January 4, 2030
Undisclosed Location
The steel door groaned as it slid open, revealing the heart of Project O.Y.A.'s subterranean operations chamber. Rows of digital maps glowed against the walls, flashing tactical data and satellite feeds in blue and red hues. A gentle thrum of humming servers and low conversation filled the air, layered beneath the sharper clicks of ammunition being loaded and weapons being checked.
The twelve were gathered. Not as myths, not as whispers, but as living weapons wrapped in flesh.
Agent May, clad in a patchwork hoodie over her tactical vest, spun a bullet between her fingers with the showmanship of a circus performer. "So, who's placing bets on how fast January breaks someone's arm tomorrow? I've got sixty seconds on the clock. Any takers?"
"Ten seconds," Agent July drawled without looking up from his dismantled plasma gun. His tone was pure desert dusk—dry, low, and certain. He clicked a new barrel into place. "You forget how much rage he has stored under that skin."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Agent March said with a smirk, adjusting the lock on his custom grenade. His obsidian-plated armor lay beside him like an exoskeleton waiting to be worn. "If the intel is correct, Blackridge has over fifty armed personnel and a dozen automated turrets. We'll need the rage."
Agent January sat in silence at the far end of the room, his hands wrapped in gauze, tightening and retightening them. He didn't look up. His presence was a stormcloud over a still sea.
"Focus," Agent December cut in, moved with the cool presence of someone who had spent half his life rewriting history. He tapped the center hologram. A 3D schematic of the Blackridge Facility rotated mid-air. "Tomorrow is not just an attack. It is an orchestration. If we make even one simple mistake, people die. Innocents die. We do not let that happen."
Agent September stepped up beside him, long fingers typing a series of updates into the map's control console. "All security systems are being looped. I'll trigger the satellite delay at 0300 hours. We have exactly eight minutes before Moscow detects any breach. That's your window."
"April," December said, turning toward her. "You'll be with me during infiltration, but your objective diverges the moment we reach Sub-Level Three. Retrieve Anne Ryker. Implant the false memories. Get her to the evac chopper."
"And the swap?" April's voice was sharp.
"You'll take her place in the recovery bed once the sedation sets in. The med-team has been briefed. Your extraction team will be already staged in Geneva."
Agent May threw a protein bar at Agent October, who dodged it with barely a blink. "Oi, Tacitus, you ever gonna say more than two words before a mission, or just vibe and murder like always?"
October looked up. Said nothing. Went back to checking his newly developed airborne poison.
"Didn't think so," May chuckled.
Agent August, seated beside Agent June, offered a small smile. Her eyes—icy green and strangely gentle for a killer—took in every detail, every breath, every weight shift of her companions. "We need to enter through three vectors," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "West tunnel for February, July, November and March. Central shaft for myself, April and December. East breach for October, January, May, September, and you"
Agent June nodded in affirmation, adjusting the wires feeding into a small EMP generator. "I've already synced the blackout charges. Once we hit the core generators, they'll lose power for eight minutes. Long enough for you and April to find Anne."
"So, we torch the facility, extract the whistleblowers, and unmask a ghost syndicate?" May clapped her hands. "God, I love my job."
March reached out and nudged a schematic toward himself. "Entry points are fortified. Any delay, we reroute through the utility shaft. It's narrower, but we've done worse."
"And if they're waiting for us?" Agent November finally asked, loading bullets in her arms.
"Then we improvise," January murmured. He finally looked up, his expression carved from granite. "We do what we were trained for. What we were chosen for."
Silence fell for a moment. The kind that precedes a reckoning.
Then Agent May broke it by cranking up the old sound system in the corner. A classic rock anthem blared through the chamber.
"A little soundtrack for the night before we make history," she grinned.
"Turn that off before I kill you," July growled, but his smirk betrayed his restraint.
On the quiet side of the room, January stepped out with the file folder with printed pictures of Blackridge. A quiet shadow followed him down the corridor toward the weapons cache.
Agent February.
She leaned against the wall, arms folded, her matte-black bodysuit gleaming faintly in the blue glow of recessed lights. Her hair was long and wavy. Her eyes? Glacial. But something flickered there when she saw him. Not warmth. Not quite.
"Still tightening your fists like it's going to stop the ghosts?" she asked.
January didn't stop walking. "Ghosts don't bother me. People do."
"Good," she said. "Because tomorrow, you're going to meet a lot of both."
He stopped near the rack of shock knives, selected one, tested its weight. His voice was low, even. "You here to talk me down or provoke me?"
February pushed off the wall and stepped closer, keeping her distance precise—close enough for tension, not enough for contact. "Neither. Just wanted to see if the legend still bleeds."
He turned to face her, and for a moment the room felt colder.
"You were there in Tehran," he said. "You saw what I did when they tried to cage me."
February's smile was small, sharp. "I helped you break the cage. Don't forget that."
A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. History. War-born and razor-edged.
"You're reckless," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're rage in a straight line. Difference is, I curve."
He almost smiled. Almost.
February looked at his gauzed hands. "You wrap them before every mission. Ritual?"
"No. Respect," January said. "For the damage I'm about to do."
February stepped back, nodded once. "Don't die tomorrow."
"Wasn't planning to," he said.
"Good," she said. "Because if anyone kills you before I do, I'll be pissed."
Then she was gone—no sound, no farewell. Just like she always was.
January watched the spot she'd stood in for a beat longer than he meant to.
Then he turned, and chose a second knife.