The medical corridor was crowded with agents and Widows, their faces tense from the chaos that had just unfolded. The air still carried the acrid scent of gunpowder and burnt metal.
Luthar entered without hesitation, a single servo-skull floating ahead of him, its red optics scanning every agent in sight. He stopped at the centre of the room, his mechanical voice slicing through the silence.
"Dreykov is dead. From this moment on, I am in charge of your lives. Previous spy work will be replaced with new methods—drone support, enhanced training, and total submission to the Omnissiah."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and a few agents even considered fleeing; after all, without Dreykov, they no longer had anything to fear. However, most of them were not foolish enough to entertain the idea of escape.
Finally, one of them spoke up. "And why should we follow you?" Of course, she was sensible enough not to voice her true thoughts.
"You are asking the wrong question," Luthar replied flatly. "It is not why you should follow me, but how you will serve. As soldiers, as pilots, as operatives… perhaps even as priests, if your minds can comprehend more than orders."
Natasha narrowed her eyes. Her voice cut through the tension. "And the Russian government? What will happen when they discover their best spy agency is gone?"
Luthar's head tilted in her direction "They are irrelevant unless they take action. Should they interfere, they will learn the cost of standing against a Tech-Priest." Saying this continues. "Actually, I hope they will have a conflict after all this way I can collect more soldiers to convert them into Skitarii."
He didn't share his intention just to recruit more soldiers for transformation into Skitarii. Instead, his aim was to communicate with agents still loyal to Russia about the possible consequences for their soldiers if they chose to launch an attack.
After saying that he raised his hand, and the servo-skull floated closer to Anya, its optics glowing brighter, tentacles twitching. Holographic projections of agents currently on assignment appeared across the corridor walls.
"These agents are on mission," Luthar stated. "Recall them immediately." He looked to Anya. "Select those present here to organise the recall. If any fail to return within two days, report them. I will decide their fate."
Anya traced her finger across the projections, selecting the operatives who were ready. Each choice triggered a recall command, causing the selected agents to stiffen before moving to prepare for immediate extraction. She worked with deliberate precision, knowing that accuracy mattered more than sentiment.
Freya's gaze swept the room, calculating and curious, observing who reacted and who remained still. Irina, arms crossed, paid little attention to the new orders—her concern lay solely with Freya's movements. Natasha remained silent, weighing the implications in her mind.
Once the recall was underway, Luthar addressed the crowd again. "Current assignments are void. Your skills, your actions, your obedience now belong to the Machine. You will learn, adapt, and serve. Resistance will be tolerated only briefly."
Projections of new training protocols, reassignment schedules, and operational directives filled the corridor. Every instruction was clear, leaving no room for ambiguity. The agents absorbed it silently, fully aware that disobedience would carry consequences.
Satisfied, Luthar motioned toward the corridor exit. Freya and Irina followed immediately. As Natasha's gaze lingered on him and then shifted to the assembled agents, she planned to gather information about her sister from them. She could have approached Luthar directly, but speaking to him right now was the last thing she wanted to do.
In the days that followed, the recall was executed with ruthless efficiency. One by one, the agents on assignment returned. Some came quickly, obedient to the summons. Although a few hesitated, their uncertainty did not last; under Anya's coordination and the threat posed by Luthar, most returned after a brief explanation.
While the corridors buzzed with movement and hushed conversations, Luthar, unwilling to waste time waiting for the agents to assemble, had retreated to the workshop. He took out numerous tools and servo-arms and began working tirelessly on a battered Drop-Wing Skimmer, which had been damaged by Thor.
The Widows watched from a distance. Some regarded the work with suspicion; the sight of the priest labouring day and night without rest was unsettling.
For Luthar, the task was not merely a repair job. It was a ritual. Each component was set, adjusted, and sanctified in a methodical sequence, his chants of binharic static punctuating the clang of tools. In those moments of work, he completely forgot about everything else.
While he continues to work, he also sometimes talks to other agents from time to time. Back in America, the forge-lab was once again infiltrated at night, shrouded in shadows. A faint ripple cut through the air, and something emerged, as though it had always belonged there.
It moved without haste, gliding past sealed chambers and relics of long-abandoned research. Its pace slowed at a storage bay, the lock clicking open with a hiss—even though no hand touched it.
Inside, shelves of armour and weaponry gleamed faintly in the sterile light. Among them rested Lily's previous armour, silent yet still pulsating with a strange resonance which nobody noticed. The figure lingered, studying it with quiet amusement, contemplating the power contained within such a fragile vessel.
It did not linger long. One by one, schematics, weapons, and fragments of technology shimmered as perfect copies were drawn out—each subtly altered under unseen eyes.
Later, the shadows slipped into Lily's quarters. The girl slept soundly, her breathing steady, unaware of the presence that lingered nearby. Scattered across her desk lay half-finished tools and the faintly humming control unit — the device that connected to the teleportation gate.
The figure's gaze was fixed on it. A single touch brought forth a flawless duplicate, one laced with its own hidden trace.
Knowledge is power, the thought curling darkly in its mind, and power… is temptation.
A low chuckle echoed faintly, which nobody could hear, and in the next second, he completely disappeared, leaving no sign that anything had ever been there.
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