Genesis. Volume 2

October 10, 1986. New York. Circle Base, Training Hall. Morning. Arthur hadn't slept. He lay on the hard cot, which smelled of regulation powder and old fabric, staring at the concrete ceiling. There were eight cracks. He'd counted them three times, tracing them with his eyes—and each time it came out to eight. It helped him not think. Not think about the hammer left in the archive crate. Not think about the blacksmith's voice calling him raw stock. Not think about the fact that in two days they'd board a train to Chicago, where the Maestro awaited—a creature that fed on humiliation—alongside the family that had betrayed the Brooks blood. Still, not thinking didn't work. Thoughts kept seeping back like water into a leaky boat. At six in the morning, a buzzer went off—short, grating, like a dentist's drill. Arthur sat up, swung his feet to the cold floor. Max on the neighboring cot didn't even stir: he slept fully dressed, clutching the edge of his blanket, his face looking like he was still fighting someone even in his dreams. Arthur didn't wake him. Training was scheduled for seven, which meant he had an hour to pull his thoughts together. He stood, splashed ice-cold water from the tap on his face—the pipes squealed before spitting out the stream—and pulled on a clean t-shirt Sasha had left yesterday. Old, faded, with the Circle's emblem on the sleeve: a black ouroboros biting its tail. Arthur ran his finger over the embroidery. The snake stared back at him with a stitched eye and promised nothing. The hallway was quiet, only the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Lisa and Jenny were still asleep. Emma, oddly enough, was too—Arthur glanced into their room and saw her sleeping right on the floor, her backpack as a pillow, a new, double knot tied in the red thread on her wrist. He didn't ask. Everyone had their secrets now. The training hall greeted him with the smell of sweat and gun oil—thick, acrid, soaked into the concrete. Tucker was already there: standing in the center of the hall, arms crossed, watching a stopwatch. He wore the same gray t-shirt with stains as yesterday, but Arthur noticed a fresh scratch on his forearm—long, ragged, clearly not from a training dummy. Tucker caught his look. "Night op," he said shortly. "Bronx. Two low-level Feasters. Closed. Don't ask." "I wasn't going to." "Good." Tucker pocketed the stopwatch. "Where are the others?" "Asleep." "Let them sleep. Today I'm working with you." Arthur tensed. In two days, he'd learned: when Tucker wants to work with someone one-on-one, it's not a compliment. It means he's spotted a weakness and intends to beat it out—down to the root. "I'm ready," Arthur said. "You're never ready. But you're learning." Tucker started with a warm-up—the same stance as yesterday: low, knees bent, center of gravity forward, as if preparing to take a blow to the chest. Movements—first slow and smooth, then faster. Arthur repeated them, feeling his muscles ache from yesterday's strain. Sweat ran down his temples, his t-shirt stuck to his back, but he didn't stop. "An incorporeal entity attacks your mind," Tucker said, circling him; his footsteps echoed dully. "It doesn't deliver physical blows. It finds your fear and presses on it. Your job is not to give it an entry point." "How?" "Control. Fear is a door. If you keep the door closed, the creature pounds from the outside. If you open it yourself—the creature enters. You need to learn to crack the door just enough so it thinks you're afraid. Then slam it shut right in its face." Arthur tried to picture a door. What came to mind was the heavy oak door of the "Genesis" mansion, its paint peeling. Behind it stood Crowley. Or the blacksmith. Or someone else he didn't know. "You're tense," Tucker said. "You're thinking about what was, not what will be. Mistake. The past is an anchor. The present is a weapon." "I don't have a weapon," Arthur said. "You have the dagger." "It'll crack if I use it again." "Then don't use it." Tucker stopped. "Fight without it." He tossed Arthur a training knife—wooden, blunt-edged, polished by countless hands. Arthur caught it, turned it over in his hands. Light. Fake. "I'm not Max. I don't know how to fight with a knife." "You'll learn." Tucker drew his own—also wooden. "Defend yourself." Arthur didn't have time to answer. Tucker attacked. He moved fast—unexpectedly so for his age and build. Arthur barely dodged: the wooden blade passed a centimeter from his throat, the air whistling. The second strike Arthur blocked with his forearm—the bone throbbed with pain. The third he missed: the knife jabbed into his stomach, not deep, but it knocked the wind out of him. Arthur doubled over, gasping. "You're dead," Tucker said. "I got it." "No, you don't." Tucker lowered the knife. "You expect your opponent to play by the rules. But Feasters have no rules. They won't give you time to think. They'll strike before you realize the fight has started." "How am I supposed to react, then?" "With instinct." Tucker tapped his temple. "Here, you think too slowly. Think with your body." They continued. Arthur took hit after hit—to the chest, the shoulder, the thigh. Bruises bloomed under his clothes like dark flowers, and each breath sent pain through his ribs. But gradually he began to feel the rhythm. Tucker's movements stopped seeming chaotic—a pattern emerged. Strike from the left—pause—strike from below. Arthur started dodging. Once. Twice. The third time, he caught Tucker's arm, twisted his wrist, and knocked the knife away. The wooden piece clattered across the concrete. "Good," Tucker said. "Again." An hour later, Arthur couldn't feel his body. He lay on the concrete floor, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. His lungs burned. Tucker stood over him, still fresh, as if he'd only just warmed up. "You're not afraid of pain," he said. "That's a plus. But you're afraid of making mistakes. That's a minus." "Everyone's afraid of making mistakes." "Everyone. But a leader doesn't have that luxury. A leader makes a mistake—and his people die. Do you understand that?" Arthur sat up, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I understand." "Then remember: your main weakness isn't fear. It's trust. You trust people because you want them to be worthy of trust. But not everyone is. Some will use your trust against you." "I know. Kane..." "Kane isn't the only one." Tucker's face darkened, his voice hardening. "There are those in the Circle who wear the same ouroboros as we do, but their snake is red. They call themselves 'the Liberated.' They believe Feasters shouldn't be sealed—they should be studied. Used. Fused with humans." Arthur remembered Lisa's drawing—the ouroboros on the stranger's wrist on the bus. "The man in the gray coat," he said. "He was one of them?" "Yes. We found his body in Cleveland. Without a face. The Liberated killed their own because he tried to warn you." "Why would he warn us?" "I don't know. Maybe his conscience woke up. Maybe he was just scared." Tucker shrugged. "But the fact remains: you're glowing on the Feaster map like a beacon. And the 'Red Circle' knows as much about you as we do." "The Red Circle?" "That's what we call them. A faction within a faction. We thought we'd destroyed them after Kane's betrayal. But they've regrouped. Their leader wears an ouroboros with a red eye." Tucker paused, and in the silence, water could be heard dripping in the shower room. "If you encounter them—don't talk. Walk away. Or fight. But don't listen. They'll convince you that darkness is light. That sacrifice is reward." "You said that before. About Kane." "Because it's important." Tucker looked Arthur straight in the eye, his gaze heavy as wet sand. "You lost a memory. You know what it's like to have a piece of your soul taken from you. Kane offers to restore what was lost. He says: 'I can heal you.' And many believe him. Because they want to believe. Because the pain of loss is stronger than the fear of the unknown." Arthur tried to recall his father's face. Tried—and couldn't. Where features had once been, only an outline remained. A void that radiated cold. "I won't believe him," he said. "They all say that." Tucker sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Alright, enough lecturing. I have something for you." He walked to a locker against the wall, pulled out a folded sheet of paper—heavy, slightly yellowed—and handed it to Arthur. "A list of call signs. Clean Circle agents on the East Coast. If you get into trouble—call them. If you meet someone not on the list—don't trust them." Arthur took the sheet. The list was typewritten, about twenty lines long. Call signs, frequencies, cities. He scanned it: "Hawk"—Boston, "Granite"—Philadelphia, "Siren"—New York. And one more name, closer to the middle of the list: "Rachel"—Chicago. "Rachel?" he asked, looking up. "Your contact in Chicago. If you need local help—she's your person. We don't use her often, but she's reliable." Arthur nodded, folding the sheet. He didn't ask why Sasha had never mentioned Rachel. Didn't ask if Tucker had vetted her personally. He was exhausted, angry at himself for his weakness in training, and grateful to the sergeant for bothering with him at all. The list went into his jacket pocket—alongside Lisa's folded drawing of the ouroboros. Paper to paper. "Thanks," Arthur said. "Don't thank me. Just don't die." Tucker turned away, signaling the conversation was over. "Train tomorrow. Get some sleep. Your people are tired." "My people are my responsibility." "Exactly." Tucker didn't turn around. "That's why you have to be stronger than all of them." Arthur left the training hall. His legs ached, his shoulder throbbed from a dozen hits he'd taken. The hallway was still quiet, only the hum of the lights overhead. He passed the door where Lisa and Jenny slept, passed the room where Max had finally let go of his blanket and turned onto his other side. At the stairwell exit, he stopped. Emma and Liam sat on the steps, drinking tea from metal mugs. Steam rose into the cold air. Liam was telling her something—quietly, with a faint smile—and Emma listened without interrupting. Her fingers mechanically twisted the medallion at her neck—military, engraved with "Cross." Arthur noticed that the red thread on her wrist was now tied with a double knot, and one of the knots was someone else's. "How are you?" Emma asked, looking up. Her eyes were tired but clear. "Alive. Barely." "Tucker?" "Tucker." "Many bruises?" "Honestly? I stopped counting." Arthur sat on the steps beside them and took the mug of tea Liam offered. It was hot and sweet—unexpected for a base where even sugar was usually rationed. He took a sip and felt the warmth spread through his chest, the tension slowly releasing from his shoulders. "He gave me a list," Arthur said quietly, staring into the mug. "Agents on the East Coast." "Vetted?" Emma asked. "Says they're clean." She nodded but said nothing. Arthur felt the weight of the paper in his pocket—light, almost imperceptible. He didn't show the list to her, nor to Sasha, who might ask questions. They were leaving tomorrow—he'd sort it out later. Right now, he just wanted to finish his tea and lie down. Liam, as if sensing his state, stood up. "I'll go check the gear for tomorrow. Emma, don't forget—you leave for Brookfield right after they do." "I remember." He left, his footsteps fading down the hallway. Emma watched him go, then turned to Arthur. "He's good," she said. "Strange, but good." "Do you trust him?" "I don't know." She paused. "But he took my thread. Tied it on himself. So now he doesn't have a choice." Arthur smiled faintly. "You always said the thread was a curse." "It is." She looked at her double knot, something new creeping into her voice. "But maybe a curse can be shared." They sat another minute, listening to the generator hum somewhere deep in the base—low, guttural. Then Arthur stood, rolled his shoulders, feeling the bruises respond with dull pain. "Tomorrow, Chicago," he said. "Tomorrow. Are you ready?" "No. But I'll try." He headed to his room, thinking about the list in his pocket. About the twenty call signs Tucker had called clean. About Rachel, waiting for them in Chicago. About Sasha, who didn't know he now had that list. About how tomorrow they'd split again—Emma and Liam east, he with Lisa, Max, and Jenny west—and every thread of their shared network would be stretched to its limit. "Trust is a weapon," his father had once told him. Arthur remembered those words, though he could no longer recall the voice that spoke them. He closed the door, lay down on the cot, and shut his eyes. Tomorrow would be a long day. Maybe the last quiet day before Chicago. The list lay in his jacket pocket, draped over the chair, silent and still safe for now. Arthur didn't know that one name on that list would cost him victory a few days later. He just breathed, counted the eight cracks on the ceiling, and waited for morning.