222 Boxed & Done
222 Boxed & Done
The Box was quiet in the way only a place like this could be. It was quiet layered over screaming, violence compacted into reinforced silence. It was the ultimate cape prison. The end of the line. Where the worst of the worst were stacked, labeled, and stored.
Above them all stood the Warden.
Me.
I had never lied to myself about what I was. No good person enjoyed this. No good person could. If I ever told myself otherwise, it would’ve been the most pathetic form of self-delusion imaginable.
“N–No, no, please, s-stop it—!”
His voice cracked into a wet, animal whine.
The prisoner lay splayed open on the table, ribs pried apart like a grotesque exhibit. His organs were exposed, slick under the surgical lights. My hand closed around his heart. It was warm, strong, and beating steadily against my palm.
Despite everything, he was still alive.
Invulnerability ratings did that. So did the tailored cocktail of drugs flooding his system from pain suppression, shock inhibitors, and neural stimulants. I’d kept him precisely on the edge between screaming coherence and neurological collapse.
“Don’t be a baby,” I said calmly. “Calm down.”
I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were on the monitor to my left, watching waves of brain activity ripple across the screen. Spikes. Plateaus. Micro-bursts of synchronized firing.
Interesting. Still not what I needed.
For months now, I’d been chasing a problem that refused to sit still. Pulls. Secondary pulls. The precise conditions under which a power branched instead of deepened. Every model failed somewhere.
But then I’d recovered one of Dr. Time’s papers.
It was incomplete and infuriatingly cryptic.
Still, it was the first real lead I’d had in years.
“P–please,” the prisoner sobbed. “Y-you said… you said you’d let me live longer if I coop—”
“Warden,” Lola’s voice chimed smoothly in my ear, perfectly modulated. “You have a meeting in five minutes.”
“Thanks, Lola.”
I finally glanced down at the man on the table. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, fixed on me with desperate hope as if I might still be bargained with.
I turned away instead and addressed the androids lining the lab.
“Clean up for me,” I said. “Dispose of the test subject. He’s of no use to me anymore.”
The prisoner began to scream in earnest then, voice shredding itself raw.
“N-no! Please—please—!”
He tried to twist, beg, and crawl out of himself if he could. Of course, it was futile.
“But you’re on death row,” I said over my shoulder, already walking away. “And the upper brass is investigating me, so I have to play my part more diligently.”
I paused at the doorway.
“Oh,” I added, mildly, “and anyway… goodbye.”
The door slid shut behind me.
The screaming didn’t stop immediately.
Within the SRC, there were two realities.
One was the carefully curated front, filled with regulation, protection, containment, and heroic necessity. The version sold to governments, civilians, and most capes alike.
The other was the truth.
As someone in the know, my position sat high enough on the ladder that I could see the seams where those two realities were stitched together. I represented the Box, one of the SRC’s many departmental institutions, officially tasked with safekeeping cape data and preserving unstable individuals from society for later use or research.
Unofficially, we were an archive of weapons.
Among my peers, the Box was regarded as one of the academic backbones of the SRC. We didn’t command armies. We didn’t posture in the media. We provided knowledge, leverage, and options. That alone made us indispensable.
Frankly, I had no idea how many departments existed within the SRC. The organization was too vast, too deliberately compartmentalized for that. Of the ones I did know, I knew them only well enough to ensure we never interfered with one another’s work. That was the rule. Curiosity beyond necessity was discouraged.
In my private quarters, several of my clones were scattered about, engaged in leisure activities. One sat reading through a projected data stream. Another was reclining with his boots on a table, idly disassembling and reassembling a device I recognized as obsolete. Two others were in quiet conversation.
They ignored me as I entered.
As they should.
The clones were perfect. They were true copies in every meaningful sense. Same intelligence. Same powers. Same instincts. Unlike the crude attempts made by other researcher-class capes, mine did not suffer instability, ego fractures, or the delusion that they were entitled to leadership.
They knew who the original was.
As I passed through the room, a few nodded in acknowledgment.
“Morning,” one of them said without looking up.
I returned the nod and continued on.
The corridor beyond was empty, sterile, humming faintly with power. I adjusted my pace, combed my green hair back with my fingers, and straightened my clothes. Appearances mattered, even here, especially here.
The conference room awaited.
As I entered, the screens along the walls flickered to life. Two of them stabilized almost immediately.
One displayed a simple triangle.
The other, a perfect circle.
Pyramid and Sphere.
Two of the SRC’s most opaque and powerful organizations. Their symbols alone carried enough weight to bend policy, erase names, or start wars no one would ever officially acknowledge.
I took my seat and folded my hands on the table.
“Good morning,” I said evenly, my voice carrying just enough warmth to be polite. “This meeting is… unprecedented. May I ask what the occasion is?”
I already had theories.
None of them were comforting.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Manager. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”
Pyramid’s departmental head rarely bothered with theatrics. Otherwise known within the SRC as Manager, her department oversaw global resource flow from funds, materials, tributes, and quiet appropriations routed toward Main HQ. Delays did not happen unless something had gone catastrophically wrong. The fact she was speaking at all, and with that tone, told me more than her words did.
“What is this about word of Eclipse roaming free?” she continued. “Are you even checking the news, Warden? The Monarchy is finished. Finished! Do you have any idea how much loss I suffered because of that?”
I frowned, more annoyed than alarmed.
“If you’re looking to assign blame,” I replied evenly, “Sphere would be the obvious candidate. And for all we know, this could be a pretender. A copycat leveraging the name.”
Frankly, this was the first I was hearing of any of it.
I had been busy, and deeply so. My time had been consumed by experiments and, more importantly, by preparations to fix Lockworld. There were hoops to jump through, endless approvals and justifications required before finalizing a termination request for a prison world of that scale. Lockworld was a unique project, one I personally forwarded and successfully convinced my superior to sponsor.
It had been my career-maker.
Compared to my counterparts, I was closest to promotion, and it was all thanks to Lockworld’s data yield. Iteration after iteration, conflict after conflict, refined results.
But recently, a flaw had begun to surface.
When the factions reached a level of peace and mutual cooperation, I knew the cycle had reached its limit. Stability was unacceptable. That was when you wiped the slate clean and began again.
There was a reason I had personally ensured that every Researcher-class cape who pulled in Lockworld was quietly eliminated. If their technological capability continued to grow unchecked, it would only be a matter of time before the prison world ceased being a prison at all. Given enough population growth and innovation, it could become a self-sustaining world, one with its own pool of capes.
Worse still, there had been signs. Murmurs. Patterns. Increasing damage to my observer drones.
The prisoners had begun thinking about fighting back.
Observer’s voice cut sharply through my thoughts.
“How dare you put the blame on me?” he snapped. “It’s your prisoner!”
I allowed myself a thin smile.
“Well, we don’t actually know that,” I said lightly. “It’s far more likely to be an impostor, don’t you think? I have Eclipse secured here. There’s no reason for you to deflect responsibility onto my department.”
Sphere, after all, was tasked with maintaining the ‘front’ of SRC, ensuring visible conflict, public chaos, and ideological friction so that ordinary people would continue to pull and awaken powers. Unlike departments like mine, which supported the SRC through infrastructure and data, Sphere upheld its long-term vision: the continuity of powers themselves.
Manager’s voice sharpened.
“Enough,” she said. “This bickering stops now.”
“So,” I said at last, folding my hands, “can anyone here tell me the purpose of this meeting?”
Silence.
No rebuttal. No clever deflection. Just the low hum of the conference systems and the faint static of restrained irritation.
I smiled thinly.
“Then I’m afraid I have to go,” I continued. “Unlike either of you, I don’t have time to waste. Lola, please be a dear.”
The screens went dark simultaneously, Pyramid and Sphere severed without ceremony.
The room felt lighter without them.
A soft, familiar voice followed immediately. “What’s the plan, Warden?”
I didn’t answer at first.
The truth was… I knew they hadn’t been lying. At least, not entirely. Manager’s anger had been real. Observer’s defensiveness too. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a fabrication born from internal politics.
I picked up a tablet from the table and flicked through the news feeds.
“Eclipse, huh?”
I exhaled slowly.
“I have a good idea how he did it,” I murmured. “Portal technology. That’s the only explanation that fits.”
As for how the prisoners of Lockworld managed to build it… I had no definitive answer. Most likely the reality warper from Urbanite had a hand in it. That city had always been a statistical anomaly. It was too adaptable and creative.
My gaze drifted, unseeing, as I recalled the readings from a few days prior. Suspected dimensional breakthrough. Energy signatures consistent with multiversal traversal.
At the time, I’d filed it away as a future concern.
I sighed.
“So much for patience.” I straightened. “Lola, prepare the control room. Notify the others that we’re proceeding with cleanup of Lockworld.”
“Understood.”
“Also,” I added, already standing, “get a team ready. I want the ‘lock’ secured after this.”
I paused at the door, then smirked.
“Oh. And fetch me my very cool jacket. I need to look the part, right?”
An android entered moments later, holding my jacket with immaculate care. I slipped it on over my dark green coat, adjusted the collar, and stepped out into the corridor.
Clones moved busily around the facility, their footsteps synchronized, their expressions focused. My expressions. My thoughts, mirrored and refined.
I entered the control room and took my seat in the massive chair at its center. Displays flared to life around me, data streams cascading like waterfalls.
“Status report?” I asked calmly.
One of my clones turned from a console.
“We’ve identified a suitable projectile,” he said. “An asteroid approximately one hundred kilometers in diameter. Portal drones are en route.”
I leaned back slightly.
“Estimated timeline?”
“Twelve minutes for the drones to reach the meteor,” he replied. “An additional five minutes until impact, once redirection is complete.”
The lights died without warning.
For half a second, the control room vanished into absolute black.
I clicked my tongue and activated the implants embedded behind my eyes. The world snapped back into view with lines of data, energy flows, and emergency overlays. My vision was reconstructed through borrowed power and layered technology.
Around me, the clones stirred.
“Calm down,” I said sharply. “All of you.”
They obeyed. Panic subsided into tense efficiency.
I reached out through the system alongside Lola, skimming across failing subroutines, rerouting power, forcing energy back into the core. The lights flickered, then stabilized. Consoles rebooted in staggered waves.
But the unease didn’t leave me.
I frowned as data streamed in.
This wasn’t a simple outage.
“The servers,” I muttered. “They’re under attack.”
There was a pause.
“Lola,” I said, more slowly, “status check.”
Her voice came back… wrong.
“P-processing capacity at thirty-six percent,” she reported. “Intrusion vectors… unidentified… recursive… adapting.”
My jaw tightened.
This was bad.
I was a power researcher, not a systems architect. Most of my technology was built atop pre-existing blueprints, refined, improved, and repurposed. That was standard practice within the SRC.
“Isolate the attack,” I ordered. “Segment what you can.”
“I am trying,” Lola replied. “They are… learning.”
I didn’t like the way she said they.
I exhaled through my nose, then reached for the secure phone embedded into the arm of my chair, the one that connected directly to the top of the totem pole.
The line rang once, twice, and then it connected.
I straightened instinctively. “Your Majestic Will,” I greeted, keeping my voice level. “I’m reporting a sudden crisis. The Box is under coordinated digital assault. Lockworld’s cleanup is underway, but—”
“Handle it yourself,” the voice said coldly.
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone for a second longer than necessary.
Slowly, I lowered my hand.
…So that was how it was.
I let out a quiet breath and looked back at the screens, at the flickering data, at the intrusion spreading like rot through my systems.
“Fine,” I murmured. “On my own, then.”
My eyes sharpened.
“Lola,” I said, voice steady despite everything, “switch to contingency protocols. If someone thinks they can challenge the Box directly… then I’ll show them why it exists.”
“I’m sorry,” a voice said calmly, cutting through the alarms, “but Lola is gone.”
I froze.
The voice was male. Not synthetic. Not registered.
“Who are you?” I demanded, spinning toward the nearest console. “Identify yourself!”
No answer.
A cold pressure settled in my chest. This wasn’t a breach. This was a takeover.
“Drop the projectile,” I barked, raising my voice so every clone in the control room could hear me. “Now. No holding back. Risk the portal drones if you have to.”
One of the clones hesitated. “But sire, those drones are extremely expensive, and they’re the only—”
“Do it now!” I roared.
The lights died again.
This time, they didn’t come back.
“What is happening?” I shouted into the dark. “Pull the energy systems back up! Emergency reroute—manual override—anything!”
Nothing responded.
I reached inward, toward the Box’s systems, toward the familiar lattice of authority and access that had always answered me.
There was nothing.
I had been severed.
Red emergency lights flickered on, bathing the control room in a bloody glow. The silence was broken by a clone’s trembling voice.
“S-sir… prison cells are opening. The B Sector’s prisoners are waking up from the pod. The A Sector is devolving in a riot.”
My heart skipped.
“What?” I snapped. “That’s impossible. Lock them down. Override it!”
“They’re not responding.”
I clenched my fists. “Release the Rated-Ten droids. Full authorization.”
Quietly, a clone murmurmed. “Sir… they’ve self-destructed.”
My breath caught. “How?”
No one answered.
I turned inward again, desperation clawing at me, reaching for the deepest failsafe I had such as the restraints embedded into my AI, the ones I had never once fully released. If I removed them now, Lola could brute-force the situation, even if it damaged her or risked her going rogue.
But when I reached for her, there was nothing.
My AI was gone.
“Impossible…” I whispered.
A sharp crack split the air.
One of the clones convulsed violently, blue lightning bursting from his eyes and mouth. His body arched, then collapsed, smoking.
I stumbled back a step.
Another clone screamed and exploded in a storm of electricity.
Then another.
And another.
They died standing, falling, spasming, their own bioelectricity turning against them. It had been perfectly targeted and timed.
I backed away, horror finally blooming in full.
“No… stop… this is my facility!” I shouted, as if the Box itself could hear me.
The executions continued for two full minutes. When the last body hit the floor, the room was silent again.
I was alone.
Breathing hard, I forced myself to move. I knelt beside the nearest corpse and performed an autopsy with shaking hands, fingers moving by instinct even as my mind reeled.
The pattern revealed itself quickly.
My blood ran cold.
Electrokinetic implants. Dormant. Remote-triggered. Embedded with surgical precision.
The same signature.
It was Light’s technique.
“No…” I murmured. “That’s not possible. He’s dead!”
The main screen flickered to life.
A porcelain mask filled it.
It was Eclipse.
He tilted his head slightly, as if studying my reaction.
“I didn’t expect it to work this effectively,” he said casually, almost amused. “But anyway, I just came to say goodbye.”
My mouth opened. Rage, disbelief, terror were all tangled together.
“You—!” I started.
The screen went black.
Silence swallowed the control room.
I stood there, surrounded by corpses, systems dead, and authority stripped from me in minutes.
“What have I done?”