I hate rookie days. They always look the same. A bunch of hopeful idiots step off a train thinking they’re about to become legends. I’m built low and wide, all sumo-built muscle with steel gauntlets bolted to my forearms. People tend to listen when someone shaped like a brick wall tells them the Island will kill them. Doesn’t matter where they come from. Tokyo, Lagos, Sofia, Rio.

  That morning, I watched the feed. Six coaches. A to F.

  Then the doors opened, and the future corpses stepped into the light. The first one out was the one with the sunglasses. She rose from her chair in Coach C, stretching like she’d just napped through a boring lecture.

  “Sittin’ time’s over…”

  Black suit, white hair, a lit cigarette. She stepped through the doors and immediately flinched, raising an arm over her eye.

  “Damn. Forgot how annoying walking into light again can be.”

  Kazadi M’Baku. Congo. Long list of juvenile charges, short list of remorse. Braided white hair. I’d read her repository file the night before on my phone while pretending to sleep.

  The second was already talking before she’d fully cleared the threshold. She was impossible to miss. Light-blonde doll hair tied in perfect twin tails, frilly Shibuya dress, boots heavy enough to crush someone’s foot. She looked like an influencer who’d wandered onto the Island by mistake, until you noticed the massive golden sword strapped to her back and the way she held her phone like she was judging the room for bad lighting. Sunglasses on in the blinding white, because of course.

  “Eek! It’s so bright…! Who designed this place? It’s giving euthanasia hallway vibes.”

  She laughed at her own line, then sighed.

  “Okay, anyway, I should go now. Wish me luck~.”

  Bǎo Lin. China, recommended by the Chinese Communist Party. Big sword, even bigger ego. Famous enough in her own circles that she was offended nobody here recognized her. The kind of girl who thinks the association will be a “phase” she grows out of. Kazadi stepped aside, letting her pass.

  I could read her lips on the monitor as she muttered:

  “Guess stuck-up rich chicks wanna be killers too…”

  Bǎo squinted at her, then at the ceiling.

  “Sickly pale…”

  They weren’t alone for long. The third arrival announced himself before the doors had fully opened.

  “FINALLY!! FREEDOM!!”

  He almost broke the frame squeezing out of the train. A boar’s head, two blades, no shirt, voice like a foghorn. The Boar God. Real name unimportant. Country: somewhere irrelevant that got nuked into oblivion.

  Bǎo’s whole posture took a screenshot at the sight of him.

  “...!? Wuh—”

  She froze for a second, then stepped behind the next man out, like she’d decided he was her new human shield.

  That next man was Takeshi Koji. Big frame. Yakuza. Slight hunch from the train seat. Hands scarred from too many fights, neck rolling like he was trying to get blood back into it.

  He took one look around and scowled up at the ceiling.

  “Damn lights… the hell they tryna flashbang us for. I ain’t no Zatoichi.”

  Then, to no one in particular:

  “...This the right place?”

  Behind them came Flora “Empress” Aguilarez of Brazil, and Sonia McLangryn originally from Portugal, now the best racer in Scotland.

  Six of them in total. White Team. I watched them bicker, posture, test each other with stern glances.

  Boar laughed. “Better be the right place! I haven’t spent all this time just to be told to get lost!”

  Bǎo tilted her chin, forcing cheer into her voice, desperately seeking approval. “These men are so rude, am I right, girls?”

  Sonia walked in last, bobbed green hair, soot on her white racing suit, shades on, grin sharp. “Straightaways are when you’re meant to step on the gas to the fullest, unless you like falling behind~… or is it you like staring at others’ behinds, hm?”

  I’d seen dozens of teams like this. Most of them were dead within six months, without even hitting silver tier.

  Rolls Jumpman, the assassin association’s combat trainer, stepped into frame on the monitors, towering over them, his voice carrying even through the shitty speakers in my booth. “My name is Rolls Jumpman, and you are the White Team. This test will consist of three stages. There will be a risk of death from the moment you enter the White doors. If you want to go home… go now.”

  Boar puffed up, shouting at the ceiling. “ONLY A LOSER WOULD QUIT NOW! AND I AIN’T NO LOSER!”

  I snorted. I’d heard it all before. The boar gimmick was new, though. I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of the nanite gloves tug at my wrists. Belonged to the original Baatar in 3rd century Japan. Just steel to the eye, crawling with metal dust beneath the surface. The first time I put them on, I could feel the nanites twitching along my veins, like somebody had poured a second bloodstream into my arms. They’d told me they fell from space. A gift from a legend, a myth only within inner circles. Someone like “Nuxx.”

  I glanced at the corner monitor, where a silent feed looped the Kuiper Belt. Empty stars, dead rock, cold numbers ticking quietly at the edge of the screen. For now.

  Rolls led the White Team through the exam. I didn’t watch all of it; I never did. I only needed to know one thing: who walked back out.

  A buzz from my phone pulled my attention from the monitors.

  INCOMING CALL: DR. VAINIO

  Of course he’d call now. I swiped to answer.

  “Baatar speaking.”

  Static, then his calm, too-polite voice, in his Finnish accent. “Ah. Baatar the Second. Forgive the intrusion. I assume you’re watching the new recruits?”

  “Trying to. What do you want?”

  “A courtesy warning. One of the outer satellites picked up… a disturbance. Something entered our system through the Kuiper Belt eighteen minutes ago.”

  My eyes flicked instinctively to the corner feed Still dead rock. Still cold.

  “What kind of disturbance?”

  “On paper? A meteor. In practice? Celestial.”

  The nanites in my gloves prickled my skin. “Familiar how? It can’t be Edenfall alloy, then.”

  “No, it’s magical. I thought you might want first crack at whatever falls.”

  A second heartbeat pulsed in my forearms. More nanites. More power. More leverage for the VIPs. And if we got to it before anyone else… “Does Mayor Nicodemus know?”

  “Not yet. I was hoping we could lie about some of the details to the government. At least long enough for you to secure the site for the VIPs. Think of it as… a personal favour to Black Box.”

  On another monitor, white tiles were turning red with blood. I had only looked away for a few damn minutes. Rolls Jumpman stood centre frame, chest blooming backwards as Sonia’s bullet cracked through his skull. He didn’t even raise a hand to stop it. A smart man. Too smart for this place.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Boar shouted something I didn’t bother listening to. Kazadi flinched. Bǎo’s jaw dropped. Sonia stared at the pistol in her hand, then at the body. Takeshi hid the crack in his fa?ade by snorting.

  I sighed. “Rolls just got himself killed,” I told Vainio. “Suicide by rookie. They’ll blame me for it.”

  “Mm. He was afraid of you, you know.”

  “They all are.”

  “As they should be.” His tone warmed, slightly. “One more thing. While we were tracking the anomaly, I employed a Bronze Tier, Hugo Lawson, to search through archived footage. He found a brief, unauthorized heat signature clinging to the undercarriage before departure.”

  “Stowaway?”

  “Possibly. Small frame. Low mass. Human. Then, nothing. Either they fell off and died, or they’re still here.”

  The assassin’s association existed in the underground subway. This was an invasion, not an accident.

  “You want me looking up,” I said, “and down, at the same time.”

  “You’re Black Box. You’ll manage. Just… be careful with those gloves. Remember what happened to your father, who tried to push them past forty percent usage.”

  Of course I remembered. I was a kid. Still scraping bits of him out of the reactor fans three days later.

  He chuckled softly.

  “If what’s falling is what I think it is, Nuxx will be… interested.”

  There it was. The name we never said in front of cameras. Doctor Vainio spoke their name like the legends were fact.

  “Nobody tells the VIPs anything until I’ve confirmed it,” I said. “Send me the trajectory.”

  “Already did. Impact corridor crosses The City’s perimeter, near the assassin subway. It will pass close to your recruits. Consider that a convenient… field test.”

  The call ended. I stared at my reflection in the glass for a moment. Baatar the Second. Black Box. Babysitter. Bodyguard. Torturer. Jailor. And now, scavenger.

  By the time I reached the white station in person, Rolls was a heap on the floor. The smell hit first. Cordite, blood, and that cheap cleaning solvent they use when they want to pretend nothing happened. I stepped over the yellow line, the floor still slick in places. The White Team turned to me as one.

  Boar raised his voice like he thought it mattered.

  “Who are you!?”

  I ignored him.

  Rolls was staring at nothing, eyes glassy, skull cracked open like an egg. Exit wound neat, entry not so much. Sonia’s aim was better than the dossier suggested.

  I crouched beside him, resting my gloved hand on his chest for a heartbeat. “Smart man,” I said quietly. “He saved himself from what comes next.” I rose, turning my back on the corpse. My eyes swept the six faces in front of me. Some flinched. Some tried not to. “I hope you understand,” I said, letting my voice carry, “there are no second chances where we’re headed.”

  Kazadi let out a breath she’d been holding. “Phew… I’m in…”

  Boar frowned. “Who are you?!”

  Takeshi cut him off with a low grunt, shoving Boar God aside. “Hm? Who might you be?”

  I looked him over. He had that yakuza arrogance. Only us Japanese still carry old honours in this new world. I liked that. “I’m Baatar the Second,” I said. “Black Box. And now that you’ve passed, consider yourselves under my command.”

  Kazadi muttered under her breath: “Probably one of the VIPs...?”

  Flora tilted her head, eyes narrow. “Seems important.”

  Sonia squinted. “Wait, hold on a second… Black Box?”

  Boar snorted. “He doesn’t look like a black box.”

  Kazadi sighed. “I think that’s more the name of the company, Tusks…”

  I let them talk. Then I smiled at Boar. “You’ll be in a black box under the ground outside if you don’t sharpen up, pig.”

  Boar flared up immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean!?”

  “Figure it out.”

  Takeshi barked a short laugh. “That you gotta learn when to shut up.”

  I pointed at him. “Your friend is smart. Listen to him.”

  Takeshi shrugged. “Friend, yeah.”

  His eyebrow climbed. “Tiers, huh? So that’s what the points are for.”

  “For the record,” I said, glancing back at Rolls’ body, “don’t think you’re any more than Bronze Tiers after killing him. That was practically suicide. You won’t be getting any points for it.”

  Kazadi nodded, relieved. “Huh… alright then.”

  No one here was sentimental enough to mourn a man they didn’t know. Good. That made things easier.

  Sonia pushed her shades up, trying to sound breezy. “So… what then, boss? If you’re going to be our boss, that is?”

  “Oh, you learn quick. That’s good, Sonia,” I said. “Come here and give me your hand. All of you.” I pulled the injector from my pocket. It looked like a fat metal pen. Inside, a sliver of hardware humming with the same nanite signature as The City’s infrastructure.

  Kazadi stepped up first, unwrapping one of her bandaged hands just enough to expose skin. “Got it, sir.” She winced as the needle went in. “Mn…” She wrapped it back up, muttering: “Probably to track us…”

  “Chip,” I said. “Like a label. You’re signing yourselves up as a product to the VIPs with this.”

  Sonia laughed nervously, holding out her hand. “Ah, right, h-hahaha, is it bad to say I’m allergic to needles~? Yeah, big trouble since childhood, yep~.”

  “It’s not intravenous,” I said, and stabbed it into her palm. “Next.”

  Takeshi held his hand out without flinching. “Product, huh? Haha… shoot me up, boss.”

  I drove the chip into his skin. Death made them more agreeable. Boar hung back, eyes narrowed, arms crossed.

  Flora folded her arms tighter. “I’d rather die than have a chip in my hand.”

  “If there were any other options,” I said, “I wouldn’t be here. Come here.”

  “Then no. I’m not doing it.”

  I met her gaze and let the room go quiet. “You have ten seconds to change your mind, Flora.”

  Kazadi sighed. “C’mon, Flora… gotta get it over with.”

  Flora jerked her head at Boar. “Get the pig first.”

  “WHAT!?” Boar roared.

  Kazadi smirked. “Well, you gotta do it eventually, Tusks.”

  I looked at him. “Boar, remember the black box? You don’t want to go there.”

  He deflated, just a little. “I… fine! But not because the stupid black box told me to, but because I trust my best friend and… I don’t want to go to the black box.”

  He stuck his hand out, eyes squeezed shut behind the mask. I stabbed the injector into him.

  He yelped. “SHUT… AHHHH!”

  Flora watched, jaw clenched. I turned back to her. “Okay, Flora. I’m being nice, in memory of Rolls. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Give me your hand.”

  She hesitated, then thrust out her forearm instead. “I’ll do it. Just not on my hand. I need that. Here.”

  “I didn’t say your forearm,” I told her. “I said your hand. Now.”

  She swore under her breath. “Damn. Fine, I guess…”

  She offered her hand, fingers trembling. I stabbed the injector into her palm. Then, as soon as the chip pinged green on my phone, I backhanded her across the mouth. The sound cracked through the station. Teeth hit tile. She went down in a heap of hair and blood.

  Boar God leapt five feet into the air; Takeshi’s arm shot out, barring his way. Kazadi flinched. Sonia went very still.

  I flexed my hand, feeling the nanites settle. “If you’re insistent on being a cunt, instead of being an assassin,” I said calmly, “your corpse will be the brothel’s mascot instead.”

  Flora didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just spat red onto the white tile and looked up at me with murder in her eyes.

  Good. I checked my phone. Six chips registered, blinking on the internal grid. Enough. Now they were branded, there was no escape. I turned on my heel. “Enough. Speaking back to a Black Box agent is against the rules, Flora. Now, follow me,” I said. “It’s time to step into the assassin’s headquarters and meet your new co-workers… the Black Team.”

  Bǎo, who had stayed surprisingly quiet through the whole chipping, tugged at her gloves, eyes narrowed, voice tight. She stood out from the rest. “So… this is it, huh? We’re products now?” She, the Doll Idol, knew all about that already.

  “Some products sell high,” I said. “Some go straight to clearance. Which one you are is up to you.”

  The walk to headquarters was a long, dark corridor sloping down. After the Great Campaign, the Island had created from metal, what we in Black Box call Edenfall alloy. People like to pretend it’s a nation now, like it grew here naturally. It isn’t. Sixteen years ago, the VIPs threw metal into the ocean and declared it a refuge. They took advantage. They wanted an arena.

  On paper, it’s a safe haven: low crime, clean streets, a place for refugees to “start again.” Mayor Nicodemus smiles on every screen and tells the world the Island turned war into opportunity. The VIPs wanted a place where they could drink and clap in private boxes while assassins did the work no court would sign off on. Nicodemus keeps the surface clean so the paying customers can enjoy the rot underneath.

  I walked ahead, checking the feed from Vainio again. The anomaly had cleared the outer belt. Projected impact time had moved up by three minutes. Trajectory had refined. Right over The City. Right over the assassin subway. Over the train. I slid the phone away.

  Behind me, the White Team whispered, tested each other again, tried to map out alliances in three minutes of walking. We passed one of the maintenance hubs for the Association’s private trains. A wall of screens showed different lines, tunnels, and security feeds. Hugo Lawson’s footage was there.

  One screen flickered. “Stop,” I said. “Run that back. Freeze it.” The tech rewound the footage. Line Four, inbound, high speed. Stone. Rails. Dark. Then, two frames of something that should not have been there. A shape underneath the train. Human. Clinging to the undercarriage with bare hands. He was short, narrow-framed. No bulk. A battered fur hat sat low on his head; underneath it was dark hair that hung long and straight past his shoulders. Not pretty. Not ugly. The eyes were the problem. Calm. Direct. Watching without urgency or fear. He wore plain brown cloth, sleeveless, worn thin at the edges. The young man was pressed under the train, hanging on like a parasite.

  Vainio leaned close to the screen. “… That one doesn’t belong to us,” he murmured “Keep an eye on him.”. There was a strange note in his voice. Interest. Recognition. No data tag. No name. No ticket. Just an anomaly beneath the rails to go with the one falling from the sky.

  The train roared over a switch. The figure let go, dropping into a maintenance alcove. The camera lost him. “Log the time stamp,” I said. “Flag it. I want every exit on Line Four watched. Put a bounty on him immediately.”

  “You think he’s important?” Vainio asked.

  I watched the frozen frame for one more second. “Anyone who can make it down here is important,” I said. “The question is why.”

  Another alarm went off. The Control room lights dipped, then flared. “Orbital feed,” someone shouted. “We have visual!”

  The main screen switched to the sky. High above the Island, something tore through the clouds. Not falling like a rock. Cutting into the atmosphere like it owned the place. Golden, too bright for the sensors, haloed in static. Around its edge, the image glitched, like reality itself didn’t want to render it.

  My nanite gloves buzzed on my hands, reacting to something in the signal. “Eyes on target,” I barked. “Track its descent. Work out where it lands. If there’s tech, nanites, anything usable, Black Box secures it first. I’m not letting some Silver-tier clown grab it for ransom.”

  One of the younger Black Box analysts swallowed. “What happens if we mishandle this, sir?”

  “If we mishandle it,” I said, “people die and the VIPs start looking for someone to blame. That someone is always us. So, we won’t mishandle it.”

  The anomaly screamed across the skycam. For half a second, it looked like a dragon curling through the clouds, long and bright and angry.

  I thought of the stowaway under the train. Of the new chips in the hands of my recruits. Of Vainio’s old, leathery face twisting in delight. The bounty on the trespasser was set, and my mission begun. “Welcome to the Island, rookie.” I muttered.

  Then the shockwave hit, and the whole underground shook.

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