The girl didn't flinch when the restraints locked around her arms.
She didn't scream. She didn't fight. She just stared at the ceiling with lifeless eyes, lips pressed into a line like she had already accepted death.
Smart.
I stood behind the glass, arms folded, watching Lorne adjust the controls with delicate precision. The girl was wiry, underfed, her skin a little too pale. But her power made her valuable.
Neural mimicry.
A mirror in motion. She could watch someone throw a punch once and replicate it with perfect form. If honed properly, she wouldn't just adapt—she'd outperform.
"She's stable," Lorne muttered. "Vitals holding. Beginning first merge."
This wasn't like Kurt. She wasn't built for brute force. I wasn't aiming to make another Apex.
I was making a weapon.
The first quirk was reflex enhancement. Minor. Quickening her reaction time beyond natural limits.
The second: agility amplification—fine-tuned muscle acceleration, perfect for dodging, weaving, striking.
And the third: tactile intuition—her body would learn from touch. Pressure, angles, momentum. Everything she felt, she remembered.
The process was cleaner this time. Slower. No uncontrolled convulsions. No bursts of uncontrolled energy.
She didn't scream, even as the heat rippled through her skin.
She just... trembled.
Lorne's voice crackled through the comms. "Fusion complete. Neural activity is spiking, but there's no sign of rejection."
The restraints unlatched with a hiss. The girl sat up, blinking slowly. Her fingers curled and uncurled. Then she stood.
She looked straight at me.
"Do you know your name?" I asked.
She hesitated.
Then softly, "…No."
"Then I'll give you one," I said. "From now on, you answer to Echo."
Kurt stood at the far end of the room, silent. Watching.
Echo turned to him instinctively, as if sensing something immense, something predatory. Her body tensed. She stepped back.
Kurt didn't move.
I walked toward her, standing just close enough to let my voice settle beneath her skin.
"You'll learn to fight. To move. To kill. But never to question."
She didn't respond.
I raised an eyebrow. "Understand?"
She nodded once. "Yes."
Good.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Later that night, I reviewed the surveillance logs. Lorne had recovered the scrambled feed from the shipping yard. The node hadn't been government after all—not officially. It had been black market gear, advanced but unsanctioned.
A third party.
Someone off the books.
"Someone's poking around our perimeter," Lorne said, eyes on the rotating feed. "Private. Expensive. Could be an enhanced, maybe even a small cell."
"Not the government?"
"Not directly," he confirmed. "But they'll hear about it soon enough."
I stared at the static feed for a long moment.
Someone knew something.
Someone was trying to confirm I existed.
Let them.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Echo's training began immediately.
She wasn't fast—not yet—but she was precise. She observed Kurt's movements from a distance, eyes narrowing every time he moved. She didn't copy him directly. She analyzed. Stored the rhythm. Matched her stance.
Each day she grew faster, stronger. Not physically, but mentally. She anticipated strikes. Read motion. Reacted with inhuman efficiency.
But she wasn't perfect.
One afternoon, she tried to touch Kurt. To test something.
Kurt moved before her hand made contact—teleported behind her, slammed her into the wall with a dull thud.
Echo hit the floor, gasping for air.
He stood above her, unmoving, glowing eyes narrowed.
"Mine," he rumbled.
"Don't touch."
I stepped in. "Stand down."
Immediately, Kurt backed away, returning to his corner like nothing had happened.
Echo stared at me through the haze of pain, then nodded.
She understood now.
_________________________________________________________________________________
That evening, I sat with Lorne in the control room.
"We'll need more," he said, pulling up a list of potential captures. "Low-threat mutants. Ones who won't be missed. That's the safest route."
"No."
Lorne blinked. "No?"
"I don't want low-threats. I want the dangerous ones. The ones with power—chaotic, unstable, lethal."
He exhaled. "You want to make them submit."
"I want to refine them. Make them useful. Like Echo."
He rubbed his forehead. "We'll need new facilities. More equipment. Possibly new handlers—genetic compatibility's not guaranteed, especially with unstable personalities."
"Then give them a choice. Power or death."
Lorne didn't argue.
The next day, I walked through the reinforced cell wing we were repurposing. Each cell would hold a candidate—willing or not. They would be broken. Rebuilt. Reforged.
To defy me is to die.
To serve me… is to evolve.
And soon, the world would understand:
Ascension wasn't a gift.
It was a demand.
Ascension continues.