Oblivion Protocol

Chapter 1

The unused storeroom had been hastily converted into a makeshift debriefing room on a small military base, thirty miles west of Charleston. The room, painted in varying shades of military grey, was worn down by time and neglect. Dampness seeped in from outside, causing the paint to peel and crack, while a patch of mold climbed stubbornly up the far wall, adding a musty scent to the air. The decay was pervasive, palpable in every breath Jim took.

A single sodium bulb hung from the ceiling, its yellow glow flickering erratically as it illuminated the room in a dim, hazy orange. The bulb cast long shadows over the metal door, which stood out as an even darker grey than the rest of the room. No windows—why would there be? It was, after all, a storeroom, never meant for meetings. A water cooler sat beside the door, the kind you'd find in a public library or office, with a large plastic jug perched atop it, capable of dispensing either hot or chilled water.

A collapsible table had been erected in the center of the room, with two cold, solid metal chairs placed on either side. On the table, a neat stack of folders lay, papers organized by size and color. Every single file bore the same unmistakable stamp on its cover: Classified.

Jim collapsed into one of the chairs, letting out a long, weary sigh. His head throbbed with an intensity he hadn't felt in years, as though a blacksmith were hammering away inside his skull, shaping molten iron with each strike. The stabbing pain worsened with every passing moment. He had already taken a cocktail of ibuprofen, paracetamol, and codeine, popping them like candy over the past few hours. Even the prescription painkillers handed to him by a young lieutenant on his arrival had barely dulled the relentless pounding in his head.

"Great," Jim muttered under his breath, pushing his palm against his temple, as if trying to physically suppress the pain. It felt like trying to cover a deep wound—an instinctive act of futility. The pressure only offered momentary relief, and it wasn't enough. The source of the agony was inside his skull, unreachable by any external force.

With a frustrated grunt, Jim leaned back, shutting his eyes for a brief moment, hoping the pain might fade on its own. But there was no such luck. The debrief with General Benson was still looming, and he had to endure this a little longer. The only thing that kept him going was the promise of a trip to the infirmary afterward, where he hoped to get his hands on something strong enough to knock him out cold.

Seconds dragged into minutes, and the minutes felt like hours. Benson should know I'm back on base by now, Jim thought, glancing at the clock on the wall. The General would want a full report—immediately, knowing him. But Jim didn't feel ready for anything. His mind was clouded, and he was fairly certain that if it weren't for the debrief, he'd already be begging someone in the medical wing to put him under.

"C'mon, get it together. Mind over body," he muttered to himself, attempting to muster the mental fortitude to push through the pain. This wasn't like him—Jim prided himself on endurance. But this headache was something else, something almost...unnatural.

"Fuck it," Jim growled, standing abruptly from the chair and moving toward the water cooler, hoping a cold drink might bring some relief.

But before he made it halfway, a blinding surge of pain exploded in his skull. It felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer and cracked it down the middle. His vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to twist violently. Jim dropped to his knees, his hands shooting out instinctively to brace himself before he hit the floor face-first.

He remained frozen in that position, breathing heavily, waiting for the pain to subside. But instead of fading slowly, the headache vanished completely, almost as suddenly as it had struck. No residual throb, no dull ache—nothing. It was as though the pain had never been there to begin with.