The locker room stinks of sweat and rust, a metallic tang that claws at my nostrils as I shove my way through the heavy double doors. My muscles ache from training, a dull throb pulsing through my shoulders and thighs, the kind of pain that lingers like a bad memory. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering just enough to make the shadows twitch, and the air's thick with the hum of voices—strangers, all of them. Their laughter bouncing off the dented steel lockers like ricochet bullets. I don't know these people. I don't want to. I just want to peel off this damp uniform, stuff it in my bag, and vanish into the dark corridors of the compound before anyone notices me.
But they're here, sprawled across the benches like they own the place. Four of them, loud and careless, their voices slicing through the haze. Yasmine Saint lounges against a locker, her long black hair spilling over her pale shoulders like ink on snow, her sharp green eyes glinting with mischief. Liliana Gomez sits cross-legged on the floor, her bronze skin gleaming under the lights, flipping a knife between her fingers with casual menace. Tripp Acer leans against the wall, all smirks and swagger, his biracial skin a mirror of my own—light brown with a scatter of freckles—though he wears his confidence like a crown while I just feel exposed. And then there's Marco Maze, pacing near the benches, his dreads swinging with every agitated step, his dark face twisted in a scowl as the others tear into him.
"Man, you should've seen your ass out there," Tripp says, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with mockery. "Stumbling over the mat like a drunk toddler. What was that, Maze? You trip over your own ego?"
Yasmine cackles, a sound like breaking glass, and Liliana joins in, her laugh low and throaty. "Seriously, Marco, I've seen corpses with better footwork."
Marco's fists clench, his knuckles popping audibly. "Y'all think it's hilarious, huh? Keep laughing. Next time, I'll plant one of you flat on your back."
"Oh, please," Yasmine says, tossing her hair. "You'd have to catch us first."
I slip to the far side of the room, my boots silent on the chipped tile, and drop my bag onto a bench. The shadows here feel safer, a thin veil between me and their chaos. I tug off my jacket, the fabric sticking to my damp skin, and try to focus on the rhythm of my breathing—slow, steady, invisible. But their laughter keeps clawing at me, sharp and relentless, and then it stops. A sudden silence, heavy as a storm cloud, rolls over the room. I feel their eyes before I see them.
"Hey, new girl!" Tripp's voice cuts through the quiet, loud and brash. I freeze, my shirt halfway over my head, and glance over my shoulder. He's grinning at me, teeth flashing white against his skin, his posture all cocky angles. "You were damn good out there. Like, scary good. Where'd you learn to move like that?"
The compliment lands like a stone in my gut. I yank my shirt down, smoothing it over my ribs, and mutter, "Thanks." My voice is flat, ignoring the question he asked. I turn back to my bag, zipping it shut with more force than necessary, hoping he'll take the hint.
He doesn't. His grin falters, and I hear the bench creak as he shifts his weight. "What's your deal, huh? I'm trying to be nice here."
"Leave it, Tripp," Liliana says, her tone edged with amusement. She flips her knife one last time before sliding it into her boot. "She went toe-to-toe with me out there. You? She'd wipe the floor with you. Stick to punching down, pretty boy."
Yasmine snorts, and Marco lets out a bark of laughter, his earlier sulk forgotten. Tripp's face darkens, his jaw tightening, but he slumps back against the wall, muttering something under his breath. I don't care enough to listen. I just want out.
Then Liliana's beside me, her presence sudden and warm, like a flame flickering too close. She smells faintly of leather and ozone, and her dark eyes study me with a quiet intensity. "I'm Liliana," she says, nodding toward the others. "That's Yasmine, Marco, and the sulky one's Tripp. You're Tawnie, right?"
I nod, hesitant. "Yeah. Thanks… for, uh, being normal."
She smirks, a quick flash of teeth, and Yasmine saunters over, her boots clicking against the tile. "Don't mind Tripp," she says, her voice smooth as velvet. "He thinks he's God's gift to women. Spoiler: he's not."
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, sharp and unexpected, and it echoes in the hollow space. Suddenly, they're all around me—Liliana leaning in, Yasmine smirking, Marco towering with his arms crossed, Tripp still pouting but edging closer. Their faces are bright with curiosity, their energy pressing against me like a tide. My chest tightens, my breath catching. Too many eyes. Too much noise. We all seem the same age physically, but I was not at all interested in being around them.
Liliana notices. She steps back, raising a hand. "Hey, everyone, chill. Tawnie, you good? Need us to back off?"
I swallow, my throat dry as ash, and shake my head. "No, it's… it's fine. I'm fine."
Yasmine tilts her head, her hair sliding like a curtain. "You ever run with the Obsidian Dark Ops?"
The question stuns me. "The what?"
They exchange glances—quick, uncertain—and Marco groans, rubbing his face. "Oh, great. She doesn't even know."
"It's part of the Blackout Alliance," Liliana says, her voice dropping low, almost reverent. "A shadow branch. Assassins, basically. Sworn to serve the greater good, no questions asked. Nameless, faceless, gone like smoke. Only Director Kane can call them up, and even he doesn't know who they are under the masks."
The words sink into me, cold and heavy. I picture faceless figures in black, blades glinting in the dark, moving like ghosts through a world that's already half-dead. "That's… insane," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "But kind of incredible."
"Right?" Yasmine says, grinning. "The Alliance is wild."
I nod, my mind spinning. "How do they do it, though? Like, the time thing. How does the B.O.A. stop time?"
Marco snorts, a rough, jagged sound. "It's not time-stopping, newbie. It's a Disruption Pulse. Pauses organic systems—brains, hearts, whatever—unless you've got a pocket shield."
I blink, my head tilting. "A what?"
Tripp perks up, finally shaking off his sulk. He pulls a sleek tablet from his pocket, its screen glowing faintly blue. The same one that Kane gave me. "This," he says, tapping it. "Communicator's got a shield function. Blocks projectiles and all attempts at kaitron energy manipulation, all that jazz. Keeps the Pulse from frying you."
I stare at the device, its edges gleaming like a blade. "Who makes this stuff?"
The four of them freeze, their faces blank, then Marco scratches his head, his dreads swaying. "Uh… are we supposed to know that? Is that on the exam?"
I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. "No, I mean—how's the Alliance got all this tech? The world's been a wasteland since Pacific Rim in '68. No one's built anything new out there, but here? It's like the future never stopped."
They shrug in unison, a ripple of indifference. Liliana crosses her arms, her lips quirking. "Above your pay grade, Tawnie. Ours too."
Tripp's brow furrows, and he glances around, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Wait a sec—you guys get 'paid'?"
The room erupts. Yasmine doubles over, clutching her stomach, her laughter shrill and wild. Liliana smacks Tripp's arm, grinning, while Marco throws his head back, his booming laugh rattling the lockers. I can't help it—I laugh too, a raw, jagged sound that tears through the tension coiled in my chest. For a moment, the darkness lifts, and it's just us, a pack of idiots in a broken world, giggling like the apocalypse is one big punchline.
But the shadows creep back fast, and I wonder how long I'll last here—surrounded by strangers and drowning in questions no one can answer.