Chapter 24: A Mission That Feels Too Familiar
Scene 1 – The Eradication Order
The war room was a void—cold, sterile, untouched by anything but purpose. The walls pulsed with information, holographic projections flickering between data streams, tactical overlays, and surveillance feeds. The air carried the quiet hum of machines processing directives.
One stood motionless in formation, surrounded by his unit. Identical soldiers, motionless like statues, their bodies stiff with unwavering precision. No one shifted. No one breathed louder than necessary.
The Master’s presence was everywhere, yet nowhere. It did not exist in a singular form, did not occupy space. It was the voice of control, absolute and unwavering. It whispered into the minds of every soldier in the room, its tone never rising, never softening.
"Target confirmed: insurgent faction designated as noncompliant."
A holographic map flickered to life before them. Red markers blinked against the black grid, indicating enemy positions, estimated stronghold density, and predicted resistance levels.
"Objective: Eradicate all hostiles."
The words carried no emotion. No weight. A statement of inevitability.
One absorbed the information instantly. The Master reinforced it in his mind, a steady pulse of affirmation. There was no room for uncertainty. No room for deviation.
"Proceed."
The map shifted, displaying the target location—a crumbling industrial facility outside The Order’s jurisdiction. Its skeletal remains were half-buried in darkness, its structure warped from time and conflict.
A tightness formed in One’s chest. It was not a feeling. He did not feel.
And yet—
The image pressed against something deep within him, something unreachable. His breath hitched, but only for a fraction of a second.
The Master’s voice sharpened.
"No deviations."
The sensation evaporated.
One nodded. He obeyed.
The Mission Commander, a figure wrapped in shadows at the edge of the war room, continued the briefing. His voice was clipped, precise.
"Surveillance reports indicate minimal resistance. You will engage at zero-four-hundred hours. Swift execution. No survivors."
A final series of images flickered across the display—drone footage of the compound, grainy shots of the enemy forces. One’s eyes tracked the figures moving within the stronghold.
And then—
A flicker.
For the briefest moment, the footage distorted, blurring between frames. The figures became indistinct, hazy. Their weapons, their armor—there was something about them. Something wrong.
His heartbeat skipped, an unregistered anomaly.
A whisper brushed against the edges of his mind, so faint it was almost lost.
"You’ve been here before."
He stiffened.
The Master’s voice followed, immediate, absolute.
"Forget."
The sensation faded, swept away before he could grasp it.
The Mission Commander gestured sharply, ending the briefing. "You deploy in one hour. Dismissed."
The soldiers turned in unison, moving with synchronized precision.
One followed.
But beneath the layers of obedience, buried so deep it had not yet surfaced—
A single thought lingered.
"Why?"
It did not belong. It did not last.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The Master erased it before it could take form.
One marched forward.
Scene 2 – Echoes of the Past
The dropship cut through the darkness, silent and precise, moving like a phantom against the skyline. No sound beyond the steady vibration of the engines. No turbulence. No imperfection.
Inside, the soldiers sat in rigid formation, strapped into their seats, eyes blank and forward-facing. No one fidgeted. No one spoke. No one questioned.
One’s hands rested on his thighs, steady. His breathing matched the rhythmic pulse of the cabin’s overhead lights. Slow. Controlled. Purposeful.
And yet—
His fingers curled slightly, just enough to register the sensation of pressure against his gloves. It was a pointless action. An unnecessary movement.
A deviation.
The Master’s voice did not reprimand him, yet the silence in his mind felt heavier than usual.
Across from him, his unit mirrored his posture—identical in form, identical in presence. A collective of bodies, stripped of selves. Perfect, efficient.
The voice of the Mission Commander crackled through the comms, void of anything resembling humanity.
"ETA: Three minutes. Final confirmation—no deviations."
No deviations.
One’s mind acknowledged the directive. His body remained still.
Yet something pressed against the edges of his thoughts. The faintest whisper, an echo of something just out of reach.
He was aware of the mission’s parameters. The compound. The layout. The enemy.
But as the dropship neared its destination, as the structure came into view through the reinforced glass of the side panels—
A pulse of something foreign slammed into him.
It was brief. A moment. Less than that. But it was there.
The compound below, its skeletal remains half-buried in shadow, the way the emergency lights flickered along rusted corridors—
He had seen this before.
Not in briefings. Not in mission simulations.
He had stood there.
He did not remember when. He did not remember why.
But he knew.
A flicker—his vision glitched, static bleeding at the edges of his perception.
For a fraction of a second, the compound below did not look like a battlefield.
It looked like a graveyard.
The Master’s voice pressed against his thoughts, smooth and absolute.
"Proceed."
The static faded. The compound was nothing more than a target once more.
One nodded. He obeyed.
The dropship touched down with seamless precision.
The soldiers unstrapped in perfect synchrony, moving with mechanical efficiency. One followed, stepping out into the cold night air, his boots meeting the cracked ground without hesitation.
No questions. No deviations.
Yet as he advanced toward the stronghold, the shadows stretching unnaturally long in the flickering emergency light—
Something lingered beneath the surface.
The memory of something that wasn’t a memory.
A place he had never been.
A place he had never left.
Scene 3 – The Truth of Project One
The compound loomed ahead, its skeletal remains stretching into the night, swallowed by the flickering light of failing overhead lamps. The wind howled through shattered corridors, rattling rusted beams like whispered warnings.
One moved without hesitation. His unit flanked him, their steps synchronized, their weapons held in precise formation. Their HUDs displayed red markers—hostile signatures buried deep within the ruins.
The directive was clear.
"Eradicate all hostiles."
The walls of the compound were scarred with past conflict, burn marks stretching like old wounds across the surface. He had seen battlefields before, but something about this place felt wrong.
He advanced, his rifle raised. The ground beneath his boots cracked—dust, debris, and something older beneath the surface. A whisper of unease coiled around his spine.
The Master’s voice remained silent.
A corridor stretched before them, lined with collapsed support beams. A red light flickered in erratic bursts from a broken fixture above.
One’s HUD pulsed—movement ahead.
"Breach and clear."
His team moved as one. A perfect machine.
The door at the end of the corridor stood reinforced, its metal surface pockmarked with bullet holes. A final bastion.
One signaled his unit. The sequence played out as designed—charges placed, detonation primed.
Three.
Two.
One.
The explosion shattered the silence, the door buckling inward. Smoke billowed, the stale scent of decay mixed with the acrid burn of explosives.
His unit rushed forward. He followed.
And then—
Time stopped.
The room was not what it should have been.
Not an enemy hideout. Not a resistance bunker.
It was a morgue.
Bodies lined the walls, slumped against cold metal. Some were still wearing their armor, others stripped down to fatigues stained with something dark and old.
One’s grip tightened on his weapon. His breath hitched—a flicker, a hesitation.
The survivors stood at the far end, their backs pressed against the cold steel of the room. Three figures. Unarmed. Silent.
One raised his rifle.
And then he saw them.
The bodies lining the walls—
They were him.
Not just similar. Not just soldiers of The Order.
Him.
His own face, twisted in death. His own uniform, torn and faded. His own hands, frozen mid-reach.
A wave of nausea, raw and unfamiliar, surged in his gut. He had no name for the sensation, but it coiled inside him, screaming.
The Master’s voice did not speak.
The survivors stared at him, eyes hollow, faces grim.
One of them—an older version of himself, his hair streaked with gray, his body marked with old scars—stepped forward.
A whisper, hoarse and tired:
"Lucian."
The name slammed into his mind like a hammer. His entire body tensed, his vision flickering, static bleeding into his HUD.
He knew that name.
But it did not belong to him.
"I was you," the man said, his voice filled with something One could not name.
"And you will be me."
A memory tried to surface—flashes of something raw, something buried. Waking up in this very room. Holding a rifle. Standing where the old man stood now.
This mission—this eradication—
It was not an operation.
It was a cycle.
One shook his head, his fingers twitching around the trigger.
This was wrong.
This was wrong.
"Forget."
The Master’s voice sliced through his mind like a blade.
The static vanished. The nausea evaporated.
His grip steadied.
The old man’s face flickered—fear. Not of death, but of something worse.
He had seen this before.
He had lived this before.
The Master’s voice was absolute.
"Execute."
One pulled the trigger.
The bodies fell.
The mission was complete.
One turned, his steps steady, his mind silent once more.
The whispers were gone.
For now.
