The arena gates shut behind Jack with a dull, final thud, the echo lingering longer than it should. The roar of the crowd faded into silence, replaced by the low hum of the transport corridor. Two of the black-clad operatives met him at the exit—tall, expressionless, moving with the precision of predators. Without a word, they guided him to a small, sterile room, the walls stark white, lights harsh and unforgiving.
Jack's boots clicked on the cold metal floor, his mind already restless, still tasting the adrenaline from the arena. He took a deep breath as they ushered him in, noting the table laid with gear: a reinforced vest, a tactical pack, a few small weapons, and a communication device.
"Jack," one of them said, voice flat, emotionless. "We have a low-risk mission for you. Minimal engagement. Observation and containment."
He tilted his head, scanning the room. "Low risk?" His voice was calm but edged with curiosity. "For who?"
"The locals report a… predator. Livestock missing, fruit gone. We need you to investigate and handle it. Alone."
Jack's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Alone is fine." His mind ticked over possibilities, imagining the kind of creature—or person—he might find. The promise of being unrestrained, even slightly, thrilled the darker corners of his mind.
The operatives handed him a small earpiece and a brief checklist. "Report. Take notes. Kill only if instructed. Extraction point coordinates are preloaded. You leave immediately."
Jack nodded, sliding the mic into his ear. "Understood."
Outside, the plane waited. Its engines growled, throbbing through the metal floor, vibrating against Jack's bones. He shouldered the pack, feeling the weight settle, familiar and grounding. He climbed the ramp, the wind whipping past, tugging at his hair and clothes, and looked down at the dark expanse below. A small island, barely more than a smudge of green and brown in the endless blue.
He jumped.
The air ripped past him, fingers clawing at the fabric of his gear as he plummeted. He deployed the chute, the sudden drag jerking him upright, the world slowing to a surreal glide. The island below expanded, every detail sharpening—the curve of the beach, the swaying palms, the flicker of movement in the groves. He touched the mic.
"Descending. Island in sight. Beginning recon."
The hum of the plane faded into a quiet heartbeat of wind and waves. Alone, with only his thoughts and the monsters whispering just behind the edge of his mind, Jack felt the familiar thrill of isolation. This mission was meant to be easy. Low risk. But somewhere deep, he knew: the island had its own story to tell, and Jack had a habit of listening too closely.
As he drifted down, he could already feel the edges of something wrong, a faint dissonance in the air. The animals were too silent. The fruit too untouched. And then he saw it—a shadow moving with unnatural grace among the palms, a pulse of energy that made the hair on his arms rise.
Jack's fingers twitched. The low-risk mission had just stopped being low risk.
The island stretched out beneath him like a living map, a chaotic tangle of jungle, cliffs, and hidden coves. Jack landed in a small clearing, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The pack shifted on his shoulders, the tools inside humming faintly against his back. He scanned the horizon, noting the faint paths through the palm groves, the rustle of leaves, the distant glint of water.
He moved quietly, settling into a concealed spot near a cluster of banana trees. For the first day, he observed.
Animals disappeared, silently dragged into the shadows. Jack counted the times, noting every pattern: the goat vanished at dawn, the chickens were gone by midday, and the coconuts—torn open with precision—fell between night and morning. The traces were subtle: broken branches, faint drag marks, disturbed earth. Nothing human, or so it seemed.
By the second day, the tension was unbearable. Jack's senses sharpened, every sound amplified. He could feel the whispers of the monsters in his mind—the Screeching Maw fluttering at the edge of his thoughts, Broodfather's larvae wriggling beneath his skin, eager. Release us, they hissed. But Jack resisted, forcing them back into the shadowed corners of his mind.
And then, on the third day, he saw movement that didn't fit.
A boy. Human, but… something about him radiated a tremor of energy. He stumbled through the underbrush, pale and trembling, arms raised defensively. The wind bent unnaturally around him, a residual ripple from a power he clearly feared. Jack crouched behind a tree, watching silently.
The boy's eyes met his for a brief moment—fear, confusion, guilt. Jack's heartbeat quickened. This wasn't an animal. Not a predator. Not something mindless. It was another kid, stranded, scared, a power-user out of control.
He touched the mic. "Target spotted. Human. Looks like a power-user. Doesn't seem aggressive… scared, actually."
Static crackled. "Kill it. We cannot have outsiders on that island. Contain, terminate if necessary."
Jack's stomach twisted. "Why? He's just a kid. We can't… can't we just send him back?"
"No. Follow orders."
Jack's fingers brushed the vines coiling at his side. His monsters stirred, sensing his rising agitation. He felt the hunger to strike, the thrill to end it decisively, but something held him back. He knew the power of restraint, and yet, the words of the station burned in his mind.
The boy stumbled again, and Jack leapt forward, vines snaking from the ground. But before he could strike lethally, he hesitated. "Stop… calm down. It's okay." His voice was low, almost pleading.
But the mic buzzed again. "Terminate. We don't negotiate with powers."
Jack's hands tightened. He glanced at the trembling boy. His heart ached with a mixture of anger, fear, and guilt. He was about to do it—he had to follow orders. The vines lashed forward in a brutal, precise arc, and the boy collapsed, the wind power extinguished in his last terrified glance.
The locals came soon after, shouting and pointing. Jack reported in, tone steady but cold: "It's done. The target… it was a power boy. Mission complete."
"Good," they said. Their voices were heavy with disgust. "Great powers are scum. They'll never be real humans. They can't surpass us."
Something inside Jack ruptured. Rage, fury, grief—all the suppressed voices, monsters, and shards of his personality screamed at once. What gives you the right to say that? he thought. They're human too!
The world shifted violently. The jungle quaked, leaves twisting in unnatural spirals, the sky darkening. Jack's mind split open, shards of himself exploding outward like jagged glass. Every personality, every fragment, every hidden monster surged forward. Legion was born.
Vines erupted violently, tearing through trees. Fungus exploded from the soil, releasing choking spores. The Screeching Maw multiplied, shrieking deafeningly, floating through the rivers and lakes. The island became a living weapon.
Screams echoed from the locals, some fleeing to their safe house, some caught by the frenzy. Jack's voice—many voices—shouted in unison, rage splintered and raw: They're just as human as you!
The island was no longer safe. It was a battlefield. The skies twisted with energy, the ground convulsed with monstrous life, and the water churned with grotesque predators. Jack—no, Legion—was everywhere at once, and the station realized the nightmare too late.
"Extract immediately. All teams. Kill or contain at all costs!"
The company's extraction team arrived, stepping onto an island crawling with death. Vines, monsters, fungus, and ethereal jellyfish surged from every direction. Soldiers fell one by one, swallowed by Jack's fury incarnate. The island had become a living war machine under his control.
And somewhere, deep inside the storm of himself, Jack whispered to the wind, fragmented yet whole: No one decides who is human. Not you. Not them. Not anyone.