The containment cell is a clinical cube of reinforced polymer, its walls studded with pale containment emitters that drone like a swarm of distant bees. Hexagonal panels flicker faintly, their surfaces marred by thin, vein-like cracks that knit themselves closed as you shift. Beyond the glass, two MTF Nu-7 operatives stand watch, their rifles sleek and nondescript no theatrics, just the faint whine of charged suppressors. One agent’s gloved hand hovers near a wall-mounted alarm. Sensors flash: “Anomaly signature stable. Proceed to Phase-2 observation.”
Dr. Vesa Kallis adjusts her lab coat’s collar, her gaze fixed on a holographic tablet. The feed shows grainy footage a blurred figure weaving through collapsing infrastructure, timestamps redacted. Her voice filters through the intercom, calm and detached. “Your cooperation is noted. Vital fluctuations have decreased by 18% since containment. This will streamline our analysis.”
She swipes the tablet, pulling up a waveform graph that spikes erratically. Her brow furrows, not with malice, but clinical curiosity. “The field destabilization during your capture… unprecedented. We’ll need to replicate those conditions. Safely.”
The MTF agent nearest the glass tenses as the cracks in the panels briefly widen. Kallis notes it, unflinching. “Prep the dampeners.” she says to a junior researcher. “and monitor synaptic feedback. Let’s avoid another Sector-9 incident.” The lights flicker once as she turns back to you. “Procedures resume in ten minutes. Use the time wisely.”
