To everyone’s astonishment, Sane spared me that night. Before dawn pierced the sky, I obtained Alessandra’s home address from Yukio and dashed to the city. The streets lay silent, shrouded in an uneasy stillness, as I reached her house—a modest two-story structure with a weathered blue door. I scoured the place for any hint her parents might have left about where they’d gone. The scene told a story of panic: drawers gaped open, a half-packed suitcase sprawled across the hall, yet no note or trace revealed their fate. It appeared they’d fled, abandoning their daughter.
I withheld judgment—Alessandra had often spoken of her parents’ devotion, especially her mother’s. Their sudden disappearance hinted at a deeper mystery. As a non-citizen, I lacked the authority to file a missing person’s report. With that finding, I trudged back to Fort Vanguard and delivered the grim truth: her parents were gone.
“My dad’s always buried in work—weeks pass without a glimpse of him, even under the same roof. But my mom?” Alessandra recoiled from this harsh reality, her voice quaking with denial. “She’s the only one who truly cares. I could see Dad leaving me behind, but not her. She wouldn’t—unless something’s happened to her!”
I shifted uneasily, grasping for words. “Look, my hands are tied. The general’s swamped—there’s chaos brewing. At best, I can shield you from Victor while you’re here.”
Her face drained of color at Victor’s name, her fingers tightening around the chair’s edge. “I never imagined he was capable of that! I stood up for him at school when kids spread vile rumors about his family. Now I see they were right. We have to tell the police—he murdered everyone in that bunker!”
“We can’t. His father is the general tasked with forging an army to crush the Vodocks. Aside from that, as it stands right now, I don’t think anyone can touch him.”
And so we left it at that. She was going to crush at our barrack as the search for her parents continued.
The following day, we were all rounded up on the training grounds. The general’s voice thundered across, heralding the start of Neogen training. We were issued carbon-fiber battle uniforms, paired with weapons crafted from advanced alloys—tools honed for our superhuman might, capable of felling a Vodock or enhanced enemies. Soon, all ninety-eight of us gathered: one commander, seven captains, and ninety-two soldiers, excluding the rogue Gwendowson and Victor. General Sydney Flick stood before us, his stature radiating authority, his piercing gaze sparking a surge of awe through the ranks.
“From this day forward, you are no longer soldiers of mere nations,” he proclaimed, his tone rich with conviction. “You are the Planetary Defense Corps, forged for a singular purpose: to obliterate the Vodock Empire and safeguard our world! The power pulsing within you is humanity’s final stand. Every soldier fights for their homeland, their kin—but your burden is greater. You fight for all humankind. Your names will echo through history as Earth’s champions!”
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A mighty cheer erupted, the troops’ fervor blazing like a wildfire. They burned to test their limits, eager to uncover the heights of their newfound strength.
Our training was relentless, a crucible to sharpen speed, power, balance, and coordination. Adapting to our transformed bodies proved daunting—many faltered at first. Underwater drills thrust us into three-dimensional combat, stretching our endurance to the breaking point. Yet the outcome was striking: every Neogen emerged swifter, more lethal. I trailed in raw power and speed, barely rivaling Randy’s baseline, though even the weakest among us matched his prowess.
To track our growth, they built an arena of reinforced concrete and steel—a proving ground where we could spar without restraint. The inaugural bout pitted Commander John Gray against William Cage, the “Fist of Steel.”
I’d faced William in squadron drills before his enhancement. Even then, his strength awed me, despite my restraint. His moniker was no exaggeration: as a boxer, he’d shattered larger foes with a single blow, targeting fragile facial bones and cranial weak points. Many left the ring with fractured skulls. His early retirement remained an enigma, but the general had plucked him for this elite legion.
John Gray, our commander, was a force of nature—a tactician honed by years of military campaigns and a master of mixed martial arts. He wielded a battle rod dubbed Titan, its name a testament to its unyielding resilience, and stood second only to General Flick in command.
The duel ignited with John’s barrage, Titan whistling through the air, leaving sonic booms in its wake. William parried with a shield, their strengths nearly matched. But John’s speed and seasoned skill pressed William back. Then, in a daring gambit, William cast aside his shield and axe, settling into a boxer’s stance.
John halted, bewilderment creasing his brow. “You’re facing me unarmed? Get serious—this isn’t a sparring game!”
“I’m armed enough. Speak for yourself.”
Before John could protest, William’s fist crashed forward, on impact nearly hurling John from the arena. Only by driving Titan into the concrete did John arrest his slide. William, assuming a boxing ring, relied on instinct—reading John’s eyes, stance, and subtle twitches to predict his moves. The clash morphed into a spectacle, each strike unleashing ten tons of power, sending shockwaves pulsing through the stands. And I quietly sat among them, watching for any signs of carnage.