Chapter 3

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We arrive at the command center in a matter of seconds

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We arrive at the command center in a matter of seconds. Bright lights reflect off the glaring duplicate doors, lining up and down the corridor. It forces my eyes to re-adjust to this maze-like design. Some architect thought it would be a good preventative measure in case primordial infiltrates the building during a ground attack.

Not a very useful one as the Prims could easily blow the building to smithereens.

Marc inputs the passcode. Few people are scouring the area, which means all their attention is on the public parts of this building. Maybe we're having a last-minute celebration.

I wouldn't put it past the council when we should be concentrating on the war.

They seem to forget the abilities we have today originated from primordials own DNA. How our scientists could only extract the lesser abilities from the Prim's ground troops and not the upper class of their world since they don't enter the battlefield.

At least we obtained immortality. I'm certain that's why the council sits on their high horses, thinking they'll never die.

But even immortals can die. They're just harder to kill.

Heavy deadbolts unlock one at a time, gliding out of their sockets without a sound as their tail ends swirl back into place. The door slides into the wall, replacing the silence of the hallway with the loud choruses of chatter and movements.

Everyone is bustling about, shifting from one monitor to the next. Reports are being typed on their tablets, while giant screens display the remaining eleven City Bases and communicators for those stationed in space. Their glass edges touch each other, making the room more enclosed and a tight-knit quarter.

There's only one time I've seen this place desolate—a memory I'd rather forget.

In the back of the hexagonal room sits a round desk, completely swept clean with only a tablet resting on the oak slate. The logo of our last nation stretches across the front, painted on by hand, with the words, The United Federation of Earth, circling it.

Gregori sits back in his black leather chair fit for the Chief Commander, gloved hands twine together in contemplation. His salt and pepper hair blends well into the background, hiding him in the shadows of his dark uniform and the dimmed lighting above.

He's the closest I have to a father figure. Mom can only fill so many roles, and the places she couldn't, Gregori stepped in. At a young age, he trained me, taught me how to use a sword and how to kill. Most say I'm lucky to have him in my life, others pity me because sometimes he can be a heartless man.

As we approach, Gregori stands up from the desk and grins. Aged wrinkles form around his face from the melancholy eyes to the corners of his scarred top lip. I forget how old he is sometimes, especially when he smiles. It always has this youthful facade of a silver fox nearing his fifties.

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