Rion felt a rough shove to his back as the agents led him deep into the underground facility. The cold, sterile air seemed to seep through his clothes, chilling him to the bone.
The agents guiding him remained silent, their faces impassive as they pushed him forward. Finally, they stopped in front of a thick, iron door. One of the agents punched in a code on a keypad, and with a heavy clank, the door swung open. He was unceremoniously shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud that echoed in the small, confined space.
The solitary confinement cell was as bleak as he'd expected. The walls were bare, cold concrete, the only furnishing a hard metal bench bolted to the floor. A single, flickering fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting a harsh white glow over everything.
He stood there for a moment, listening as the agents' footsteps receded down the hallway until only silence remained.
He then took a deep breath, inhaling the stale, metallic scent that permeated the room, and plopped down on the cold, hard bench. Almost immediately, he winced, pain shooting through his muscles.
"Ouch."
His whole body was sore, which was not at all unfamiliar, but still unpleasant. The rigors of today's battle was not something his body could handle easily, even with the regenerative potions the agents had force fed him. His muscles ached, his ribs felt bruised, and every movement sent a sharp reminder of his more hidden injuries.
He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but there was no escaping the pain. Settling in as best as he could, Rion closed his eyes and began to review the day's events.
There had been several close calls, too many for his liking. While his ability to improvise had kept him alive, he couldn't ignore the mistakes he'd made, the openings he'd left for his enemies to exploit. His technique still needed much improvement.
Speaking of technique, something wierd was going on during the interrogation...
He had felt an odd sensation during the interrogation. Somewhere in the middle of the tense exchange, he had felt an unusual pressure building in his head, like invisible fingers pressing against the walls of his mind.
The sensation was difficult to describe, almost like a faint tugging or pulling at the edges of his thoughts. It was as though something—or someone—was attempting to probe his mind in an attempt to subtly influence his thoughts or emotions.
He had instinctively resisted, shielding his mind as best he could without revealing any signs of discomfort. Whatever they were doing, it hadn't been strong enough to fully penetrate his defenses.
"Hmmmm,"he muttered to himself, trying to figure out where the mind attack had originated from. Given the agency's access to cultivators, it wouldn't be far-fetched to assume they had an adept with a psychic-type ability on their payroll.
The prospect didn't worry him as much as it should. The interference had been weak—either the psychic wasn't very powerful, or they were deliberately using a light touch to avoid detection.
But Rion knew better than to underestimate these agents. They were professionals, and they had resources he could only guess at. If they were employing an adept with psychic abilities, it was possible they had other, more subtle means of breaking him down.
Still, the fact that they went through the trouble of probing his mind told him something crucial—they were fishing. They didn't have a lot of information, courtesy of his vigilance. If they had any solid evidence or clear leads, they wouldn't be relying on weak psychic tactics to draw him out.
As he reflected, his gaze drifted down to his hand, to the small, unassuming 'X' tattoo etched into the skin. He nonchalantly tapped it in a peculiar pattern, and for a split second, the tattoo seemed to move, almost imperceptibly, before settling back into its normal state.
All right... those guys should be able to find where I am now..
Ever since he'd noticed the subtle shift in Cobra's demeanor towards him, he had drafted several contingency plans. Sure, he was confident in his ability to handle Cobra and his goons or at least make a daring escape, but he wasn't the kind of guy to leave things entirely to chance.
One of those plans involved biting the bullet and hiring the services of the small-time mercenary team known as The Four Horsemen.
The plan itself was deceptively simple in theory. Rion would tap the tattoo on his hand—a tattoo that was, in fact, an extension of one of the Horsemen's adept abilities—in a specific sequence. This would trigger a hidden tracker that would transmit his location to the Horsemen, who would then come to his rescue.
He had raised concerns about potential interference or jamming of the signal, but the team leader had dismissed his worries with a cocky assurance.
"It's foolproof—trust us!" the leader had said, exuding confidence.
And he did trust them—well, as much as he trusted anyone in this line of work. He had ensured their commitment by wiring a substantial advance payment to their account, securing their services for scenarios like this. All he had to do now was wait.
The payment arrangement was part of what gave him confidence in the Horsemen's commitment. He had wired them a substantial advance, ensuring their interest in his extraction. The remainder of the payment was locked in an encrypted digital wallet, set to release automatically upon confirmation of his safe retrieval. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement; they wanted their payment, and he wanted his freedom.
In addition to arrangement with the Horsemen, he had also made financial preparations for any inevitable issues. He had carefully stashed away about forty thousand kila in a secure black-market account. It wasn't a fortune, but it was more than enough to set himself up comfortably once he was out of this mess.
* * *
Four days passed in a monotonous blur. Each day, Rion was brought out of his cell, questioned by Agent Christopher and Kate, and then returned to solitary confinement. The interrogation methods varied—sometimes they were aggressive, sometimes psychological, sometimes they played good cop, bad cop—but he held firm. He gave them nothing.
Christopher, a seasoned interrogator, was relentless. His calm yet authoritative demeanor was a stark contrast to Rion's slyness. He sometimes pushed hard, and sometimes appealed to his pragmatic side, offering deals and leniency if he cooperated. But he was no amateur. He matched the agent's intensity with his own brand of sarcasm and evasion, keeping his answers vague and unhelpful.
Kate, on the other hand, was more subtle. She approached him with a mix of empathy and determination, trying to coax information out of him with a softer touch. She also used carefully worded questions to try and trip him up. He found her approach almost amusing, but he didn't underestimate her.
After another grueling interrogation session, Rion was led back to his cell. As the door clanged shut behind him, he leaned against the cold wall, seemingly at rest. In reality, he was processing the events that had happened these past few days.
Kate and Christopher, despite their best efforts, were losing patience. Their questions were becoming more pointed, their tactics more erratic. Rion could see it in the way Christopher's jaw tightened when he deflected another question, in the way Kate's eyes narrowed whenever he outmaneuvered her subtle traps. They were losing their composure, that was for sure.
And he was counting on that.
Probably due to their frustration from getting nowhere with him, his captors had unwittingly given him a wealth of information during his short stay, including the fact that this place was a more of a temporary base and he and some other prisoners would soon be shifted to a more secure base in Central District. He'd also carefully noted the layout of the underground facility, every twist and turn of the corridors, every security checkpoint, and even the routines of the guards.
The guards had also relaxed their vigilance, trusting in the security measures in place. It could also be that they underestimated the prisoners, assuming that because they had been contained thus far, they wouldn't try anything. While these agents had been professionally trained, it was human nature to let your guard down when you thought you were in control.
It's like these guys don't watch movies...
He slowly stood up from the bench, stretching his limbs and rolling his shoulders. The pain in his muscles was still there, but it was a familiar sensation now, almost comforting in its own way. He walked over to the tiny slit on the thick iron door and peered through it. Not that he expected to see anything useful; it was more of a habit, a way to keep himself moving and thinking.
As he stared out into the darkness, his hand drifted to his jaw, a subtle reminder of the one last ace he had up his sleeve—or, more precisely, up his vestibule.
The Micro-Dart.
It was one of his more ingenious creations, a tiny device that he'd carefully concealed away in a place the agents didn't bother to search. Made from non-metallic composite materials, it was virtually undetectable by standard security scans. The dart was collapsible, with segments that could be compacted into a slim, unobtrusive shape, perfect for hiding in plain sight.
When fully unfolded and activated, the dart had two crucial functions that would be invaluable whenever he decided to make his escape.
First, there was a fast acting synthetic neurotoxin embedded in it that could be made to gather at the pointy end at just the push of a button, capable of interfering with the nervous system of anyone it struck.
He had tested it on various targets in the past; the results were always satisfying, especially when used at the right moment. A single strike wasn't lethal, but it was enough to incapacitate a guard, leaving them momentarily paralyzed or severely disoriented. Just a few seconds was all he needed to turn the tables.
The Micro Dart could also release a small burst of chemical mist that created a dense fog in the immediate area. This would obscure vision, giving him a chance to move stealthily or set up an ambush without being seen.
The only real issue, Rion mused, was the power-dampening collar clasped around his neck. This piece of equipment miraculously suppressed all sorts of originabilities. But for him, it was more of an inconvenience than a real obstacle.
Without his custom-made weapons, his ability was limited anyway. The advantage of his Resonance ability was minimal, almost useless in combat without the tools he'd meticulously crafted to harness it.
The only thing disadvantage was that he was also restricted from using origintechniques. Which set him back a bit as his chances would be significantly higher if he has access to them.
Although it could still be a problem if it triggered any additional security measures, the first priority was to neutralize the guards and escape the base. After that, he'd worry about the collar.
The real trick, though, was successfully making his escape after leaving the base. He had no idea where this place was located and how far it was to the nearest town. If it was a lengthy journey, the chances of weather delays or other unexpected complications increased.
He glanced at the 'X' tattoo on his hand one more time. In these past few days, he had noticed the tattoo move at different times. This most likely meant that the Horsemen were still actively involved in his rescue mission. If he could manage to get out on his own, they should be better equipped to assist during the transport.
He was sober enough to realize that his plan wasn't foolproof—far from it. There were countless variables he couldn't account for, and any number of things could go wrong. But it was a plan, and it gave him a chance. That was more than enough for Rion.
He looked up, the faint hum of the fluorescent light above him grounding him back in the present. The cold, harsh reality of his situation settled over him, but he didn't flinch. He'd been in tough spots before, and he'd always found a way out. This time would be no different.
I'll make an attempt in two days later when the guards bring dinner. Let's see if—
«RUMBLE!»