Page 51 of Green Ravens

Did they anticipate adversaries that might be living in a zoo?

Synthetic brush, roots, and foliage were scattered along the path. Holographs took the form of apex predators—wolves, tigers, and bears with razor-sharp fiber-optic claws.

Each moved with precision, their stalking and attacks terrifyingly accurate.

His suit flickered with yellows and oranges, indicating he’d taken some blows, but none were life-threatening. If any part of his suit flashed red, it meant a fatal wound, and he was dead.

Valor crouched in a thick monkey brush, his breathing even and full. A shiver raced down his spine and his skin felt as if the marsh mosquitos swarming around him were real and biting his arms.

His breath caught as a flash of an image—a man—stood beside him, his presence strong and reassuring, his mint-green eyes as beautiful as lily pads after a spring rain. The vision slammed into him like a wrecking ball through glass, shattering his thoughts.

A name wasrightthereon the tip of his tongue, and then it was gone. He slammed his eyes shut, shaking his head in frustration. He pressed his thumbs into his temple, willing the man’s face to reappear.

Lost and disoriented, he grunted after a violent vibration rattled his bones.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the glowing eyes of a mechanical jaguar, his suit flashing red.

The simulation ended and the world around him faded, leaving him discombobulated in the center of a bare floor.

The director exchanged an uneasy glance with a few other suits in his observation box.

A tall man with lean muscles walked toward him with six people trailing behind.

His face was all sharp angles, cheekbones, and jawline. His eyes were like polished gunmetal, unreadable and cold. There was no warmth or comfort in his gaze like the man in Valor’s vision. They were calculating as if he only measured risks and costs.

Upon closer inspection, Valor wondered about the scar that split his left eyebrow.

“You good?” the man gritted. “You froze up at the end.”

Valor didn’t respond.

The man extended his hand.

“I’m your handler. My name’s not as important as my handle. Call me Cipher.”

Valor took the man’s hand, noting the scarred knuckles, hinting at a past where he used communication methods that didn’t include words.

“You did great, beyond all expectations.” The man shrugged. “Except at the end.”

Valor didn’t utter a word.

He didn’t like the aura of his handler. He wasn’t physically imposing, but something about him gave him pause.

Valor wanted to growl at the man whose responsibility would be moving him around the world like a player shifting chess pieces on a board.

Valor could never trust someone content with ordering another person to kill an unsuspecting target while he hid in the background.

He would keep an eye on his so-called handler.

He’d play their game, and then it would be his turn to make them pieces on the board.

Chief Styles Sawyer

Zorion

Zorion memorized every turn and blind spot as he was led to the testing area, which ended up being a stark white room with a two-sided mirror and no windows. There was a single metal chair in the center of the room. Beside it was a table with various objects, cards and items he didn’t know.

“Zorion, please have a seat.” Dr. Pheung nodded toward the chair. “Just relax. This is nothing more than an evaluation.”

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