The military interrogation room fell silent as nine young subjects—classified as "national secret weapons"—fired back questions.
The lead interrogator leaned forward in his chair, his expression stern as he addressed the group.
"If you're walking down the street and someone accidentally bumps into you, then immediately apologizes, how do you respond?"
"Terminate him," War Machine No.1 stated flatly.
"Kill him on sight," War Machine No.2 declared.
"If male, torture then eliminate. If female, reverse order," No.3 answered.
"Break his legs, wait for them to heal, then break them again. Rinse and repeat," No.4 mused.
With each increasingly violent response, the observing officers' faces grew more ashen. The pattern continued until they reached the ninth subject, who tilted her head thoughtfully before answering,
"Accept his apology and walk away?"
The panel members' eyes lit up with desperate hope. Finally—a glimmer of humanity!
Their relief lasted only two seconds before No.9 continued with a cheerful smile,
"Then track him down when he's alone and bury him alive."
The room went dead silent.
Well, the chief officer thought grimly, Plan B it is.
Several days later, a sleek Maybach parked along a tree-lined street in the city's most exclusive neighborhood.
Inside, War Machine No.9's slender fingers gripped the window frame as she trembled, her quiet whimpers filling the interior.
"That hurts… please be gentler," she pleaded.
"I'll go slower," Henry Barton replied, his rich baritone carrying a hint of amusement.
Yet the moment he resumed his work, she tensed again.
"Wait—still too fast!" she complained.
He chuckled despite her protests.
"You're quite demanding, aren't you?" Still, his movements grew more deliberate as he carefully finished implanting the control device into her spine, just below her hairline.
With a final click, the procedure was complete. Henry gently turned No.9—now known as Velora Carson—to face him. Her delicate features were streaked with tears, making her appear even more fragile than her petite frame suggested.
As he dabbed her face dry with a tissue, he couldn't help but tease her.
"You know, I've seen you return from missions drenched in blood without a single complaint. Since when did you become so sensitive to pain?"
Velora's face scrunched up as she sniffled.
"That was different. My peripheral nerves were deadened then—surface injuries meant nothing. This device connects directly to my central nervous system."
"Are you criticizing our methods?" He smiled, though his tone grew more serious.
"Look, you 'war machines' leave too much collateral damage in your wake. The Special Operations Division high-ups recognize you've all been raised in isolation, cut off from normal human experiences. They hope that placing you with families might help rehabilitate you."
His expression softened as he continued,
"But they can't just release you without safeguards. Hence, the control device."
Velora lowered her gaze, processing his words in sullen silence. Then, without warning, she slipped out of the car in one fluid motion. Before her stood an imposing mansion.
"This is my home?" she asked, unable to hide her curiosity.
"Yes." Henry stepped out beside her.
"You have a father, stepmother, four brothers, and a half-sister—your father's child with your stepmother."
"And my birth mother?" she asked.
"She died during childbirth. Delivering you," he replied curtly.
"Oh." Her response was flat, empty of the emotion such news should evoke. But having never experienced normal human relationships, Velora felt only a brief physical pang where emotional pain should have been.
She squared her shoulders, hands sliding into her pockets with practiced nonchalance.
"I've never had a mission involving family integration. Any tactical advice?"
Henry hid his amusement at her attempt to treat this like just another operation. Few would guess that he wasn't her handler but her commanding officer. Still, he allowed her this small comfort of familiar behavior.
"Advice?" He stroked his chin, considering the intelligence reports that painted a grim picture: a family that blamed her for her mother's death, united in their resentment of her very existence.
He couldn't allow their most valuable asset to be broken by domestic warfare.
His brilliant smile belied the steel in his next words.
"Simple enough. What belongs to you? Take it back. Anyone tries to break you?" His eyes hardened.
"Break them first."