Date: You already know
Location: Master Tiphe's Class
Mission: Resist
Walking to Master Tiphe's class had unraveling in quiet shambles. Malachi's look—sharp, knowing, dangerous—still replayed in my head like a highlight reel of so ga-winning move in football. Over and over, the glare returned, a loop I couldn't switch off. But as if that wasn't enough, I also had to survive two other hazards waiting inside: Master Tiphe herself and Mari.
The mont I entered, I spotted Mari in her usual corner, sitting alone, radiating contempt for the world. I gave her a glare of revolt, one of those stay-away-from- stares, but the second her eyes landed on mine, I flinched and turned in the opposite direction like the coward I didn't want to be.
Then Nikki and Tisiah ca in, and for a fleeting mont, peace seed possible. That was until I noticed where they were heading—straight toward Mari.
Reluctantly, I followed. My gut told not to, but my legs didn't care.
"What's the deal?" Mari asked, tone sharp as ever.
"Any information on Lowman?" Tisiah asked.
Mari shook her head quickly. "I think that was just the final thing. Just get him out of there. Nothing else."
"Well, it makes sense, sort of," Tisiah muttered.
But then Mari leaned in slightly, voice curious in a way that set my nerves prickling. "I am, however, a little bit curious about what exactly he was doing in there."
Our eyes widened. Nikki, never one to waste ti, snapped, "Do speak."
Mari gave her a look—quick, dismissive, lasting no longer than a blink. "The C.A.R.G.O Foundation works on GMO products. At least, that's what the files say. But from what we saw? Most of the labs were empty."
"Well, easy for us to say," Nikki countered. "We were instantly held hostage."
"I'm not talking about you and Cory here," Mari said flatly. Her words jabbed at like an elbow in the ribs. "I'm talking about and Tisiah. We searched. Most of the labs were stripped. Empty. Maybe equipnt was shipped out. Maybe it was new. I don't know. But that absence? It wasn't random."
"So you're saying… the mole basically did nothing?" Nikki asked skeptically.
"No." Mari's eyes hardened. "Nothing is what the mole did. That emptiness? It's intentional. It's possible he and Tilli were moving the experints sowhere else—to ambush them later."
I squinted, trading a glance with Tisiah, who shrugged, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Nikki's face twisted in subtle confusion. Together, we made a trio of befuddlent.
"Is that not… am I—" Nikki stamred, half-muttering to herself.
Tisiah added so incoherent sounds of agreent.
"You got all that from nothing?" Nikki hissed.
Mari exhaled, dim eyes narrowing. "Yes."
Before the argunt could continue, Master Tiphe's voice cut across the field like a whip.
"Formation!"
Imdiately, the class snapped into lines, columns, and rows, heels striking the wooden stage beneath us. Mind you, this wasn't indoors. Tiphe liked her lessons outside, where the wind bit at your skin and the sun showed no rcy.
"I hope you've all completed your Exercise and Health packet yesterday," Tiphe barked. "The school demands it, and I'd prefer to keep this job. Fail to do it, and expect a sour grade."
She stood before us in a bright red onesie, shiny and silky, clinging to her fra like liquid fire. She looked absurd, but no one dared laugh.
"Today," she announced, "a new lesson: using a firearm at an angle."
We'd been stuck on the Firearm Module for a month. Only now were we getting into angled shots, which, trust , weren't easier than straight ones—especially with Tisiah leaning half his weight against your shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Pedro, pass these out!"
"Yes, ma'am," Pedro replied quickly. No one mocked him for it. We all knew the truth: if you didn't respond with "ma'am," she'd shock you. Literally. The one ti I slipped, my right side turned to jelly for hours.
As Tiphe droned on, Tisiah whispered to Mari, "So what should we do then? Ask Principal Renner?"
Mari shook her head. "She doesn't handle missions. She assigns them. We'd have to wait until security pulls us in."
Right on cue, the doors burst open. Two n stepped in, suits black, shirts black, ties blending into the rest of the uniform.
"You four, co with us," one ordered. His voice carried urgency, sharp enough to hush the whole class. A ripple of ooohs followed.
And just like that, I was the talk of the town again—for all the wrong reasons.
We followed them out, down the hall, past the training center, into an elevator. The doors slid shut, and we rose to the second floor.
Gray. That was all I could say about it. Gray walls, gray carpet, gray doors lining both sides of the hall. It felt like walking through the inside of a filing cabinet.
"Been here before?" I whispered.
"Yeah. Just to turn in attendance once. I think," Tisiah said.
"Mr. Chiffon?"
He nodded. Danny Chiffon, Tactical Bomb Diffusion teacher. "Tactical" was a stretch, considering he despised technology. How exactly do you teach bomb diffusion without tech? I didn't have his class, but I'd heard the horror stories. Students tasked with delivering attendance slips, only to get jumped in the halls by Malachi's goons. Apparently, the system itself conspired against you. And the worst part? Even if you were jumped, you still had to hand in attendance.
As we walked, Mari asked, "Is this about our mission?"
The guard glanced at her but gave no detail. "Not my place to say."
But when the doors opened to a room labeled ITW, the answer beca obvious.
The Interrogation Watch.
A narrow room with dim corners and a single glaring window overlooking the chamber below: the Interrogation Room. No one ever knew exactly where that room was on the academy map. So students swore it was underground. Others thought it was off-campus entirely. The debate club spent whole sessions arguing about it before collapsing into conspiracy theories.
But all of us froze when we saw who was sitting inside.
Marcus Lowman.
Mari's eyes widened. She looked almost exhilarated, like just seeing him breathed life into her.
I noticed things too.
A security guard lingered in the shadowy corner, trying to disappear into the dark, but the blinding light from the chamber below exposed him anyway.
The interrogator sat across from Marcus. Blond hair, unkempt but not careless. Black glasses perched on his face. A brown suit with a green bow tie, eccentric but intimidating.
Marcus wore plain black clothes, but across his shirt, in bold white letters, was one word: YMPA. It looked like product placent—except for their own brand.
The interrogator cleared his throat. "Hello," he said slowly, glancing at Marcus, then at the folder in front of him. "Marcus Lowman, correct?"
Marcus nodded, stiff. He was young. Too young for this. Sixteen? Maybe seventeen. Not much older than .
The interrogator continued. "Now, I tell this to all of my good old buddies who share my presence: I'll start easy. Ignore , or lie to , and soon enough, death will sound like the better option."
Marcus tilted his head. "Is it normal for you guys to say the most cliché things?"
"Don't lie," the man shot back.
"How can you tell if I am?" Marcus countered.
The interrogator smirked. "How can I not?"
He pulled out a recorder, pressed a button, and spoke crisply into it. "This is Agent Lloyd White, inspecting Subject B5, real na Marcus Mill Lowman." He flipped the folder open, scanning briefly before asking: "Why were you deployed into C.A.R.G.O?"
"Because they told to," Marcus answered vaguely.
"Why?"
"Because it's important to them."
White gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah, you don't say. I don't think you heard correctly."
"I'm not lying," Marcus said quickly.
"But you're ignoring the question," White snapped. His tone sharpened, like a knife's edge. "I want specifics."
I leaned toward Nikki, whispering, "You ever heard of him?"
"White?"
"Yeah."
"Once," Nikki muttered. "Soone said he looks old."
I studied him again. "I can see how."
Marcus squinted at White, his face pulled tight with contempt. Hard to read from this high up, but the hatred was obvious.
"How long until next class?" Tisiah whispered, checking his wand.
"Nine minutes," he said.
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