I look out the window and can't help but be drawn to the scenery. Despite the bars, I can sort of make out the sunset on the horizon. The fading shafts of light filter in through the metal, dancing shadows darkening on the cement floor. Even in this dirty confinement, the centre of the G.R.I.D. can be dazzling.

"Jake?"

I turn back from admiring the outside from my desolate little window for a moment. There is a knock on the door, and a familiar man in a lab coat enters. He gives me a pitying look as he clears his throat to speak.

"How are you doing today?"

My angry, bloodshot eyes drift back down to the covers my legs are twisted up in, and I mumble a response that can only be described as biting. "Could be better, you know, if you weren't here." The chains at my wrists clink with my every moment, mocking my existence.

God, I want to rip them off.

I probably could, too. A few adjustments with the iron nail sticking out from the end of the bed, and they would come off. I briefly consider doing it just to spite the man in front of me right now. Maybe give him a punch or two as well. Unfortunately, Dr. Noel Locke is considered a pretty important resource, and I'll most likely be shot with a tranquilizer by those annoying Guardians outside if I try anything on him. Again. The tranquilizers don't feel that great, especially after you wake up.

I should've applied for the Research wing. Or even tried to become one of those brutish Guardians. All Intelligence has done is get me into this mess. I snort at the prospect and fold my arms tightly across my chest, refusing to give him a proper answer regarding the state of my health. With my level of loyalty, applying for the perfectionist Research wing or the mindless all-brawn-and-no-brain Guardian wing is like throwing myself off a fifty foot cliff and expecting to come out unscathed. Locke rolls his eyes at me. We used to be friends. Sort of. Once upon a time, at least. Strangely, our behaviour as enemies seem to be pretty much the same.

I'm not really sure what to make of that.

"I'm trying to do my job, Jake." He approaches me and grabs my arm, prepping a sterilized needle from a care tray that one of the Guardians rolls in. His fingers move nimbly in practiced motions as he flicks the side of the syringe a few times.

"Right, go on." I give him a smile that shows just how much I care about his stupid career before I go back to scowling at the bedsheets. Yeah, I'm an asshole. But when shit goes down, everyone's an asshole, so I guess I'm not really alone.

Locke jams the needle into my arm. I flinch as he presses the button to release the liquid into my bloodstream. Yeah, the feeling of some unknown fluid going into your system? Not the greatest thing, I'll tell you that much. "There. Your daily supplement."

"What, no food?" My tone is mocking as I flex my wrist, testing its movement. The supplement takes its effect immediately. My eyesight gets a little better, my movements a little faster, my instincts a little keener.

He gives me that look. The one that says "Jake, if you don't shut up, I'll call the Guardians on you. See if your snarky little Intelligence-trained mouth helps you then." But all he says out loud to me is a very stiff, "No food. You know that you're under probation."

Yeah, for saving your asses.

I roll my eyes as discreetly as possible (and by discreet, I mean I-hope-he-notices-and-feels-shitty-as-hell-for-reducing-me-to-this-state discreet), but I keep silent. There's no point in arguing, after all. My situation is screwed up as it is. The Department said only a week or so. Maybe I'm a lucky one after all. "I don't need food, you're right. I'm a G.R.I.D. GM agent, after all. But it sure as hell tastes good."

Locke chuckles, managing to cover it with a disapproving cough and a deadpan look. "Be careful, Jake. You're starting to sound like a Norm." As if it's a bad thing. What I wouldn't give to be one of them right now.

I shrug instead, angrily rubbing away the blood droplet forming where he stuck the needle in my skin. The Norms are so ignorant, really. They have no idea what we do for them. They just go on living their pathetic lives, complaining about the little things that don't even really matter. 

So it makes sense that I punched one of them that was bothering us, right? You'd think he'd be able to take a little tap on the cheek. Instead, the punch sent him sprawling and wailing in pain. I think of his disgusting voice, and have the urge to hurl something across the room. Maybe that visitor's chair in the corner.

"Great logic, idiot," my partner, Alex, said sarcastically when I gave her this explanation as I was about to be hauled away by the Guardians on scene. She's unfazed, of course. A small part of me wishes she was more appreciative of my actions, though.

"Here." I'm jarred out of my thoughts by Locke's voice as an object is thrown in my general direction. I catch it out of a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes. A glimmer of red in my hand from the fading light catches my eye and I immediately sit up, ignoring the metal digging at the skin of my wrists. Maybe it can wipe away the bar code imprinted in the skin as well.

An apple.

"You'd better be ready to take the new recruits out next week," Locke hisses, though there's no malice in his tone.

The fruit makes my disapproval of him decrease just a little, and I nod at him with grudging thanks. He gives me a rueful smile as he raps on the metal door and is escorted out of my probation cell. The Guardian outside my door sneers at the display and slams the door shut harder than necessary, clearly miffed that I'm getting better treatment than I "deserve".

And they call me an immature 20 year old.

I impatiently shake dark bangs away from my forehead and take a bite out of the delicacy. It's delicious. The juice flows into my thirsty mouth as I sink my teeth into the crunchy flesh. I can get used to this. Except I don't, because it doesn't happen often enough. I wonder briefly what it feels like to eat food, actual food, everyday. Instead of the injections we're provided with, I mean.

I continue biting pieces off the apple with mixed feelings and slowly lie back down on the hard surface of the metal bed. The security camera in the corner of my room, ever watching, buzzes faintly in the background as it broadcasts footage to the main Guardian security force.

I glance out the window again. The sun has set, slivers of light still peeking over the rows of sleek black buildings in the distance. Surrounding the G.R.I.D. centre is the main city, where the Norms live. And outside of that, apartments for us, the GM militia. Even further are the barracks for the initiates. Interestingly enough, they're the ones who are on the border of action, near the Gates, despite being the ones who aren't trained for this type of stuff.

Sacrificial lambs, my trainer called us when we were still initiates. 95% will be the sacrificial lambs to polish the remaining 5% gems.

I suddenly remember the look on a colleague's face when he was killed in the infamous 99% elimination expedition that earned me my place as part of the G.R.I.D.'s militia. My face pales and my fingers that hold the food I don't need twitch slightly. I set down the apple, my technically non-existent appetite gone.

Yes, I think grimly, turning back to the barred window. ​I am one of the lucky ones.

My jaw hangs open, rather unattractively, as I stare at the person at the front of the room.

He's dressed in the militia's elites' one-shouldered black cape, pinned with a white-gold phoenix over a pure white, hooded cloak that's swept open by the wind to reveal his choice of a simple black button down, a thin perfectly straight white tie, and faded black jeans tucked into well-fitted combat boots strapped with slim throwing knives. But the black half-palm gloves and the pin-striped scarf are the giveaways.

He's IX. The infamous genius tactician with a reputation for the most successful track record of Fallen solo hunts ever. I try to overlook the fact that he may be bad in a team and thus lead us all to our deaths. Deaths are pretty common, especially on first expeditions. IX should know, he and his initiate class were part of that day.

There's no one who hasn't heard of it. The group, usually consisting of a leader from the militia's elites and the initiate class he or she is assigned to, was met by a group of particularly aggressive Fallen on their way to the training ground. The leader was annihilated in seconds, taken out by a surprise slash to the throat, or so we hear. The initiates were naturally terrified and scattered off into different directions, most dying immediately as the Fallen's insane speed caught up to them. 99% out of a class of a hundred were eliminated that day, an unprecedented statistic that had never shown up in the history of the G.R.I.D. Only one initiate made it out alive, slaughtering all of the Fallen that tried to surround him. As far as we know, anyway. I have no idea how much truth is in that story.

The white cloak hood hangs low, almost concealing the stormy grey eyes staring intently at all of our faces as our trainer introduces the man in front of us. The shadow emphasizes his well-defined features. My focus drifts slightly until my friend, Kay, gives me a sharp dig in the gut with her elbow. I turn my attention back to our trainer, barely catching the end of the sentence.

"...and as you all should know, this is Jake, ranked IX in the G.R.I.D.'s militia." Markus says, scarred facial features stern as ever. He's donned in his typical uniform, consisting of a simple army jacket and cargos tucked into brown combat boots. It's what all the trainers wear. They all have close-cropped brown hair and the same eyes and nose and ears and mouth. They've been designed that way, after all. The only difference with Markus is that he has scars. I hear he got injured way back in his initiate days by a Fallen's claws.

He rejected the new skin cell serum when they offered it to him.

I try to tune back in to the introduction.

"Sir? Would you like to finish up?" Markus's gruff tone snaps me back to attention as he steps off the rotating metal stage and joins us in the pit.

IX steps forward, his steps light but sure. He has the elegance and poise of a trained assassin; the cold eyes sweeps over all of our faces. He removes his hood, long fingers running through his dark hair to smooth it out. Ah, he really is a successful GM subject. You can hear half the room give a sharp intake of air at his features. Deadly beautiful. Slightly mussed silky dark hair, perfect unmarred skin, and the most striking storm grey eyes I have ever seen, lined with long dark lashes and flecked with gleaming silver.

"The name's Jake. I'll be leading your first expedition." IX paced back and forth on the stage as he spoke, his voice a smooth velvet-like baritone, but his words cold and concise. "I'll tell you this now. I am simply going to be leading you guys to the training ground. I'll eliminate any Fallen on the way. And then, it'll be up to you to complete the challenge in the actual grounds. The survivors win their position in the G.R.I.D.'s militia. And of course, they win their lives." He snickers, as if sharing a private joke with himself. "A nice prize indeed. Oh, and you'll get three of these to fight. No more, no less." IX flips one of the throwing knives strapped to his boots up to his gloved hands. The sharp, polished blade catches the light and gives off an almost sinister shine. "Are we understood?"

​"With those throwing knives alone?" I can't help but speak out in indignation. A murmur breaks out through the crowd, worried and incredulous glances being shared across the room.

IX's head whips around, those eyes staring sharply in my direction. I'm prepared for the worst, but instead, a hint of an arrogant smirk flits across his features for a second. "I decide the rules, don't I?" he replies in a rather snarky tone before turning away. "Are we understood?" he snaps at the entire group, apparently losing his patience.

"Yes sir," the class mutters collectively.

We're out of the Gates and in the snow before anybody speaks again.

"What do you think of him?"

I turn to Kay, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he's kind of intimidating, and more than a little cold. Kind of rude, too. I was expecting someone different, y'know?" Kay shrugs and tucks her hands into her pockets. It's freezing outside the Gates, of course it is. The permafrost crunches under our boots, and the wind howls. There is nothing but white as far as we can see, since the weather has basically destroyed any semblance of vegetation that could possibly grow out here.

As the GM, we're technically supposed to be immune to extreme weather conditions, but some of us aren't as successful as others. The technology the G.R.I.D. uses for human enhancement is still unstable, so a lot of the subjects die in the process. The ones who came out extremely successful, such as IX, still have their flaws. I'm one of the decent subjects. Not great, but still better than regular humans in certain aspects. Depending on which aspect of our genetics was enhanced the most, they place us in either the Guardian wing, the Research wing, or the Intelligence wing. Of course we're allowed to choose, but everybody knows you don't last long in a wing you're not programmed for.

Unfortunately, I'm not one of the ones who can stand this type of weather. I shiver, and hover a little closer to the rest of the class, hoping to absorb some semblance of body warmth. Kay is cold too, I can tell. She's shaking like a leaf.

IX is at the front of the squad, talking in a hushed voice with Markus. Then all of a sudden, both of them stop. I squint, confused, into the distance. Why were they stopping?

It's then that I hear the inhuman screech and see the shadow sprinting at us at a frightening pace.

I know that the Fallen are human enhancement test subjects gone wrong. Something inside their mental states snapped as their genetics were overwritten. Whatever they were injected with to make them stronger, faster, more efficient--instead, it made them insane.

Unfortunately, while they lost their mind, they're still human enhancement subjects.

"Stand back!" IX yells at us angrily, snapping us out of our stunned states.

I whip my head around and notice the Fallen leaping from cliff face to cliff face, coming straight for our group. The initiates all start panicking, and I can feel cold sweat forming on my brow. All of our training, it's supposed to prepare us for this moment.

Instead, all I can do is scramble to the side as IX flings his knife, knocking the Fallen out of the air and pinning it to the ground. He sprints forward before the monster can get up, and flips up another knife with practiced ease, slitting its throat without hesitation. Blood sprays out as the Fallen's neck is cut, and blood flecks land on IX's immaculate clothing and face.

He just clicks his tongue and steps back. "An annoyance. And we were almost there, too. Let's go and get you guys suited up for the test." He wipes off the knives he used with the ragged pieces of cloth the Fallen had on, and sticks it back into their sheaths on his leg. Then he straightens and points to the large area ahead marked off with a large iron gate.

It's intricate, like a maze. Caves and shadows from rock and ice create a twisting landscape, a dark aura emanating from the whole thing. It's impossible to see the end of it. The deeper, the darker.

"This​ is the training area?" Kay whispers to me skeptically. "I thought it would be like an arena where we would get a series of physical challenges to complete or something." She stops walking when she realizes I'm not following her. "Avery? Come on."

But my legs tremble and my arms grow weak as I watch the Fallen gurgle one last time before going limp. I watch the creature die, human but not human.

Just like us.