The Counter Headquarters wasn't exactly welcoming. The receptionist at the front desk gave Rus a once-over, her expression somewhere between disdain and mild disgust. Rus couldn't blame her. Even though he'd showered recently, there was still an air of "homeless drifter" about him that was hard to shake. His clothes, cleaned but secondhand, didn't help his case.
"You can't just walk in here," she snapped. "If you're here to beg for food or charity, this isn't the place."
"I'm not begging," Rus said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I was told to report here."
She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Report here? For Counter training?" Her tone made it clear she thought the idea was laughable. "Wait here while I check."
Rus stood awkwardly by the desk as she made the call, shooting occasional side-eyes at him like he might try to make a run for it. When the confirmation came through, her face twisted into something close to confusion.
"Well, I'll be damned," she muttered. Then, louder: "Someone will escort you."
A broad, muscular man in a Counter uniform appeared a moment later, looking him up and down with the same skepticism as the woman. He didn't say anything until they reached a small outdoor area where a group of trainees had gathered. Then he turned to Rus and crossed his arms.
"How the hell are you eligible for Counter training?" he asked, his tone blunt.
Rus didn't know how to answer that, so he went with the first thing that came to mind. Instead of speaking, he knelt down and punched the concrete at his feet. His fist didn't just crack the surface, it smashed through the slab entirely, bending the rebar underneath as if it were made of cheap wire.
The man took a step back, his mouth falling open slightly.
"What the hell?" he muttered, staring at the broken concrete. "How can you do that and still look like... well, like you?"
Rus shrugged awkwardly, brushing the dust off his knuckles.
"I mean, doesn't this prove I'm Counter-eligible?"
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his logic.
"Yeah, but why do you people always go straight for breaking stuff? Couldn't you just… I don't know… show me a document or something?"
Rus winced. "I, uh, don't really have those. And I'm not a psychopath or anything, I swear. I just figured it'd be easier to... demonstrate."
The man let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Fair enough," he muttered. Without another word, he waved him toward the building. "Come on. You're not the weirdest case I've seen."
Rus followed him into the main facility, a cavernous space filled with the low hum of activity. Trainees and seasoned Counters alike moved through the halls with purpose, some carrying equipment, others engaged in quiet conversation. Rus was handed off to another officer, who led him to a supply room.
"You're lucky you're strong," the officer said, tossing a training uniform and some basic gear at him. "Otherwise, we wouldn't bother. Go clean yourself up some more."
The shower was heaven. Rus scrubbed off days' worth of grime and exhaustion, the hot water doing wonders for his sore muscles. By the time he stepped out, dressed in the crisp training uniform, he almost felt like a new person. Almost.
The gear they gave them was... interesting. A baton with a button that released a jolt of electricity, a deployable shield, and a belt to carry it all. It felt strange wearing weapons at his hip, but he figured he'd get used to it.
Once they've all been geared up, they were marched out to a massive training field that stretched along the coastline. The sea roared against the seawall, sending sprays of foam into the air. The sun hung on the horizon, casting long shadows across the field. Rows of folding chairs had been set up, and we were herded into them like cattle.
The instructor arrived shortly after, cutting an imposing figure as he strode into view. He wore a trench coat over his uniform, which he shrugged off and tossed aside with a practiced motion. Grabbing his baton, he raised it high for everyone to see.
"All right, listen up!" he barked, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the waves. "You're here to be useful. Some of you are here because you want to serve the city. Some of you want citizenship. Most of you are desperate. I can tell by looking at you."
He wasn't wrong. A lot of them looked like they'd just crawled out of some gutter and in Rus's case, that wasn't far from the truth.
The instructor's sharp eyes scanned the group, lingering on each of them just long enough to make them squirm. "Your job," he continued, pacing back and forth, "is to maintain public order when threats arise. That means handling risk-assessed sources, supporting police forces, and if necessary eliminating those who pose a danger to the city."
He pointed the baton toward the horizon, where the sea met the sky. "In times of widespread emergency, you'll act as a mobile force. You'll protect civilians, secure government officials, and enforce the city's laws — no matter the cost."
The baton came down sharply, striking the ground with a loud crack. "You will also suppress criminal activities, break up demonstrations when necessary, and act as backup for police forces. Make no mistake — this is not an easy job. If you thought this was a way to coast into citizenship, you're dead wrong."
Rus's stomach tightened for some reason.
"We'll give you ten weeks," the instructor said, his voice hard and unrelenting. "Ten weeks to get the basics right. After that, you'll function as a unit. Live as a unit. And if it comes to it — die as a unit."
"Yes, sir!" the group shouted in unison.
Rus stayed quiet. The whole "dying" part didn't sit well with him, but what choice did he have? Four years. That's what it would take to earn his citizenship. Four years of this. He wasn't sure if he'd survive, but he knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going back to the streets.
The instructor dismissed them with a sharp wave of his baton, and they filed out of the field. The sea seemed calmer than before, the waves lapping gently against the seawall.
"Begin!"
***
By the end of the training, Rus's limbs felt like they were on fire. Every muscle in his body screamed, a dull, throbbing ache settling into his bones. He wasn't alone. Everywhere he heard, his fellow trainees were groaning, stretching, massaging sore arms and legs as they dragged themselves back to their barracks after another brutal day of training.
Some of them had been recruited because they were strong. Others because they were fast, resilient, or just plain stubborn. But not all of them were built for this. Some had been dock workers, factory hands, or petty criminals forced into service as an alternative to rotting in a cell. And then there was Rus — an illegal immigrant with no past, no records, and no choice but to endure.
Between starvation and training, the choice was easy. Training at least came with meals.
They were assigned partners, each of them given a small room — barely big enough to fit two people. Two narrow beds pressed against opposite walls, a sink wedged in between, and a pair of simple desks on either side. Functional. Impersonal. A place to sleep, nothing more.
They handed them a PDA and a thick manual, telling them to study the information inside. Laws. Rules of engagement. Procedures that justified when and how they could beat the hell out of someone. When to apply force, when to hold back. It wasn't difficult to memorize, mostly because they weren't really expected to think, just obey.
Rus sat on his bed, flipping through the PDA, skimming over paragraphs of legal jargon. The more he read, the more he realized that everything boiled down to one simple principle.
Do what you're told, when you're told, and don't ask questions.
Dan, his roommate, didn't even pretend to study. He sat on his bed, groaning as he kneaded his sore biceps. He was broad-shouldered, built like a freight hauler, with the calloused hands of a man who'd spent years doing hard labor.
Rus glanced at him. "You're not even gonna read it?"
Dan snorted. "Why bother? It's all bullshit."
Rus raised an eyebrow. "Not wrong, but still. Might be useful."
"All we need to do is say 'yes, sir' and do what they tell us," he said flatly, tossing the PDA onto his bed.
"True."
He stretched out with a groan, shaking his head. "They didn't even say anything about a written exam. We can cram if we have to."
Rus let out a short laugh. He had a point. He wasn't exactly worried about passing some bureaucratic checklist of rules. If they wanted them here,they'd stay. If they didn't, they'd be gone. Simple as that.
Outside, the roar of the sea echoed against the barracks. The weather had been strange all day — a mix of bright sunshine and rolling fog, making it hard to tell what time it was.
Dan rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. "So, you're an illegal?"
Rus glanced at him. "You're not?"
"Nope. I got picked 'cause I mutated. Was a dock worker before this." He stretched one massive arm, flexing his fingers experimentally. "You're lucky."
"Are we lucky?" Rus asked, looking at him seriously.
Dan smirked. "Being under the government? Yeah. But it also gives a lot of folks the right to kill us."
Rus didn't disagree. His short time in this city had already shown him how dangerous the streets were. Police weren't exactly well-loved. Every now and then, clashes broke out—protests, riots, shootouts. The law only had control when it could enforce it, and even then, barely.
"So, you're desperate too?" he asked.
Dan shrugged. "Who isn't? You think I wanna keep eating slop for the rest of my life? At least as a Counter, I get a real meal. That's more than most people can say."
"But the danger?"
He let out a low chuckle. "Same as before. Look at you. You're here, aren't you?"
He was. Rus had chosen this. Chosen to be here rather than live in the streets, begging for scraps, waiting for someone to either take pity on him or put a bullet in his head.
Rus sat up and looked at Dan properly. He met Rus's gaze, waiting for whatever dumb thing he was about to say.
"Guess we're buddies now?" Rus asked.
He snorted. "As long as you don't snore, man."
"Never snored in my life."
"Good." He pointed at Rus's bed. "That one's yours, this one's mine. Are we clear?"
"We are."
And that was it.
Men are simple creatures. Don't be an asshole, and they don't have problems. Dan wasn't an asshole. He was smart enough not to act like one, either. Neither of them were kids — they weren't here to play games. They'd just gone through hellish, back-breaking superhuman training. No one in their right mind would waste energy picking fights after that.
Not them. Not anyone who understood that this wasn't the place for arrogance.
Not yet, at least.