Seattle–Tacoma International Airport buzzed with a low, constant hum of arrivals and departures. The glass walls of the concourse reflected the clear noon sunlight, making the space seem brighter than it had any right to be. Aftan stepped into the terminal with his duffel slung over one shoulder, scanning the crowds for anything familiar.
He found nothing familiar—just a sea of faces, the clipped accents of travelers, and the metallic tang of jet fuel riding the air. Still, there was a weight in his chest, the awareness that he was now standing in the city at the heart of the IDF's power.
Near baggage claim, a uniformed man waited with a small black placard reading AFTAN. His posture was straight, but his eyes carried the trained boredom of someone who'd done this too many times. "Private Aftan? This way."
They exited into a waiting vehicle, windows tinted to near-black. As the car pulled away from the curb, the airport fell behind, replaced by the gleaming sprawl of downtown. The driver said little, letting Aftan absorb the shifting scenery—the layered skyline, the narrow streets humming with mid-day life, and, further off, the steel spine of the Space Needle rising like a silent sentinel. Even from here, its crown was dark, its scaffolding wrapped in the pretense of renovation. Aftan caught himself staring at it a little too long. He remembered the news feeds from two weeks ago—flames, debris, the official word of a terrorist attack. He wondered what the real story was.
Fifteen minutes later, the vehicle rolled through a security checkpoint marked with the IDF insignia—a silver sword framed by a pair of wings. Beyond the gate, the world sharpened: buildings of reinforced glass and composite steel, drill fields patterned with the symmetrical geometry of training formations, airships moored like patient beasts in high docking bays. Soldiers in full gear moved in tightly coordinated drills, their shouts and the clatter of boots ringing through the compound.
The car stopped before a main structure whose facade was all clean lines and mirrored panels. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant. Holo-screens displayed real-time updates from various sectors: energy readings, patrol routes, classified alerts scrolling in code Aftan couldn't yet read. Soldiers in varying uniforms crossed the lobby with purpose, their boots striking in disciplined rhythm.
At the reception desk, the driver signed Aftan in and handed him over to a tall man in a Unit Three jacket. "Captain Ahmar is expecting you. Let's get you squared away first."
They walked a long corridor lined with framed photos—snapshots of missions, units, and faces frozen mid-laugh or mid-shout. Aftan recognized a few from history modules at the academy: operations in frozen tundras, desert sieges, and urban rescues. Others he knew only from whispers—soldiers who had supposedly faced threats the public would never hear about.
The quarters assigned to him were compact but efficient: a bed, a desk, a wall-mounted console, and a narrow window that offered a slice of skyline. He set his bag down and took a slow breath, noting the faint vibration of the building itself. Somewhere outside, the deep thrum of an airship's engines rose and fell, a reminder that this was not just a barracks—it was the beating heart of an armed force that spanned the globe.
He'd barely had time to breathe it in when there was a knock at his door. A woman with short black hair and a Unit Three insignia stepped in. "Captain Ahmar will see you now."
Ahmar's office sat at the top of a short flight of stairs, the space marked by the faint scent of coffee and the organized chaos of a man who lived in the field more than behind a desk. A map of the world dominated one wall, its surface studded with glowing markers—some green, some amber, a few red. Ahmar Alexander himself stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the drills below. He turned when Aftan entered, a slow smile creasing his face.
"About time they sent you my way," Ahmar said. "Seattle's not a place for rookies. Or for anyone looking for easy days."
"I'm ready, sir," Aftan replied, the words steadier than he felt.
Ahmar studied him for a long moment, then nodded toward a chair. "Good. Because things here… they're shifting. You'll hear the public story about the Needle incident, but in this unit, we deal in the truth. What happened two weeks ago wasn't terrorism."
Aftan leaned forward. "Then what was it?"
Ahmar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Classified for now. But you'll see soon enough. Just remember—you're here because you've got the skills, and because there are things in this city that require people who can think and act faster than the rest. You'll be briefed tomorrow. Today, settle in, learn the layout, and keep your ears open."
Dismissed, Aftan stepped back into the corridor. The air felt different now—charged, as if the very walls carried the weight of secrets. He returned to his quarters, but his gaze was drawn to the window. Far off, a glint of white moved against the clouds, vanishing almost as quickly as he spotted it. Aftan blinked, unsure if it had been a trick of the light.
Somewhere in the distance, so faint it could have been imagined, came the echo of a low, resonant roar. The sound crawled into his bones and stayed there.