The sub-basement command center smells of recycled air, stale sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of pulverized concrete.
I stand at the edge of the holographic table, my hands resting on the cold steel. My left arm is in its carbon-fiber brace, the nerve damage flaring with a dull, rhythmic ache in the chill of the underground bunker. My ribs are heavily taped, protesting every shallow breath. I ignore the pain. My focus is entirely on the glowing, three-dimensional rendering of the micro-slag hovering above the console.
Morgan stands beside me, her silver-streaked hair escaping its bun, her face pale in the harsh blue light of the displays. Beside her, Elara is sitting on a stool, her small hands resting on the edge of the console. She is staring at the hologram, her silver eyes swirli
