Wolfen woke to the sound of aimless debate. It was a low, weary murmur that echoed in the cold cavern, the sound of people trying to build a ship in a hurricane with no tools and no wood. He didn't open his eyes immediately. Instead, he listened, cataloging the voices, the desperation, the sheer, staggering lack of vision.
Eva's voice, still raspy but firm with a newfound, steely resolve: "We have to find a way back to an Architect facility. A primary one. My sister is there. She's all I have left."
Leo, pragmatic and grounded in a world that no longer existed: "That's a suicide mission. We need to find a military bunker, something with real weapons, supplies. We fortify. We survive."
Derek, ever the dreamer looking for an escape: "No. We need to get as far away from all of this as possible. Find an island. Somewhere remote the dead or these… silver men… would never think to look."
A silence from Jordan. A deeper, heavier silence from the corner where Maya sat, a statue of shame and trauma, wrapped in the raider's cloak. They were just listening, adrift in their own private hells.
Idiots, Wolfen thought, the judgment cold and absolute. They were planning picnics at the foot of an active volcano.
He opened his eyes and slowly, deliberately, pushed himself up to sit against the cold stone wall. No one noticed him at first. They were too wrapped up in their futile plans. He observed them for a moment—the way Eva held her newly regenerated arm, still learning its limits; the grim set of Leo's jaw; the hollow look in Derek's eyes.
Then, he raised his hand, a single, languid gesture that cut through the conversation like a knife.
"I'll make this simple," he said, his voice a dry rasp that nonetheless commanded the entire space. Every head snapped in his direction. "Who votes for going to Alaska, or maybe a nice island, to find Prime Architect 4, kill him, and rescue my sister and Eva's?"
The cave fell into a stunned silence. They stared at him as if he'd just suggested they sprout wings and fly.
It was Eva who found her voice first, her one good eye narrowing. "How," she said, her tone dangerously level, "do you know he has our sisters? And how do you know where he is?"
Wolfen gave a casual, dismissive wave. "The Conductor was kind enough to share the location before he expired. And Prime 5, in his own twisted way, confirmed they have them." He didn't elaborate on the methods of either conversation. The details were irrelevant.
He then glanced towards the cave entrance, where the deep indigo of night was visible. "How long was I out?"
"Six days," Derek answered quietly, his gaze a mixture of awe and fear.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Wolfen's face before he could school his features. Huh. Six days. The crimson transformation had exacted a heavier toll than he'd calculated. Interesting.
He refocused, his cheerful demeanor returning, more terrifying than any scowl. "So? The vote? Going to Alaska to kill a Prime Architect and commit grand theft sister?"
No one said a word. The proposal was too vast, too insane, too… final. It wasn't a plan for survival; it was a declaration of a war against gods.
Wolfen's cheerful smile didn't waver. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You'll all die. Except for maybe Maya." He pointed a finger at Eva. "Even you. You're all weak. Untrained. You have no idea what you're truly capable of. You're like children holding loaded plasma rifles, pointing them at your own feet."
He stood up, his body moving with a fluid grace that belied his six-day coma. "So, tomorrow, we start your education. I'm training you all. But first," he said, his eyes glinting, "has anyone checked that helicopter?"
"It's wrecked," Leo said, gesturing vaguely outside. "Crashed during your… fight."
"But did you check it?" Wolfen asked, his tone implying the sheer stupidity of the question.
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the cave into the cold night. The scene of the battle was as he'd left it—a charnel house frozen in time. The grotesque throne of bodies had begun to attract scavengers, but the massive helicopter lay where it had fallen, a mangled dragon of black metal.
He climbed into the shattered cockpit. It was a mess of sparking wires and crushed consoles, but the core systems, protected by redundant shielding, were intact. The flight log was a treasure trove. Auto-pilot coordinates, fuel range data, encrypted communications. And in a sealed, shock-proof compartment, he found a small locker. Inside were a few standard-issue energy sidearms, a data slate… and a sketchbook.
He froze for a second, his hand hovering over the worn leather cover. He pulled it out. It was his. From before. The one he'd used to map the ventilation shafts of his first containment facility, to draw the faces of the few technicians who showed him a flicker of decency. Prime 5 had confiscated it during a "psych eval." He'd never thought he'd see it again.
There was also a pen. And a single sheet of paper, folded neatly on top. He unfolded it. The handwriting was precise, elegant, and chillingly familiar.
Draw to learn.
A slow, genuine chuckle escaped Wolfen's lips. It was a sound devoid of mirth, full of a dark, complex understanding.
"Still taking care of me, I see, huh, old man?" he murmured to the empty, ruined cockpit.
He gathered the weapons, the data slate, and the sketchbook, tucking them into his clothes. When he returned to the cave, he didn't explain. He simply placed the energy sidearms in a pile near the fire, a silent offering of more effective tools.
Then, he sat back down against the wall, the sketchbook held tightly in his hand, and closed his eyes. The vote was over. The decision was made. They were going to war, and class was in session tomorrow. The bringer of balance had a new equation to solve, and for the first time, he had pieces on the board that he intended to sharpen into weapons.