eldon, but whatever he was about to say fades before it reaches his mouth. The fence gives a soft, hollow rattle in the distance. After a moment, the patrol route bends inward, pulling them away from the perimeter and back toward the centre of the quarantine zone.
The space changes gradually, not safer, just louder. The low hum of generators grows stronger, voices overlap, footsteps multiply. Life, or something close enough to it, presses in from all sides.
A woman guiding a child along the path lowers her voice the moment they pass. Two men standing near a supply crate stop their conversation entirely, eyes dropping to the ground. Someone further ahead shifts out of the way too quickly, creating space that doesn’t need to be created. No one smiles, no one greets them.
Eldon feels it without looking for it; it sits in the way people move, the way they avoid eye contact, the way conversations pause and resume only once he and Carter have passed. Carter notices too. “They look at us like we’re the problem,” he mutters under his breath, not quite quiet enough to be ignored.
Eldon glances at him briefly, then back ahead. “To them, we are.” Carter lets out a small breath, somewhere between a scoff and something more tired. “Yeah. Well, maybe they should stop breaking the rules.”
They move past a row of makeshift tables built from scrap, crates turned into counters. A man trades batteries for tins. Another argues quietly over portions. The smell of cooked food drifts faintly through the air, thin but enough to remind people of something normal.
Eldon’s eyes flick briefly to his wrist. “We split here,” he says, walking ahead. Carter slows slightly, frowning. “What?” Eldon turns and walks backwards away from Carter, “kitchen duty.”
Carter speeds up to him, eyebrows lifting. “You? Since when?” Eldon adjusts the strap on his rifle, already stepping back from the patrol path. “Signed up a while ago. They needed extra hands.” Carter lets out a short, surprised laugh. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?” He shakes his head. “Guard on the perimeter by day, cooking by night.”
Eldon pauses for half a second, like he’s deciding whether to answer at all. “I’ve done it before,” he says. “It makes me feel normal in a messed-up way.” Carter studies him for a moment, something almost amused, almost impressed settling in his expression. “Huh.” He nods once. “Learn something new about you every day.” A small smirk tugs at his mouth. “No one would think we spent four years in the same unit.” Eldon gives a faint shrug, already stepping away.
Carter lifts a hand in acknowledgement before turning back toward the patrol route, his figure disappearing gradually into the movement of the zone.
Eldon heads the other way. The closer he gets, the more the air changes. Warmer. Thicker. The sounds shift, too. Metal against metal, with low chatter, the steady rhythm of work is done because it has to be. The kitchen isn’t much to look at, just a large reinforced space carved out between buildings, open at the front, crowded with people moving in patterns. Steam rises from pots. Water sloshes in metal basins. Someone calls out for more supplies, and someone else answers without looking up. It’s controlled chaos.
And for the first time since the patrol began, no one steps away when Eldon approaches; a few heads turn, but not with the same guarded distance. Here, people don’t have the luxury of hesitation “You’re late,” a voice calls out from somewhere inside, firm but not unfriendly. Eldon steps fully into the space, scanning for the source. “I know, sorry, Greer”, he replies.
There’s a pause just long enough to notice.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Grab something and make yourself useful.” A beat. “Find Tera, she’s at the back. She’ll show you what to do.” Eldon gives a small nod, already moving, he weaves through the kitchen, past stacked crates and boiling pots, sidestepping people who don’t slow down for him. The further in he goes, the more ordered it feels, less noise, more rhythm. Fewer voices, more focus.
At the back, she’s by a low table, sleeves pushed up, hands moving steadily through a pile of unwashed potatoes in a dented metal basin. The water’s already murky, clouded with dirt, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She works through it methodically, one after the other, like she’s done it a hundred times before. “Hey,” Eldon says, not too loud, not wanting to break the rhythm of the place. “You Tera?” She doesn’t look up straight away, one more potato. Washed. Turned and set aside in an equally dented basket. Then she glances up.
Her face is calm, focused—but there’s a sharpness in her eyes, even like this, there’s a quiet presence to her.
Her hair is pulled back into a low puff, curls gathered and tied away from her face, though a few strands have come loose around her temples from the heat. Her clothes are faded, worn, sleeves rolled, marked here and there with water and dirt from the work.
“Depends,” she says, wiping her hands briefly against the side of her trousers before looking at him properly. “Who’s asking?” She says, looking away from him and back to the potatoes, “Eldon.” he replies. “They told me to find you. Said you’d show me what to do.”
She studies him for a second, then she nods once toward the basin. “Yeah,” she says. “Start there.” She stands up and gestures with both hands for him to sit.
Eldon steps forward, rolling his sleeves slightly and sitting on the makeshift stool that is too small for him. He reaches into the cold, cloudy water.
The sound of water shifting. Skin against rough surfaces. Work is being done because it has to be.
A large pot sits over a low flame just beside her station, steam rising steadily into the already thick air. She steps over to it, lifting the lid just enough to let the heat escape before stirring. The broth is thin; whatever they had left stretched as far as it could go. She works it carefully, adding what’s been prepped and adjusting without wasting a single movement. A handful of chopped vegetables goes in. Then, she stirs slowly, watching the way it settles.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see one of them in here.” The voice comes from her left. A woman, around the same age as her, maybe older, hands busy slicing through something soft and overripe, not bothering to lower her tone much.
Tera doesn’t respond straight away. She reaches for the next bowl, tipping its contents into the pot “A guard,” the woman adds, nodding subtly toward Eldon without looking directly at him. “They don’t usually do anything else or actually help.”
Tera glances briefly in his direction, then back to the pot. “Well, he’s helping, isn't he? Jude, maybe you should do that and talk less,” she says. That gets a quiet huff. “A guard helping,” Jude repeats, almost amused. “That’s new and was definitely not on my bingo card”, she imagines, ticking a sheet of paper in her hand.
Tera stirs again, slow and steady, and a softer voice from somewhere behind them joins in. “Not bad to look at either.” That earns a shift in Jude’s expression .“Yeah, now that you said it, Amy, he is quite the looker. What do you think, Tara?” Without looking away from the pot she's stirring, she says “Sure.”, absent, reaching for something else, the conversation moves on without her, it always does.
The rhythm picks back up water, metal, quiet voices layered over the constant work. For a moment, it almost feels separate from everything else.
“TERA AMIE FRANCO.”
Tera freezes, her full name something she hasn’t heard in… she doesn’t even know how long, she turns to the man standing at the edge of the kitchen, who doesn’t belong there, with clean lines and controlled posture. The kind of stillness is authority. His presence alone is enough to shift the air; conversations around him drop, movements slow without anyone needing to be told that his eyes are already on her. He doesn’t ask again.
“You’re reassigned,” he says blankly. Tera blinks once, thrown off just enough to feel it. “Reassigned… to what?” He looked at her, visibly annoyed, and said, “To the cadet program.”
The words land flat. “The previous instructor is no longer available,” he continues. “You’ll be taking over effective immediately.”
Tera lets out a short breath, shaking her head slightly before the thought even finishes forming. “No,” she says. “No, I’m not doing that.” His expression doesn’t change “That wasn’t a request.” Tera steps back slightly, her hands still damp, her voice firmer now. “Then you can find someone else.”
“This conversation,” he says, taking a step forward, “is a courtesy.” The word doesn’t sound like one. “You don’t get to refuse.”Tera’s jaw tightens. “I’m not leaving this—” he moves before she finishes.
His hand closes around her arm, grip firm, the reaction is immediate. The kitchen shifts people noticing, then not noticing, heads lowering, hands suddenly very busy again. “Let go of me,” Tera snaps, pulling back, but his hold doesn’t break. “You start tomorrow,” he says, already turning, already moving, dragging her with him like the decision was made long before he walked in.
Across the room, Eldon has already gone still; he knows that voice and doesn’t need to see the insignia to understand rank. His grip tightens slightly around the edge of the basin, water shifting around his hands as he watches.
They move toward the exit, and no one stops them. The sound of the kitchen fills the space again, almost immediately, metal, water, voices as if nothing had happened at all.
The guard doesn’t loosen his grip; he drags Tera across the open stretch toward a dark military truck parked slightly off to the side, and the door creaks open under his hand. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks.
“Get in.”
Tera hesitates for half a second, his grip tightens, and he trusts her, to which she climbs in. The door shuts harder than it needs to a moment later, the engine turns over, low and rough, and they pull away from the kitchen, back into the arteries of the quarantine zone.
The truck moves through narrow roads lined with patched-up buildings and makeshift structures. The closer they get to the centre, the more life there is, but it’s not the kind anyone would have chosen. Stalls built from scrap wood. Sheets hung as walls. People moving carefully around each other, always aware, always watching.
They pass through a market stretch, goods laid out in small, guarded quantities. A sign, half-faded and crooked, reads ”Lucky Market.” No one calls out. No one advertises.
A man counts tins like they might disappear if he looks away. A woman pulls a child closer as the truck passes, her hand tightening instinctively around their arm.
Tera watches it all through the window.
Further in, the streets open slightly. Rows of old houses, some boarded, some occupied, some in that in-between state where it’s hard to tell. A few people walk along the paths, heads down, steps quick. A group of kids sit on the edge of a broken curb, too quiet for their age. One of them watches the truck as it passes, eyes following it just a little too long.
The truck turns again, heading toward a reinforced checkpoint.
Barriers. Floodlights. Armed guards. One of them steps forward as they approach, already recognising the vehicle. The moment he sees the driver, his posture straightens instantly.
“Commander Gerald.” he stands at attention. Gerald doesn’t respond. The gate begins to open before the man even steps back. The truck rolls through the checkpoint; inside, the space replaces the zone's uneven chaos with structure. Rows of equipment stacked supplies. Vehicles lined up with intention instead of necessity.
Cadets move in formation across an open training ground, their movements sharp, rehearsed. Nearby, others haul crates, organise rations, and check weapons. No one stands still; no one wastes time.
The truck comes to a stop.
Gerald is out first, already moving before Tera has fully processed it. His hand is back on her arm the second she steps down, grip forcing her forward through the base.
They pass through corridors and open spaces until he stops at a door set slightly apart from the rest. He pushes it open without knocking and pulls her inside, then lets go for the first time since the kitchen. “This is where you’ll be staying,” he says, uninterested. Tera looks around and sees the bed is neatly made, a table by the window and a chair that looks like it’s been moved too many times.
Books are Stacked. Scattered. Some piled neatly, others left open, pages marked, notes scribbled in margins. Papers layered over each other like someone had been working and never finished.
Tera turns slowly, taking it in “This isn’t”, she starts, then stops herself. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Gerald exhales sharply, already halfway to the door before she’s finished speaking.
“Don’t play dumb,” he says, irritation clear now. “We know exactly what you studied. That’s the only reason you’re here.” She shakes her head, “That was before. I’m not—” “Doesn’t matter.” He turns back to her, expression flat, “You don’t get to decide what you are anymore,” he says. “You get assigned. You do the job. That’s how this works.”Tera holds his gaze, but there’s tension in it now. Resistance. “I’m not teaching anyone anything,” he paused, already done with the conversation. “You will,” he says, voice quieter, but heavier. “Or we’ll find somewhere else to put you.”
The meaning sits there, and it's clear enough he turns away before she can respond. “One of the guards will show you around,” he adds over his shoulder. “He’ll be here shortly. Try not to get lost before morning.”
And then he’s gone; the door shuts behind him with a dull, final sound for a moment. The room is completely still. Tera doesn’t move, then slowly turns back.
The bed is too neat. The kind of neat someone keeps when they expect inspection or when they don’t expect to come back. The table is worn, with edges scratched, and the surface crowded with books and loose pages.
She steps closer and runs her fingers lightly over the surface. She stops at a notebook worn at the edges.
She hesitates for a second, then opens it. The first page is filled with rushed writing, as if it wasn’t meant to be read by anyone else.
“Could it be true? Could that place be real… or is it just another rumour?”
a throat clearing. breaks the moment, and Tera looks back, startled a little as she sees someone standing in the doorway now.
He leans slightly against the frame like he’s been there a second longer than necessary, watching before announcing himself. His uniform is worn in places, and there’s something looser in the way he carries himself, like he hasn’t fully let the structure swallow him. His eyes flick briefly to the notebook in her hands, then back to her. “…Didn’t think they’d find someone to replace him that fast,” he says. Tera straightens slightly, closing the notebook without realising she’s doing it. “Replace who?” He doesn’t answer; instead, he pushes off the doorframe and turns, already stepping back into the corridor. “You coming?” he throws over his shoulder, like it’s obvious she should be. For a second, she stands there, then she sets the notebook down exactly where she found it and follows.
Their footsteps echo as they walk, his pace steady, unhurried in a way that forces her to keep up without making it look like she’s being rushed.
They pass through the first room; the doors open, revealing rows of desks with scratched surfaces and uneven legs. A board at the front with faded writing that’s been wiped away too many times to disappear fully.
He walks forward with her, hurrily following behind him to another room, more desks, but a different layout. Books are stacked along the walls, organised, but not neatly enough to feel untouched.
The minute he realises that she's taking it all in, that's when he decides to move on to the next room. The next room is different; it's filled with maps, diagrams, and Pages pinned up, notes layered over older notes, as if the space has been lived in, worked in… abandoned, and then picked up again.
Tera slows slightly as she takes it in. “…This is the school?” she asks, the uncertainty clear in her voice. “Something like that,” he doesn’t look at her when he says it, and they keep moving.
Further down, the corridor opens out into a larger space with windows lining one side, looking out over the base. From here, she can see it properly.
The airfield stretches out wide, concrete cutting through what used to be open land. Military vehicles move in steady patterns. Crates stacked in sections. Personnel crossing from one point to another with a purpose.
Tera’s eyes narrow slightly as she takes it in, trying to place it. “…Was this—” she starts, then hesitates, like she’s not even sure why she’s asking. “Was this an airport?” Carter doesn’t stop walking. For a second, it almost seems like he’s not going to answer. Then“You can call it whatever you want,” he says, in a tired way that sits under his voice. “Doesn’t really matter what it used to be.” He gestures vaguely out toward the open stretch beyond the glass. “What it is now… is Aegis.”
Tera looks back out again, the control tower still stands in the distance, tall and intact, overlooking everything, as if it was never meant to stop doing exactly that. Nearby, hangars have been repurposed—doors reinforced, structures reinforced, everything adapted into something functional. Tera’s gaze lingers “Keep up,” Carter says again, already moving on. And this time, she doesn’t ask anything else.
They turn down another corridor, quieter this time.
He speaks again, “Oh—right.” He glances back at her briefly, like he almost forgot something. “I’m Carter.” He gestures vaguely ahead as they walk, like that’s an introduction enough. “You won’t be seeing much of me,” he adds. “Actually, probably won’t see me again after this.”
Then he nudges her lightly with his elbow, just enough to break the tension “Kidding” A small pause as he looks at her properly this time“…People still get jokes, right?” Tera stops walking just enough for the shift to be noticeable. “Do you?” she asks. There’s no humour in it.
Carter slows, turning slightly to face her now. Not defensive, she holds his gaze “You think I chose this?” she continues. “The way I got here—does that seem like a joke to you?” For the first time, something in his expression shifts like something doesn’t line up the way he expected. “…Yeah,” he says after a second, quieter now. “No. Fair.” He doesn’t apologise, but he doesn’t push it either.
Instead, he gestures forward again, a little less casually this time.
“Come on. You should see where you’ll be working before they throw you into it.” Tera hesitates only a second before moving again, falling in just behind him, her pace quieter now as she follows him deeper into the base. The corridor doesn’t stay the same for long, the structure beginning to open up, ceilings higher, space wider, until the walls give way to something that feels less like a facility and more like something that used to belong to another life.
Glass storefronts line both sides of what’s left of them. Most are empty. No displays. No mannequins. Just hollow spaces with stripped interiors, faint outlines on the floor where shelves or counters once stood. Some still have their signs hanging above, faded and half-lit, names that don’t mean anything anymore. A few aren’t empty.
One has been turned into storage crates stacked where clothes might have been. Another holds equipment, tools laid out carefully, people stepping in and out, trading quietly, not quite a shop but functioning like one. Further down, a counter has been repurposed into something like a distribution point, with hands passing items back and forth, no wasted conversation.
Tera’s eyes move across everything as they walk. They don’t stop. Ahead, the space opens again. Wider this time. Louder. Tables fill the centre, long and crowded, people sitting shoulder to shoulder, eating, talking, some arguing, some just… existing. It’s the calmest place she’s seen in the last five months. Not chaotic, but alive in a way the rest of the base isn’t. Above it all, remnants of the old structure still hang signboards pointing to gates that don’t exist anymore, overhead screens long dead. Carter keeps walking, guiding her along the edge of it. “This is where most of them end up,” he says, nodding toward the space without slowing. “After shifts. Between them. Doesn’t really matter.”
Tera glances toward the counters set up along the far side. Metal trays. Food is being handed out in portions. Cleaner than the kitchen she came from. More structured. Her attention shifts again, this time toward a section slightly set apart from the rest. People sit closer together, quieter than the others, their tables scattered with papers, Their posture is different slouched, worn, like whatever they’re carrying isn’t physical Carter notices where she’s looking “Don’t stare too long,” he says, his tone easy but not joking this time She doesn’t look away immediately “They’re not soldiers,” she says, low, more to herself than to him.
“No,” Carter replies. “They’re not.” He tilts his head slightly toward them as they keep moving “We call them the bookies.” A small pause, like he expects that to mean something. It doesn’t “Spent their lives buried in science, chasing something better,” he adds, voice quieter now, almost lost under the noise of the hall.
“Now they’re here.”Tera’s expression doesn’t shift much, but her gaze lingers a second longer, taking it all in around them. The rest of the hall continues: people eating, talking, trading small things, filling the space with a kind of controlled noise that never quite becomes comfort. Carter gestures forward again, “Come on.”
Tera moves again, pulled back into step, leaving the noise of the hall behind as they head toward the next part of the base. The sound fades gradually rather than all at once, voices turning into a low hum, metal trays into distant echoes, until it’s replaced by something quieter, more controlled. Their footsteps carry down a narrower stretch of corridor, the kind that feels less lived in and more watched, the walls cleaner here, less worn, as if this part of the base is meant to be seen rather than used.
Carter walks a little ahead, not checking if she’s still following, but knowing she will. He gestures loosely as they pass another junction, his tone casual in a way that doesn’t quite match the place. “Most of what you saw back there,” he says, nodding in the direction they came from, “that’s as normal as it gets here. People eat, talk, pretend they’ve got time.” He glances at her briefly, just enough to catch her expression before looking forward again. “Rest of it’s different.”
They step through a set of double doors, and the space opens again, but not like before. This isn’t loud or crowded. It’s structured. Rows instead of clusters. Order instead of movement. A wide room stretches out ahead with long tables, boards fixed to the walls, and shelves lined with worn books and stacked papers. Some of the chairs are occupied—young faces, some barely more than children, others older but just as uncertain, all dressed in pieces of uniform that don’t quite fit them yet. A voice at the front of the room drones on, steady, rehearsed, like someone repeating something they’ve said too many times to believe in it anymore. Carter slows slightly as they enter, lowering his voice without fully whispering. “This is it,” he says. “School sector. Or whatever they’re calling it this week.” There’s a faint edge to it, not quite mockery, not quite approval, just something tired sitting underneath.
A few of the cadets glance up as they walk in. Not curious. Not welcoming. Just aware. Tera can feel it without needing to look directly at them, the way attention lingers without ever settling. Carter doesn’t acknowledge it. He keeps moving, cutting along the edge of the room instead of through it, like he’s done this enough times to know exactly where not to step.
“You're going to have to pick it up as quickly as you've seen it if you're going to survive here,” he continues, quieter now, his words meant only for her. “Reading, writing, whatever passes for history these days. Enough to keep them useful.” He shrugs slightly. “Enough to keep them here.”
Carter doesn’t slow as he reaches the end of the room, but this time he doesn’t bother explaining anything either. He glances back briefly, enough to make sure she’s still there, then pushes through the door at the far end. Tera follows without a word, the noise of the cadets fading behind them as the door swings shut, cutting it off clean.
The corridor outside feels different. Quieter. Less like something built to be seen and more like something people move through without thinking. Carter walks a little slower now, one hand dragging briefly along the wall as if he knows every turn without needing to look.
“You have to get used to it,” he says, not looking at her. It doesn’t sound reassuring. It sounds like a fact he’s said too many times.
They pass a few closed doors, then a short flight of stairs, then another corridor that opens out slightly before narrowing again. There are fewer people here. The ones they do pass don’t speak, don’t even really look at them.
He stops outside a door without ceremony and pushes it open. “This is you.”
Carter leans against the frame for a second, arms folding loosely. “You’ll be called in the morning,” he says. “They won’t give you much time.” He shrugs slightly, like that part isn’t his problem. “Best just… be ready.” He pauses, like he almost forgot something.
“Bathrooms are down the hall, left side. Showers work most of the time.” A small glance toward the room. “There should be clothes in the wardrobe. Uniform.”
“It’s not optional. Cadets wear it. So do you.” Tera looks around the room, then back at him, like she’s about to say something. He notices that she's about to say something, then straightens. “Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “That’s about right.” And then he’s gone. The door shuts, Tera moves slowly, not out of calm but because there’s nothing else to do. She touches the edge of the table, shifts one of the papers without really reading it, then sits on the bed like she’s testing whether it’s actually hers. The room doesn’t change. It doesn’t react. It just stays exactly as it is. Her eyes drift to the wardrobe inside, the uniform hangs stiff and untouched, fabric too clean, too structured. Beneath it, a smaller stack—plain clothes, folded with the same quiet efficiency as everything else here- she hesitates, then takes what she needs and steps back into the corridor.
The bathrooms are where Carter said they’d be. Harsh light. Metal. The low, constant echo of water hitting tile. For a moment, she stands there, unsure. Then she turns the handle; the water stutters before it runs—then steadies. Warm. Not quite hot, but close enough that it feels unfamiliar against her skin. She exhales slowly, like she didn’t realise she’d been holding it in.
It’s the first time in a long while she’s been able to wash properly. No rushing. No watching over her shoulder. No rationing every second. She stays longer than she means to.
Letting the water run over her shoulders, her arms, washing away dust, sweat, something deeper than that. For a moment, it almost feels like stepping outside of everything.
When she’s done, the air feels colder. Sharper.
She dresses in an old pyjama set, the fabric soft with wear, an oversized shirt hanging loosely against her frame. Back in the room, she lies back without meaning to sleep, staring up at the ceiling for longer than she realises. Outside, somewhere far enough not to be important, something metallic shifts. Boots pass in the corridor once, then again, then not at all. Voices murmur, faint and sharp in turns, like routine snapping itself back into place. She lets it all blur around her, letting exhaustion pull her under.
Her sleep comes hesitantly, reluctantly, the best she’s had since arriving in the quarantine zone. Even in its fragility, it feels like a small victory, a quiet, temporary peace.
A few hours later, a sudden jolt wakes her, just a twitch of a dream, a shift of the mattress. Her eyes open to the dim light spilling through the small window. She doesn’t know what hour it is; normally, she rises before dawn, but the city has its own rhythm, and she’s been pulled into it too late. Still, she moves. She dresses in the uniform. It fits too well—like it was made to erase anything individual. Clean lines. No room for adjustment. No room for choice.
She hopes her memory of yesterday’s tour with Carter will carry her through the hallways, stairwells, and doors, a map faintly etched in her mind. Her boots hit the floor, light but cautious. The building hums around her, alive and indifferent. Step by step, she follows the familiar yet strange corridors, trying not to get lost, trying to find the classroom where the day will truly begin.
She stands at the class door for a second too long before entering.
“Alright,” she starts, the word sitting awkwardly in the room. “We’ll just—” She forces herself forward. Immediately, all the students look up, their eyes following her as she moves to the front of the desk.
The classroom smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, the sort of sterile scent that never quite reached clean.
She stands there, staring out at them, and realises she’s lost. She hasn’t ever imagined she’d be doing this, standing here, responsible for them. A few months ago, this was her dream. Now it feels more like a nightmare. A sharp sound cuts through the silence, not loud, but immediate, a tone then another. It echoes steadily through the walls, controlled, repeating at intervals that feel too deliberate to be panic “Proclamation in Sector Three,” the announcement crackled. “All personnel and cadets report immediately. The cadets react before she can even ask what’s happening. Chairs scrape back. Bodies shift. Lines form without instruction, precise, automatic. Tera swallows. Her throat feels dry. Her heartbeat hammers in her ears. Everything she thought she knew about control, about preparation, evaporates in the rhythm of that sound. She’s in the room, but already behind it.
Tera watches it happen, just a second behind everything. “What is—”
“It’s a proclamation,” one of them says, not even looking at her. “Move behind us .”
She’s carried with them more than she follows, pulled into the current of bodies moving through the corridor, down the same paths she walked yesterday but faster now, tighter. No one explains anything. No one needs to.
They pass sections she hasn’t seen yet, doors marked, corridors branching off, people stepping aside to let the flow continue. It feels organised, but not calm like something rehearsed too many times.
Then, just for a moment, the movement shifts.
The line bends slightly as they pass an open section off to the side, with glass panels, bright lights, and something cleaner than the rest of the base. It’s not meant for them. That much is obvious.
Inside, people are still, and one of them stands over a table covered in scattered notes, sleeves rolled, posture slightly hunched like he hasn’t moved properly in hours. There’s something on the table samples, maybe, containers, things labelled too quickly. His hand moves across a page, writing, stopping, crossing something out, writing again.
Someone else is speaking to him, but he doesn’t respond straight away. When he does, it’s brief. Sharp. Enough to end the conversation rather than continue it.
He doesn’t look up as the line passes. Tera’s gaze lingers half a second longer than it should before the movement pulls her forward again, the room slipping out of view like it was never meant to be seen.
They moved as one through a set of double doors in desperate need of oiling, the metal groaning and shrieking with every body that passed through. The sound lingered, clinging to the air like something alive. Sector Three opened out beyond them a repurposed hangar set just outside the primary building. The structure loomed wide and hollow, its ceiling lost in shadow, its bones old but reinforced. The cadets filed into formation without being told, their movements sharp, practised. Tera stepped behind them, where all personnel stood, her eyes scanning, taking in everything at once: the perimeter fencing, the armed personnel stationed too deliberately, the absence of anything resembling comfort. This was a message.
At the far end of the hangar, a small platform had been set. An older white man stood with his posture rigid, suggesting less strength than control. Beside him stood Gerald. Tera felt something tighten in her chest at the atmosphere around her.
The older man stepped forward, his voice carrying easily across the hangar without the need to raise it. “This proclamation,” he began, “is not routine as many of you know.” A pause. Long enough to settle unease into the bones. “Earlier this morning, one of your peers was found dead outside the quarantine zone.” The words landed hard. A ripple moved through the cadets, not quite sound, not quite silence. “He could not survive.” No emotion. No hesitation. Just a fact. The man’s gaze swept over them, cold and measuring.
“We have reason to believe this act was not committed alone.” Another pause, sharper this time, he looks towards the young military cadets. “If you see or hear anything, tell Commander Gerald we are here for you” Tera’s stomach dropped, though her face didn’t move. Could that be the reason she was forced into this role, because her predecessor was missing? “You are housed here. Fed here. Protected here,” he continued, each word deliberate. “Beyond these walls, there is nothing for you but exposure, infection, and death.” A faint gesture toward the open expanse beyond the hangar doors, where the light outside seemed harsher, less forgiving. “You will follow protocol. You will remain where you are assigned. And you will understand that survival is not a right, it is something granted, and it can be taken.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolutely, the lesson had nothing to do with the infected. Tera stood among them, still as the rest, but her thoughts moved too fast, catching on one thing, then another: Gerald’s presence, the mention of the former instructor, the weight of what wasn’t being said. Around her, the cadets remained in formation. Obedient. Unquestioning. Because the alternative had just been made very clear.