She was stopped right at the base gate as a sergeant sneered, someone with a backpack like that can’t possibly save anyone. They yanked Sarah’s worn fabric bag from her shoulder, pulling out every tattered item, like exposing a fraud. But when a dark metal box was drawn from the bottom of her backpack and popped open, everyone fell silent.
Inside was a deep blue metal never before seen by the public known only through classified Delta Zero records. And in that moment, an officer whispered, trembling, it can’t be, that’s the nameless blue metal. Sarah stood under the harsh glare of the gate’s floodlights, her soft black hair loose and tangled, catching the cold wind in uneven strands.
Her pale rosy skin had a sickly hue, like she hadn’t slept in weeks, maybe longer. Her faded blue jacket hung off her thin frame, the cuffs frayed and stained, and her wrinkled military trousers were tucked into boots so worn the toes were splitting at the seams. No insignia.
No rank. Just a logistics volunteer according to the crumpled paper in her hand. The recruits around her, all polished boots and crisp uniforms, stared like she was a stray who’d wandered into their world.
Their whispers buzzed, sharp and judgmental, their eyes raking over every tear in her clothes, every smudge of dirt. To them, she was nothing, a nobody who didn’t belong. But Sarah didn’t shrink.
She stood tall, her hands loose at her sides, her gaze steady, like she was waiting for something they couldn’t see. The Sergeant Kyle was young, maybe twenty-five, with a buzz cut and a smirk that screamed he loved the power his stripes gave him. He stepped closer, his boots crunching on the gravel, and pointed at her bag.
Did anyone tell you you’re at the wrong place? His voice was loud, meant to draw laughs, and it worked. A couple of recruits snickered their eyes, darting between Kyle and Sarah like they were watching a show. A female recruit, all sharp eyeliner and a ponytail pulled so tight it looked painful shoved past Sarah to get to the check-in desk.
Logistics waits outside. She snapped her voice dripping with disdain, like Sarah was a stain on her perfect day. Sarah didn’t flinch.
She looked at the woman, her face calm and said, I have a summons. Her words were soft, deliberate, like she was stating a fact that didn’t need arguing. The recruit froze for a split second, then rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, turning away.
A corporal lean and twitchy with a voice like he’d smoked too many cigarettes leaned against the check-in desk, watching Sarah like she was a puzzle he didn’t care to solve. He flicked a pen between his fingers, the click-click-click cutting through the static of the radios. Summons, huh? He said loud enough for the whole line to hear.
What’s a girl like you doing with a summons? You look like you’re here to clean the barracks, not save the day. The recruits around him burst into laughter, some doubling over their hands, slapping their thighs. Sarah’s fingers tightened on her bag strap just for a moment, then relaxed.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes locking onto the corporal’s and said, maybe I’m here to do both. The laughter died down, not because her words were loud, but because they were sharp like a blade slipping through fabric. The corporal’s pen stopped clicking.
He looked away, muttering under his breath, but the crowd’s energy shifted like they weren’t sure what to make of her anymore. Kyle wasn’t letting it go. He grabbed Sarah’s arm, not rough, but firm enough to make a point and pulled her toward the check-in desk.
Let’s see what you got then, he said, his smirk widening like he was about to expose a liar. The desk was a mess, clipboards scattered coffee cups, leaving rings on the wood radios, spitting static into the cold air. Kyle patted down her jacket, his hands quick and careless, like he was searching a shoplifter.
Nothing? No ID, no letter, no crisp orders folded neatly in her pocket. Just that beat-up backpack stained with oil and dust, looking like it had been dragged through a war zone. The recruits watched, some grinning, some just curious waiting for her to crack under the pressure.
Sarah didn’t. She stood there, her shoulders square, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance, like she could see something nobody else could. The air smelled of diesel and wet earth, the kind of cold that bites at your knuckles.
A captain mid-forties with a jaw like a slab of granite stepped forward, his boots clicking on the concrete. If you were summoned, then by whom? He asked his voice low, like he was giving her one last chance to prove she wasn’t wasting his time. Sarah didn’t hesitate.
She looked him in the eye and spoke a single sentence, a string of words that sounded like nonsense to the recruits, but made the captain’s face go still. It was a security phrase one-only-black-tier operatives were taught from a protocol decommissioned eight years ago. The room went quiet.
Even the radios seemed to hush. Kyle, still holding her bag, let out a nervous laugh. The more elaborate the fake, the more we should search her, he said, but his voice cracked like he wasn’t so sure anymore.
The captain didn’t look at him. He just nodded to two MPs who stepped forward and gestured for Sarah to follow. They were taking her in for a full search, her and that bag.