After the noisy confrontation, silence settled over the canteen. A low murmur resumed as people returned to their meals, avoiding eye contact with the shaken pair.
Pierre finally released his right fist, and Elena, his breathing heavy. She turned to him, her eyes wide—not with fear, but with a mix of awe and concern.
"Pierre, are you alright?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm sorry."
Pierre smiled calmly. "I'm fine, just a little sore in the back. No need to apologize." He added, "I must say, his punch was above average."
Elena frowned, clearly unsatisfied with his casual tone. "You should've fought back," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Pierre chuckled lightly. "And escalate things in front of everyone? No thanks."
This time, Elena showed no fluster, instead giving him a playful smack on the arm.
"Don't be so chill about it," she scolded. Pierre just laughed.
"I've got you with me, Elena. I'll be fine."
Despite Pierre's nonchalance, the soldier's unusual aggression troubled Elena.
"What's wrong with that guy?" she asked.
"Perhaps one of the army's projects," Pierre said, trailing off as Elena nodded, understanding his implication.
She looked at him, still a bit grumpy, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.
After clearing their trays, Elena checked her watch. "I need to finish my report," she said. "I'll show you my research tomorrow, okay?"
Pierre nodded. "Looking forward to it."
As she turned to leave, she tossed one last teasing remark.
"See you tomorrow, boss."
Elena insisted that Pierre rest for the day, fussing over him more than usual—almost like a wife, Pierre mused with a faint smile.
They parted ways at the left-wing elevator. Elena returned to her lab, conveniently located on the same floor as the canteen, while Pierre headed to his office on the fourth floor.
The NRE Institute was neatly divided: the left wing housed the research department, the right wing the engineering department, and between them lay the central communal section. It took about six minutes to walk from one department to the other, unless you used the walking slider.
Though it was only afternoon, Pierre felt the day had dragged on. Upon reaching the fourth floor—a shared space for employees, situated near the institute's server room—he entered his office. The door slid open, and he sank into the sofa in front of his desk.
He raised his wrist to check his smartwatch.
Blood Sugar: 90%. The red warning light had vanished.
He tapped to switch panels.
Cortisol: 20%. Acceptable, neither too low nor too high.
Another tap displayed his full status summary, based on a blend of hormone and bio-data analytics:
Stress: 20% Hunger: 5% Stamina: 80% Focus: 55% Thirst: 40% Sleepiness: 40%
Not too bad, he thought.
The calamari had left Pierre thirsty and drowsy. He pushed himself up from the sofa and walked to a nearby counter where a coffee machine and kettle sat. Opting for water, he filled a cup from the dispenser and drank slowly. His smartwatch updated—Thirst dropped below 5%.
Pierre sat at his desk, where his laptop and desktop awaited. The morning's presentation had gone well—a full year's work had finally paid off. Thanks to Elena's script, he thought, smiling faintly. It was his first official presentation as acting director of the NRE.
Three years ago, Pierre had joined the NRE as a regular researcher. Now, following the unexpected resignation of the previous director, the Reich government had appointed him acting director. The promotion had come quickly—too quickly for some.
Many questioned the decision. After all, Freja seemed the natural choice. With nearly fifteen years of service and her role as chief engineer, she had been the institute's backbone. Her experience and authority left no doubt in anyone's mind that she was next in line.
Criticism spread quietly through the institute, whispered among employees. But the government issued a swift statement:
"The appointment was made in accordance with the former director's wishes."
That declaration quelled the unrest. Freja, too, appeared to accept the decision—at least outwardly. She continued working closely with Pierre on their recent project, lending her engineering expertise to refine his algorithm.
Still, Pierre couldn't shake the memory of a past conversation. Freja had made her intentions clear: she wanted to push the research further, to create cybernetic soldiers—implanted with artificial limbs that not only replaced but enhanced, amplifying strength, reflexes, and endurance far beyond human limits.
A super soldier, huh? Pierre thought, staring at the ceiling. The idea lingered like a shadow in his mind.
Freja's goals—and those of the NRE—aligned with the Reich's military agenda: to bolster its already formidable power. Pierre had never questioned the Reich's dominance. In his view, its army was already overwhelming.
The recent conflict, known as the Southeast Crisis, had proven this. Despite deploying thousands of soldiers, warships, and fighter jets, the Frankish forces were annihilated—by a mere handful of Reich soldiers. Or perhaps just one.
Freja's ambitions weren't unreasonable, but military strength wasn't Pierre's motivation. He sought to uncover and avenge those responsible for his parents' deaths.
He had joined the algorithm project not out of patriotism but because it posed an intellectual challenge—or so he told others.
Glancing at his smartwatch, he noticed his stress and sleepiness levels had spiked. Thinking about Freja and the institute's direction always does this, he thought. Or perhaps the aggressive new cadet had unsettled him.
The memory of the soldier trying to hit Elena triggered a flashback. This is personal, Pierre thought.
He unlocked his desk drawer, revealing a stainless steel box inside. He took it out, opened it, and checked its contents. The box contained several syringes, labeled PX-13, PX-17, and PX-18. As he moved a PX-13 syringe to another box, a memory from his youth surfaced.
—
(Somewhere in a dark room)
"I'm sorry, please!" the first man pleaded.
"Let us live!" the second man begged.
"Hit each other," Pierre's voice commanded.
"What the hell?" the first man exclaimed.
"Stop it!" he shouted.
"I can't!" the second man cried.
"F*** other" Pierre's voice commanded
"I…I can't control it" the second man screamed.
"Please, we have family" both men cried.
"Ugh!" both men groaned.
"Aghhh!" they screamed in unison.
—
The memory faded.
"One is enough," Pierre murmured. He glanced at his smartwatch; stress had decreased slightly, but sleepiness had surged past 65%.
"I need sleep," he muttered. Returning to the sofa, he lay down, sinking into the cushions. He had prepared everything needed for tonight. He removed his glasses, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift into a realm of endless possibilities.
—
Later that night, somewhere in the Granitz military camp…
"Are you the one who called me?"
The soldier from the canteen stood beneath a dim streetlight, his Hello Kitty tattoo stark on his left arm, his voice hoarse with annoyance.
Pierre stepped from the shadow of a nearby tree, his expression calm but cold.
"What do you want, four-eyes?" the soldier scoffed, relishing the chance to humiliate him again.
"Any last words?" Pierre said coldly.
With a furious roar, the soldier charged, winding up a punch meant to shatter bone. But Pierre dodged effortlessly and injected a syringe into the man's neck.
"What a fast puppy. Is that all you've got?" The soldier yanked out the empty syringe and aimed another punch. Seconds later, however, his arm faltered.
"What's happening? My arms, my legs—they won't move!" he yelled.
"Hit yourself," Pierre ordered, his tone commanding.
As if compelled, the soldier struck his own face, the blow landing heavily. Again and again, the man punched himself, unable to stop. "Pl…" he gasped, his plea cut short. Pierre watched, expressionless, as the man continued, his face bloodied, his skull deforming. The man lost consciousness, yet his body persisted, striking itself until it collapsed from blood loss and brain trauma.
"That's for hurting my subject," Pierre said.
He turned without another word, vanishing into the shadows.