I just threw a bunch of references, and lowkey, if you can't find them, it'd be sad.
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Kaine tested the handcuffs with a subtle flex of his wrists. The metal bit slightly into his skin, resisting with a firmness that went beyond mass-produced restraints. Reinforced alloys. Layered internally, probably disguised to avoid alarming civilians. He calculated the tensile strength almost immediately.
Three seconds, he concluded. Five, if I want to be polite.
He let them be.
The caravan's interior told a more serious story. The walls weren't just armoured; they were composite—ceramic layers bonded with shock-absorbent polymers. This wasn't a transport meant for riots or criminals. This was a containment vehicle. Something designed to hold creatures that could tear through steel if given the chance.
Interesting.
The vehicle slowed. Stopped. Locks disengaged with a hydraulic hiss.
Light flooded in as the rear doors burst open.
Six soldiers stood in a perfect arc, assault rifles levelled directly at his head. Not shaking. Not posturing. Fingers resting close enough to triggers to fire within milliseconds.
"Exit slowly."
Kaine complied immediately, stepping out with controlled movements, hands still visible. A seventh soldier moved in close, unlocking the cuffs with practiced efficiency. Kaine barely registered the sensation—his attention had already shifted outward.
They were far from the city.
The skyline was gone, replaced by wide stretches of land fenced with layered barriers. Concrete, steel, and energy grids hummed faintly beneath the surface. Watchtowers dotted the perimeter, each bristling with sensors and mounted weapons. Patrols moved along fixed routes with clockwork precision. Surveillance drones hovered silently overhead, their optics tracking every motion.
A hidden base.
No identifying markers. No flags. No visible insignia. Secrecy was the priority. Kaine spotted armoured personnel carriers, transport jeeps, and several low-flying assault helicopters stationed on reinforced pads. No tanks. No jets. Too loud. Too visible. Whoever built this place understood discretion.
He was shoved forward by the muzzle of a rifle.
The escorts had dropped the city act entirely. No calm voices. No rehearsed professionalism. Just force and expectation of obedience. Kaine allowed himself to be guided, his steps steady, his expression unreadable.
As they moved deeper into the compound, he catalogued everything. Patrol density. Blind spots. Weapon types. Response times. With his current suit and baseline capabilities, factoring in unknown variables, he calculated an eighty-nine percent chance of escape if he chose to act immediately.
High.
Comfortably high.
But he didn't.
Curiosity outweighed caution.
"Don't act out," one soldier muttered as they approached a massive sealed gate, voice low and edged with contempt. "If you wanna leave here in one piece."
Kaine's gaze lingered on the gate's locking mechanisms, then the energy seals layered beneath the physical barrier.
"Well," he said softly, almost to himself, "let's hope the mutants held here have decent genomes."
The soldier didn't respond. The gate opened with a deep mechanical groan, swallowing them whole.
Inside, the facility felt colder—not in temperature, but in intent. Long corridors of reinforced alloy. Harsh white lighting. More guards than seemed necessary. Kaine noted the absence of windows, the deliberate isolation from the outside world.
Aliens who called themselves gods had long since warped humanity's understanding of genetic potential. Compared to them, humans constantly underestimate themselves. If mutants existed here—true deviations, not parlour tricks—then this place might be more valuable than it realized.
Soldiers passed him, casting brief, appraising glances. Some lingered longer than others, eyes flicking to the dots beneath his eyes, the red of his irises. Assessing. Judging. Then they moved on.
He assumed he was meant to follow. And even if he wasn't, he would have.
Door after door opened and closed behind them, each more secure than the last. Still, he saw no other detainees. No cells. No containment chambers. No visible evidence of the population this place supposedly housed.
That irritated him.
If mutants are your justification, he thought, where are they?
Finally, they reached a door that felt different.
No excessive guards. No heavy weapons trained on him. Just a single, solid slab of reinforced metal with a discreet access port. The soldiers tapped their weapons against it in a specific rhythm. Authorization confirmed. The door slid open.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted completely.
The office was warm. Tastefully furnished. Wood panelling. Bookshelves. A large desk positioned deliberately to command the room without appearing oppressive. And seated behind it—
An elderly man.
Calm. Still. Hands folded neatly atop the desk.
"Hello, my son," the man said gently, not rising. His voice was smooth, practiced, soothing in a way that had been refined over decades. "Please, take a seat. We've much to talk about."
A chair was brought forward. Not offered—forced. Kaine was pushed down into it with unnecessary roughness.
The man didn't react.
"My name is Samuel Frost," he continued, smiling faintly. "Though my friends here refer to me as Warden Frost. I've heard how kindly you treated them. I'm glad to see my podcasts and speeches reached you."
Kaine studied him in silence.
Gentle blue eyes. Hair once blond, now white at the temples. Lines at the corners of his mouth that suggested frequent smiles—real or manufactured, it was difficult to tell. Age around sixty. Physically unremarkable. Cardiovascular indicators are normal. No enhanced physiology.
In terms of direct threat, he was nothing.
In terms of influence, he was dangerous.
Every word Frost spoke was calibrated. Inclusive language. Familial terms. Gratitude layered over authority. He didn't dominate the conversation—he shaped it.
"Are they scaring you?" Frost asked lightly, snapping his fingers.
The soldiers withdrew instantly. The door sealed behind them with a heavy clang.
"It's fine," Frost said. "We're safe here."
Safe.
Kaine almost smiled.
"Since you showed no sign of fighting back," Frost continued, leaning forward slightly, "you've understood it too. Mutants are sick. A natural disease that's appeared throughout history, just like smallpox or malaria."
His voice softened, eyes glistening just enough to seem sincere.
"I'm glad, my son, that you're here to see our side. I thank you for that."
Kaine nodded once.
This has surpassed simple racism, he thought. This is ideology reinforced by infrastructure.
"Anyways," Frost said brightly, standing at last, "since you're here, please make yourself at home."
The doors opened again.
Kaine rose, adjusted his sweater, and finally spoke.
"…Thank you," he said evenly. "I'll be sure to surpass your expectations… Samuel Frost."
For the first time, Frost hesitated—just a fraction of a second. Not fear. Curiosity.
Kaine turned and left, escorted once more by soldiers, deeper into the facility. Processing. Classification. Imprisonment.
He allowed it all.
Because now he understood.
This world didn't just fear difference.
It institutionalized it.
And Kaine Parker had just been handed a living laboratory—one built on hatred, fear, and flawed logic.
Perfect, he thought calmly.
Let's see how well your system survives optimization.
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[Auther: My hate is still meaningless...after all, he's gone, so I don't care.]