No windows.
A SCIF — built for exactly this: classified information, sealed off from every signal, nothing in or out unless someone decided it should be.
Seven people around the table. The original group, plus three Auren didn't recognize — though the way they greeted Axel made it clear they had history.
The first was Víctor. Mexican, somewhat tall, hair with a slight curl to it, brown eyes carrying the kind of weight that only accumulates after years of operations where mistakes don't get corrected. They just end things.
He'd been a significant force in the war against drug trafficking — a war still being fought, even if the world had moved on to something bigger to worry about. By age alone, and by the instinctive way the other two glanced at him whenever Conrad wasn't speaking, he was the unspoken leader of that trio.
The second was Dante. After Rover Stone, the United States needed something to fill that gap — not the psychopathy, just the ability. Dante was that.
Brown hair, blue eyes carrying a confidence that didn't feel accidental. Constructed. Like he knew exactly what image he wanted to project and had long since stopped needing to try.
The third was Johnny. British. Lighter hair than Dante, with a different kind of confidence — quieter, less deliberate, the kind that simply exists without announcing itself.
He watched more than he talked. In that room, that was more useful anyway.
Conrad spoke.
— You've been brought here as the team going to retrieve the Phaedra weapon. I'm assuming everyone studied the vision carefully. — A pause. — I'll remind you that everything involving this mission has to be handled with extreme care. There's been recent human activity around the site.
What he'd been told: a weapons laboratory, active during World War II. Apparently that's where the sword was — collecting dust. But there had been movement. A human silhouette.
— Proceed carefully. Nothing good comes from someone being inside an abandoned wartime lab.
He paused, as if deciding how much of the bureaucratic mess was worth sharing.
— Things have escalated on the institutional side. I presented the vision to the Secretary of Defense, who cleared me to move forward with the National Security Council. The final word had to come from the president — who very graciously delegated that to the vice president. The vice president approved considerably larger funding for the containment, and if possible, elimination of Neura.
A beat.
— It was a mess of the worst kind. The only remarkable thing is that the council didn't drag it out longer than usual — which, knowing them, is almost a miracle. At least we'll have full operational freedom. — He dismissed everything he'd just said with a gesture. — But that's beside the point. Once this meeting ends you'll have time to gear up. Equipment is in the next room. In short: we're looking for a sword — crystalline blue blade, jet-black handle — inside a weapons lab, 1945 at the latest. Move with discretion. If there's a confrontation, make sure the weapon isn't damaged. Understood?
Everyone confirmed.
◈
In the equipment room, Dante approached Auren with the ease of someone who doesn't need protocol to feel comfortable.
— Really great to meet you. I've heard you lead Axel's team — I'm guessing that means you're stronger than him. That's genuinely impressive. — He stopped mid-thought. — Wait. Hold on.
His eyes went straight to Auren's.
— I could've sworn they were yellow. Are you wearing contacts?
Axel stepped in before Auren could answer.
— It's a little strange to explain, but short version: he has heterochromia. His eye color shifts depending on his mood — yellow to black. And when he's not feeling anything, grey, I think. Don't ask me. Even he doesn't know why it happens.
— Incredible — Dante said. — Sounds like something out of a movie. Though I'm guessing there's no explanation for it. Doesn't matter — we can live without the answer.
The equipment they'd been given was unusual for a modern operation.
The armor looked less like tactical gear and more like something from another century — rigid, structured, evoking a different era. The weapons were stranger still: foldable, adaptable into three distinct forms. A dagger, a lance, or a sword, depending on what the situation required. Medieval in concept, though the materials were anything but.
Mid-gear, Víctor approached Auren.
— Counting Axel, you two are the most well-known in the group.
— Really? Dante seems more famous to me.
— Maybe in the United States. But the rest of the world barely knows his story. Killing Rover Stone — someone who spent a long time casting a shadow over everyone else — that carries weight.
— Don't say it like you're a nobody. I've heard what you did in the war against the cartels. You're good.
— Maybe. — Víctor considered it honestly. — But I still can't help feeling some admiration. You and Axel pulled your country out of a situation far worse than anything mine faced. And I know that's not easy.
— Víctor — Johnny said from nearby, with the tone of someone about to head something off — it seems like you haven't looked too closely at the details. — He looked at Auren more directly. — And from what I can see in his eyes right now, it's affecting him. Auren just lost his wife in the global attack.
Víctor stopped. A brief pause, but a real one.
— Seriously? I'm very sorry. I should have been more careful. Forgive me.
— You don't have to. — No harshness in it. — I suppose all I can do is accept it. Though it might be my reason for staying in this mission.
— Whatever it is — Johnny said, resolving the moment with the practicality of someone used to conversations needing to end at some point — if we're going to keep talking, let's do it on the way. We're in the same helicopter as the redhead, so let's move.
Víctor and Auren nodded.
◈
Two helicopters. Separate groups.
First: Auren, Nadia, Johnny, and Víctor.
Second: Axel, Celia, and Dante.
In the second helicopter, with only the rotor as witness, Axel spoke.
— Celia. There's something I've wanted to say for a while. Since the attack.
— I think there's something to talk about too.
— It's about Auren. He's different. And it's starting to worry me.
— It's true that he's not okay — Celia replied. — Losing Lilian affected him, yes, but he tries not to show it. What we notice most is the hatred he has for Neura. He doesn't bother hiding it.
— He doesn't give me the same confidence he did back when we were in the resistance. — A pause. — Can I be honest with you about something, Celia?
— I think I know what you're going to say. And I'll probably agree.
— Auren was — or used to be — something like my moral compass. You know that. I had an empty concept of right and wrong, and Auren had one that seemed perfect to me: not so forgiving as to be blind, not so bitter as to be monstrous. But since his wife died I feel like that compass is heading somewhere with no way back. And I keep wondering where he'll go after Neura.
Celia looked at him a moment before answering.
— Are you looking at yourself in this? Axel, your own path after everything wasn't exactly ideal either. Simply put — you kept fighting people like your parents. That's not a direction, it's an absence of purpose. You wanted to continue what the resistance started, but when you ran out of targets you used Rover's death as an excuse to keep walking the same road. I know it's noble. But is it actually what you want, or is it something you do because you can't find anything else?
Axel was quiet for a moment. Not out of irritation — out of recognition.
— During this mission I'll find my purpose — he said finally. — And I'll share it with you all. That's what I'll try to do.
Dante, who had listened to everything without interrupting, spoke.
— Quite a conversation. I honestly don't know how to stay out of it. — A pause. — Auren is someone who had a purpose and now has a new one. But one built out of hatred and desperation. If those emotions are driving your actions, that purpose is hollow. It won't change anything.
Nobody answered.
The rotor kept turning.
◈
In the first helicopter, a not entirely different conversation was taking shape.
— Víctor — Johnny said — forgive me for asking this. I always ask when I don't know the answer. — A pause. — In Auren's situation: what would you do after?
— Even I wouldn't know — Víctor said honestly. — But I'd look for a purpose. Though that's the hardest part. — He turned to Auren. — Auren, are you really in good shape? Forgive me for asking, but I watched everyone in action and I'm confident you're the most capable person here. If you don't want to answer, I respect that.
— Enough — Auren said. — Though I'm not entirely sure myself.
— It'd be foolish to know what future we have in front of a wall this large — Víctor said. — But when all of this is over — and it will be — I'll come find you and see if you found a purpose. — A brief pause. — Sorry, I tend to get close with people quickly. But people concern me. Especially the setbacks we might face ahead. Don't take it the wrong way.
Auren didn't answer.
He looked out the helicopter window — desert below, no signs of anything, until there were.
◈
The arrival was strange.
A warehouse in the middle of the desert. That was all you could see from the outside — a low structure, no markings, with a small entrance that promised nothing of what might be inside.
The two helicopters touched down almost simultaneously.
Conrad stepped out of the first and spoke without preamble.
— Okay. This is where we start. This is the Confragos laboratory — active during World War II. Remember: we're looking for a sword with a bright blue blade. Proceed with caution. No communication devices — we're on someone else's territory. If confrontation is imminent, you have the right to kill, though that's not ideal. If there's no other option, proceed. Look for anything that might give a clue about the exact location of the weapon. Understood?
Everyone confirmed.
They went in.
◈
The Chief of Staff had waited for the aide to close the door before speaking.
— Mr. Vice President. I saw the report you signed. — A measured pause. — And I understand the logic. But allow me to say, with the greatest possible respect, that I believe the best option — regardless of morality — is still Project Ark. Why use Council funds, with everything that process entails, when we could channel them directly into something we already have underway? I don't believe in a good ending to the Neura conflict. It makes me unhappy to say it. But it's what I think.
The Vice President didn't look up from the documents on the desk.
— Who told you we were abandoning Project Ark?
The Chief of Staff took a moment to respond.
— Both?
— Both get absurd amounts of funding.
— That's too much. The Council won't authorize spending on that scale. I'm certain of it.
The Vice President looked up for the first time since the conversation had begun.
— And if they don't accept? — said with a calm that wasn't indifference but conviction. — In this situation, extraordinary fund management without their approval is more than justified. Tell me if those incompetents would know what to do with what we're facing. Tell me if they're even capable of grasping the scale of it.
— Even so — the Chief of Staff pressed, lowering his voice slightly. — The President. The President wouldn't accept this.
The Vice President returned to the documents.
— Please. All he cares about is the next election. I'm literally the one managing every disaster he can't handle — without him moving an inch from where he's sitting. — A gesture that closed the subject. — I won't discuss this further. Both projects stay active. Neura containment and Project Ark. Regardless of what they cost.
The Chief of Staff didn't respond.
Not because he had nothing to say. But because he already knew nothing would change.