No matter the era or the location, recorded or forgotten by history, once a human society establishes even the most basic framework, it inevitably sinks into the mire of bureaucracy. The Federation, sprawling across dozens of inhabited planets and even more resource worlds, was no exception. On the contrary, the vast population and ever-expanding territory into deep space only seemed to thicken the bureaucratic air.
Within this system, a government mail parcel—sent from the Second Precinct of the Police Bureau in the capital of Hexi Prefecture, Eastern Forest Region—embarked on its long, slow journey. Before it even left Hexi, it had passed through three departmental seals, ping-ponged between the aviation and logistics offices twice, and finally secured a spot on a space shuttle bound for the Capital Star Zone.
Three months later, the parcel finally arrived on the Federation's administrative capital planet, a place commonly known to its citizens as Shanglin. It rested quietly in a clean storage container, nestled in the corner of a transport vehicle. From the spaceport, it traveled along high-speed elevated roads threading through lush woods and elegant architecture. After four hours, it reached a nondescript government building on the outskirts of the capital.
At the Seventeenth Federal Research Institute's communications intake department, a staff member signed the receipt slip and categorized the parcel. It was placed on an automated document conveyor belt and, with the faint hum of machinery, disappeared into the wall conduit, entering a brightly lit office.
A deputy director spotted the parcel on his desk. Curious, he adjusted his glasses and frowned at the unfamiliar return address. After a long moment, he recalled the handwriting—it belonged to an old comrade stationed in a faraway corner of the Federation.
"Old Bao's been stuck in that godforsaken place for over a decade. No wonder he's gone soft in the head," the deputy director thought. He vaguely remembered receiving an email from Deputy Chief Bao three months earlier, but the urgency of the request had long since faded from memory.
"A police precinct sending evidence to a research institute? From Donglin? Must've cost a fortune. That idiot's going to get us flagged by the Audit Committee for wasting taxpayer money…" he muttered, shaking his head as he pressed the intercom button on his desk.
A research technician entered the office. His silver-rimmed glasses and graying hair marked him as a veteran of the Institute.
"Yes, Director? You needed something?"
"There's a package here," the director said, gesturing vaguely. "Came from the Donglin Regional Police Bureau. Evidence for analysis. Take it to the lab and have a look."
The technician glanced at the label and immediately noted that the sender wasn't the main Donglin Bureau but a secondary precinct in Hexi. That explained it—the request probably didn't meet the criteria for official analysis at a top-level institute. It seemed the director had pulled a few strings as a personal favor. But since the package came through official channels, he wisely chose not to ask further.
"What kind of analysis do they need?" the technician asked, removing his glasses for a closer look. "Is there a deadline?"
"No deadline," the director replied, waving him off. He then remembered something from the original email. "They just want to compare the manufacturing process, see if it has any link to the Special Ops Bureau or the military. The backwater folks in Donglin are worried the item might've leaked from the armed forces."
The technician gave a small smile and said nothing as he left the room.
The next day, he returned to the director's office with his report.
"No military serial codes in the core material," he said. "So, it's unlikely to have come from official military stock. But the manufacturing technique does bear resemblance to military equipment—most likely a knockoff from somewhere near Bermuda."
"Hmm," the director grunted. "Nothing unusual?"
"Nothing at all."
…
…
And so, Deputy Chief Bao's unsatisfied attempt to verify the truth behind that shadowy figure ended with an official response—and no conclusive answers. Whether the figure he saw that night was a Federal agent remained unknown.
The item in question, a metallic stun baton, was re-packed along with the evidence request form and its original box. It was then sent into the enormous underground storage vault of the Seventeenth Institute. Its historical journey, it seemed, had ended. According to Federation protocols, unless something extraordinary occurred, the baton would spend the rest of its existence in that dark, cold, and quiet archive—forgotten by time.
Day by day, month by month, the baton sat silently among countless other forsaken items. It didn't know how many years would pass before anyone might glance its way again. Fortunately, the facility's dust-removal systems were excellent, so it didn't have to worry about cobwebs or layers of time dimming its metallic sheen.
Two quiet years slipped by. It was now spring in the 65th year of the Charter Calendar. And one day, a slender hand reached into the archive and picked up the baton once more.
Chen Yijiang, a recent graduate of the National University of Shanglin, had just passed the grueling Federation recruitment exam and been assigned to the Seventeenth Institute. Fresh-faced and full of curiosity, he had not yet been dulled by the dead weight of bureaucracy.
He had already spent forty days in the archive, working to recatalog old evidence. That was when he spotted the transparent vacuum-sealed bag—and the metal shaft inside.
"A stun baton hidden inside a screen? Interesting," Chen Yijiang chuckled and began documenting it. But once the paperwork was complete, he didn't return it to its original shelf. He had always enjoyed tinkering with mechanical gadgets, and this one intrigued him enough to investigate further.
Further analysis wasn't unusual within the Federation—re-evaluating evidence was a normal, if thankless, part of the job. Few were willing to do it without extra pay.
Three days later, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, Chen Yijiang submitted a paper to the Institute's internal site titled: "Structural Characteristics of Evidence No. AW3278." As expected, the dry technical piece sank into obscurity, drawing no attention whatsoever.
…
…
In a remote sector of the Capital Star Zone stood a high-security agency with the highest clearance in the Federation. From the rooftop terrace of its headquarters, one could glimpse the Capitol Administrative Committee's spires and even the Presidential Palace. But the men and women in black suits—swift, stern, and focused—never cast longing glances in that direction.
They worked for the Bureau of Charter Enforcement—the most honorable institution in the Federation.
Deep within the building, a vast, empty chamber pulsed with light. In mid-air, a translucent data curtain flickered non-stop. Powered by the Federation's most advanced computational engines, the screen processed an unceasing storm of information at a terrifying speed—so fast, no human eye could follow. Only the central AI system that ran the scans could comprehend it.
Streams of data flowed from every corner of the Federation: political struggles between parties, rebel troop movements, intelligence from surveillance outposts. Most pressing of all was information from the West Forest Sector. No one knew when—or if—the Empire would reignite the war.
Suddenly, the curtain of data slowed and paused on a single image: a screenshot of a research paper authored by a junior staffer. The image included the item's catalog number—AW3278—and its current storage location.
At that moment, sirens blared inside the most secure facility in the entire Federation.