CHAPTER 4: Echoes and Pressures
The interior of the armored transport was austere and functional: foldable metal seats, unadorned walls, and the low hum of internal systems. Cloe sat rigidly between two security agents, who remained silent, their faces impassive behind the visors of their lightweight helmets. She watched the familiar streets of Argentis pass by through the narrow armored window, but everything seemed different now, viewed from the perspective of someone who had just shattered normality in such a spectacular way. The people on the sidewalks, the vehicles gliding along their designated lanes… they seemed part of a world from which she felt increasingly detached.
The vehicle didn't head to the nearest civilian hospital but took a direct route to the imposing Central Security Complex—a monolithic structure housing not only military and security headquarters but also a specialized medical wing and, according to rumors, classified research labs. Cloe's stomach twisted with anxiety.
Commander Evelyn Valerius sat across from her, reviewing data on a personal tablet with calm efficiency. She hadn't asked further questions during the short ride, but Cloe felt the officer's calculating gaze on her intermittently.
The transport slid down a heavily guarded underground ramp and stopped in a sterile reception bay. The doors hissed open, and the agents escorted her into the complex. The air here was even colder, smelling of antiseptic and the faint electric charge of advanced technology. The corridors were wide, lit by ceiling LED panels, and bustling with military personnel, white-coated doctors, and gray-uniformed technicians. A few curious glances landed on her—the young civilian escorted by Internal Security—but no one stopped.
They took her to a medical examination room far more advanced than those in civilian clinics. Unfamiliar devices lined the walls, and a diagnostic bed occupied the center. A doctor with a kind yet professional demeanor and two nurses attended to her, conducting a series of exhaustive tests: bloodwork, brain scans, bioenergy field measurements. Cloe cooperated silently, feeling like a specimen under a microscope. They confirmed the initial diagnosis: extreme exhaustion and dangerously low cellular energy levels, but no permanent physical damage.
While awaiting final results, seated on the bed with a thermal blanket over her shoulders, the door opened, and her heart leapt. It was her father.
Marcus Valerius entered the room, his imposing frame filling the doorway. He wore his service uniform but without the formal jacket, and Cloe could see the tension in his neck muscles and the deep worry etched around his dark eyes. He ignored the doctor and nurses, striding directly to her.
"Cloe," he said, his deep voice thick with contained emotion—a rarity for him. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Before Cloe could answer, Commander Evelyn Valerius stepped in behind him. "Marcus," she greeted with a formal nod. "Your daughter is physically unharmed, though severely exhausted. It appears she's had… a significant manifestation."
Marcus turned to the Commander, his expression hardening. "Manifestation? Evelyn, what are you talking about?"
"There was a catastrophic structural failure on the North Walkway of Central Station," Evelyn explained calmly. "Multiple lives at imminent risk. According to witness accounts and preliminary sensor data, young Valerius here spontaneously generated a cohesive force field that slowed the collapse and allowed safe evacuation." She paused, studying Cloe intently. "A remarkable feat. And undeniably an Aegis-Class power manifestation."
Marcus visibly paled beneath his military tan. He looked at Cloe, then at Evelyn, then back at Cloe, a storm of emotions crossing his face: disbelief, fear, and something else… pride? Resignation?
"I… didn't know I could do that, Dad," Cloe whispered, feeling defensive. "I just… saw people falling and… acted."
Marcus knelt before her, momentarily ignoring the Commander and medical staff. He placed his large, calloused hands on her shoulders. "What matters is that you're safe," he said, his voice softer now, though still tense. "Are you sure? Nothing hurts?"
Cloe shook her head. "Just… really, really tired."
Marcus nodded, but his eyes continued scanning her face, searching for signs of something more. He stood and faced Evelyn. "I understand the situation, Commander. But my daughter is a civilian. A minor. Any further evaluations require my consent and presence." His tone was firm, protective.
"Of course, Marcus," Evelyn agreed. "However," she added, her voice turning official, "given the public nature and scale of the manifestation, the Council and High Command must be informed. Protocol is clear. A confirmed Aegis-Class individual, especially one of your lineage, cannot remain unsupervised or untrained. It's a matter of security… for her and Argentis."
The tension in the room was palpable. Cloe watched her father clench his jaw. She knew how hard he'd fought to keep her away from this world, to give her a semblance of a normal childhood. Now, that protective barrier had cracked.
"I understand protocol, Evelyn," Marcus finally said, his voice controlled. "We'll discuss next steps in due time. For now, I want to take my daughter home."
"She'll be discharged shortly, once we confirm her energy levels are recovering," the doctor interjected. "We recommend absolute rest for at least 24 hours."
As they waited for the final paperwork, news of the incident must have already spread like wildfire through internal networks. Cloe sensed it in the way the medical staff now regarded her with a mix of awe and wariness. Her anonymity had evaporated.
When they finally left the security complex and returned to the relatively normal air of Argentis (this time in Marcus's personal vehicle), the silence between them was heavy. Cloe gazed out the window at the city lights beginning to flicker on at dusk.
"Dad," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"
"You have nothing to apologize for, Cloe," he interrupted gently, eyes fixed on the traffic route. "You did what you had to. Saved lives. I'm… proud of you." A charged pause followed. "But this changes everything. You know that, right?"
Cloe nodded, swallowing hard. Yes, she knew. The once-invisible pressure now had a name and a face: Commander Evelyn Valerius, the Council, High Command. She was no longer just a Gifted's daughter. She was a strategic asset. A piece in the grand game of survival.
The idea terrified her, yet a small, rebellious part of her felt a strange relief. The secret was out. She no longer had to hide entirely. What she didn't know was whether this exposure would lead to greater control or even greater danger.
The rest of the drive to their apartment, located in one of Argentis's quieter, safer residential sectors, passed in tense silence. Marcus drove with ferocious concentration, his knuckles white on the steering controls, while Cloe watched the familiar lights of her neighborhood glide by as if seeing them for the first time. The inner park where she'd played as a child, the small grocery where they bought specialty rations, the entrance to their apartment block… all seemed part of a former life, severed by the chasm of that afternoon's events.
Their apartment was spacious by Argentis standards—a perk of her father's status—but it had always felt more functionally austere than luxurious. The walls were neutral-toned, the furniture comfortable but practical. The only personal touches were her father's numerous data screens and shelves of military and technical manuals, and the corners where Cloe kept her study materials and artistic attempts (sculpted holograms, textile designs).
Marcus guided her straight to the living room sofa. "Sit," he said, his voice still tense. "Rest. I'll bring you food. You need to replenish energy."
While her father went to the kitchen—a compact but well-equipped space—Cloe sank into the sofa, fatigue enveloping her like a heavy blanket. The apartment's usual comforting silence now amplified her heartbeat and swirling thoughts. She glanced around at the holographic photos on a shelf: her as a child with her parents (her mother, a vivacious engineer who'd died years ago from an illness unrelated to the war), her with Kai at various childhood stages, her father receiving military decorations. Fragments of a life now irrevocably altered.
Marcus returned with a tray: hot nutritious broth, dense protein-rich bread, and an electrolyte recovery drink. He sat in the armchair across from her, watching silently as she ate. Cloe had little appetite but forced herself to sip the broth, feeling its warmth begin to thaw her inner chill.
When she finished, Marcus moved the tray aside. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his dark eyes locked on hers. "Cloe," he began, his voice low and grave. "We need to talk. Straightforward."
Cloe nodded, steeling herself.
"What you did today… the scale of that power… isn't something they'll ignore," he said. "Commander Valerius is right about one thing: protocol is clear. And beyond protocol, there's our reality. Argentis—all the Spires—needs every advantage. For years, I've tried to protect you, to let you grow and understand what you are at your own pace, away from Command and the war. Maybe… maybe I was wrong."
"No, Dad," Cloe said quickly, guilt mingling with fear. "You did right. I wasn't ready. I'm still not! Today was… an accident. I don't know if I can do it again. I don't know how to control it."
"I know," Marcus replied, and for the first time, she saw deep sorrow in his eyes—a vulnerability he rarely revealed. "Control… isn't easy. Not even for us First-Gen. Everyone battles what's inside." He paused, lost in a painful memory. "The Crucible marked us all, Cloe. Gave us this," he gestured vaguely at their shared power, "but took much too. Left scars you can't see."
Cloe shivered. He rarely spoke of that time, of their powers' true origin. It was always "the exposure," "the treatment." Never "The Crucible."
"The point is," Marcus continued, returning to the present, "we can't keep this secret anymore. Command knows. Soon, others will too. There'll be expectations. Pressures. They'll want to assess you, train you, integrate you."
"Integrate me?" Cloe repeated, the word ominous. "You mean… send me to fight?"
"Eventually," Marcus admitted grimly. "That's the Gifted's purpose here, like it or not. Serve. Fight. Be the spearhead. But it doesn't have to be immediate. I'll… try to buy time. Push for gradual training, closely monitored, maybe with Dr. Thorne in an official role. Argue your age, the need for control before tactical deployment."
She saw determination return to his face, the mask of Commander Valerius settling back. He'd fight for her, wield his influence and reputation. But both knew he was only delaying the inevitable.
"What if I can't control it, Dad?" Cloe whispered, voicing her deepest fear. "What if I hurt someone? Like… like I almost did today?" Though she'd saved lives, the memory of wild energy surging through her, barely contained, terrified her.
Marcus reached out and squeezed her hand. His hand was large, strong, marked by years of combat, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. "You'll learn," he said with conviction Cloe wished she could share. "You have my strength, your mother's mind and heart. You have Dr. Thorne. And you have me. You won't be alone." He paused. "But you must want this, Cloe. Accept what you are and commit to facing your fears. No one can do that for you."
Cloe looked down at their joined hands. Accept what she was. But what was she? A potential hero? An unstable weapon? A victim of an unwanted legacy?
"I don't know, Dad," she whispered honestly. "I'm scared."
"I know," he repeated. "Fear means you understand the stakes. What matters is what you do despite it." He stood. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we'll speak with Dr. Thorne. And I… will address High Command. We'll take this step by step."
He kissed her forehead—a paternal gesture that comforted her momentarily—and retreated to his study, likely to draft reports and strategize not for battlefields but the corridors of Argentis's power.
Cloe remained alone on the sofa, the apartment's silence now filled with invisible echoes and pressures. The broth had warmed her physically, but the chill of uncertainty lingered. Her life had pivoted, and though part of her felt freed from secrecy's weight, another was paralyzed by terror of the path ahead—a path she suspected would pull her further from the normality she craved and closer to the war defining her world.