"Holy cow… what the hell was that?!" he gasped, voice rising with raw disbelief.
The sudden noise drew the attention of the others in the bay. Several members of the convoy rushed over, startled to see Briggs sprawled on the ground, his face drained of color and his gaze fixed on the glass.
One of them knelt beside him, asking cautiously, "What happened?" His voice carried a weary edge, as if fearing the answer.
Another turned to follow Briggs' fixed gaze, eyes narrowing at the glass, trying to spot whatever had shaken him so badly.
There was nothing of ordinary, the glass plane shone light through its' edges with veil of darkness behind its periphery. Brigg finally caught his consciousness back and turn his head towards person knelt beside him.
"There was... something in there. I didn't see it clearly, but it definitely moved."
The departure bay was positioned at the outermost edge of what was once the town of Greywell—now a heavily fortified military base. Built into the remains of an old industrial zone, the bay stood apart from the central operations, separated by layers of concrete barriers, barbed wire fencing, and weathered access roads.
Its location was intentional. From here, convoys could leave the base directly via the main service road that curved out into the surrounding wilderness, bypassing the core facilities entirely. This made the bay ideal for discreet deployments and supply runs—isolated enough to avoid unnecessary attention, yet close enough to remain under surveillance.
The area around the bay retained fragments of its civilian past—cracked sidewalks, rusted streetlights, and the skeletons of old warehouses long since repurposed or abandoned. Behind it loomed the rest of the military complex, built over Greywell's decaying heart, now a maze of checkpoints, bunkers, and reinforced structures that bore little resemblance to the town it once was.
The very idea that something had moved behind the glass was unsettling—eerie in a way that gnawed at the edges of reason. It wasn't just strange; it was impossible.
The military had swept the area thoroughly before converting Greywell into a base. Every corner had been cleared, secured, and certified barren. No wildlife, no locals, no unexplained anomalies. At least, not officially.
Which is why the thought of something lingering—something moving—was not only unwelcome but outright dismissed. There were, of course, old rumors about the town's disappearance: hushed stories of how Greywell had emptied overnight, of strange lights, vanishing people, and silence that fell like a blanket over its streets.
But those were just scraps of gossip. Campfire talks among low-ranking personnel. Myths clung to by those with too much time and not enough reason. The brass didn't acknowledge them. Most didn't. Because if you did… well, that meant you thought something had survived.
And no one wanted to believe that.
The man who had knelt beside Briggs was the only one who took the initiation to actually investigate. While the others lingered by the trucks, casting uneasy glances toward the glass wall, he made his way toward the access corridor leading behind the glass.
The space beyond was part of an old, sealed-off compartment—originally constructed as an insulating buffer between the departure bay and the harsh mountain winds outside. It wasn't meant to be occupied. The room was filled with heavy industrial equipment: thermal regulators, pressure systems, and exposed ventilation pipes—all designed to keep the cold at bay.
He stepped through slowly, his boots echoing against the grated floor. Steam hissed from overhead valves, swirling lazily in the stale air. Aside from the low mechanical hum and the occasional groan of old metal, the place was empty. No movement. No presence. Nothing that could've justified Briggs' reaction.
When he returned, he gave a simple shake of the head.
"Nothing there," he said, voice flat. "Just heat exhaust and pipes. Probably caught a swirl of steam reflecting light. Happens all the time."
The explanation was logical, even comforting. That compartment couldn't support life anyway—not with the temperature, the noise, and the atmosphere choking on metallic heat. It was a space built for function, not habitation.
.........
While the commotion at the departure bay settled into uneasy silence, deeper within the military complex—far from the wind-scoured loading docks and steaming insulation chambers—another matter was being quietly handled.
In a windowless room lit by sterile overhead lights, a small metal trolley was being pushed down a narrow corridor. Resting atop it was a single sealed crate—compact, unassuming in size, but unmistakable in its marking. Stamped across one face in matte black was a thick rectangular glyph—no text, no barcode, no label—just a void-shaped mark that carried meaning for only a select few.
Those who knew referred to it simply as "Sundered-class." Materials that had been fragmented, dislocated, or—some believed—existed only partially within the physical world. The box bore no signs of damage, but the air around it seemed subtly wrong, like the faint smell of ozone before a storm. It was escorted by two officers with clearance well above base-level operations, and they spoke no words as they moved.
The crate had arrived without origin manifest—just a transit order signed under layered clearance. Destination: Storage Level D Unit-731, a subterranean wing of the facility accessible only through retinal scan and direct authorization.
What lay within the box wasn't known to most. Even those handling it weren't told—only that the container was not to be opened, not to be exposed to electromagnetic fields, and never to be brought near Site 0.
Storage Unit-731 wasn't built for comfort.
It was a featureless white box of a room—no windows, no vents, no visible door seams. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all covered in matte white panels that somehow managed to reflect light in every direction. The overhead fixtures weren't just bright; they were invasive. Light poured from every angle, flooding the space until it felt less like a room and more like standing inside a hospital-grade x-ray. You couldn't see your own shadow even if you waved. Not that anyone wanted to.
At the center of this over-lit chamber sat a single crate.
The crate was standard-issue military containment: reinforced, sealed, and opened only from the outside—by trained personnel, with clearance, tools, and usually a bad attitude about paperwork.
It was unmarked, unassuming, locked from the outside—except, apparently, not just from the outside.
For hours, nothing moved. Then, with a click so quiet it was almost missed, the latch turned.
A hand reached out.
Thin. Small. Unsteady. The skin was pale, like someone who hadn't seen sunlight in a long time—but not unhealthy, exactly. For the briefest second, the color seemed to shift, but it might have been the lighting. In here, even dust would cast hallucinations if you stared long enough.
The hand hovered awkwardly, like it wasn't entirely sure it wanted to be here.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, another hand emerged and gripped the crate's edge. It gave a soft grunt—more air than voice—and pulled.
What came out was… a child.
A boy, no older than nine, maybe ten at most.
Dressed in a thick charcoal-gray thermal jacket, lightly padded but soft, the kind you'd give a kid going out in late autumn. Underneath, a dark fleece hoodie peeked from the collar, layered neatly with a moisture-wicking base shirt—standard cold-environment gear, chosen more for insulation than style. His cargo pants were lined on the inside, not bulky but warm, cuffed neatly over insulated, soft-soled boots built for silent walking more than speed.
Gloves hung loose from his sleeves, clipped by a small fastener, as though someone had dressed him for the weather but wasn't sure if he'd need them yet.
His knees scraped slightly on the metal as he half-tumbled, half-crawled into the blinding light.
He blinked hard, shielding his eyes as if seeing for the first time in days—or ever.
For a long moment, he just sat there on the floor, blinking, breathing, looking more confused than threatening.
If this was the government's idea of a classified bio-weapon, someone had definitely missed a memo.