A few soldiers flanked the fresh batch of recruits as they were marched out of the main building and toward a cluster of new structures. Well—new was a generous word. The buildings were barely upright, cobbled together from cracked stone and warped timber. Nails stuck out at odd angles. Support beams were patched with strips of leather or bent metal rods, and in many places, gaps had been stuffed with rags or packed earth. There was no sense of care, no sign of pride. These buildings hadn't been built to last—they'd been built to contain.
They passed a long open field, grey with dust and gravel. If Riley looked closely, he could make out what looked like hair stuck to the stones—and dark, rust-coloured stains that had to be blood. His stomach churned. He didn't ask questions. He didn't want answers.
The women were separated from the men and taken across the field to a separate wing of the camp. Riley watched a few of them glance over their shoulders, eyes wide, steps reluctant. None of them looked like they'd volunteered for this.
The rest of the recruits—about a hundred or so—were funneled into four squat buildings, each divided into massive rooms with enough space for twenty bunks. Riley was shown to one of the far buildings. Inside, the air was thick with old sweat and mildew. Bunk beds lined the walls with barely a meter of space between them. Mattresses were thin, blankets thinner. Some recruits dropped onto the beds with blank stares, as if sleep would erase what they'd just seen. Others clung to what little they carried—a backpack, a coat, a photograph.
Riley had his bag. Some people had nothing.
Still, he didn't pity them. They were all in the same boat now.
He claimed the lower bunk in the far corner of the room, nearest the wall and furthest from the door. Quiet. Out of the way. He didn't want to draw attention. Not yet. The world he'd fallen into kept twisting, reshaping itself. He needed space to think. Time to breathe.
He dropped his pack beside the bed and sat down, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders.
The bunk above him creaked.
A soft rustle followed, then a head leaned over the edge. A tall figure, wiry and broad-shouldered, peered down at him. A chewed pencil dangled from his lips, and a well-worn sketchbook rested in his hands. The page was half-filled with a detailed drawing of jagged mountains, charcoal smudged around the edges.
The stranger pulled the pencil from his mouth. "Fair warning—I talk in my sleep."
Riley blinked, caught off guard. "…Okay?"
The guy smiled crookedly. "Just figured I'd say it now before you decide to suffocate me in the night." He tapped his notebook. "This ridge here reminds me of a place I once crashed for a week. No barbed wire. No psychos in uniform. Just rocks and wind and the occasional hallucination."
Riley huffed a laugh despite himself. "Nice sketch."
"Thanks. Name's Milo." He extended a hand downward. "I figured if we're sleeping a meter apart, we might as well not be strangers."
Riley hesitated for only a second before shaking it. "Riley."
"Sweet." Milo reclined again, flipping the page. "I think we're gonna get along just fine."
Riley leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. In a place this grim, somehow he'd landed next to the most laid-back guy in camp. Maybe the universe wasn't entirely trying to screw him.
They were woken the next morning by a sound that could only be described as warfare against the concept of peace: a gong. Not an alarm. Not a horn. A gong. Over and over again. Loud, metallic, and completely unnecessary.
Riley sat up with a groan, rubbing at his eyes. "What the hell…"
Milo rolled off the top bunk and landed like a cat. "They really know how to say, 'We hate you.'"
The two of them, along with the rest of the recruits, were herded out of the bunkhouses onto the open training field. The air was cold, damp with cave condensation. There was no sun down here—just the dull glow of lanterns mounted high along the rock walls. Time didn't feel real.
They stood in uneven rows. No one spoke. No one smiled. Even the most arrogant-looking guys from the day before looked uncertain now.
A soldier marched into view—tall, broad, with a scar running down the side of his shaved head. His armour looked like it had seen real war. He stood in front of the crowd, eyes scanning them like a wolf sizing up sheep.
"You recruits," he began, "are a disappointing excuse for potential."
Riley already hated him.
"I was told I'd be training warriors. Instead, I see babies in oversized boots." The soldier paced the line slowly. "You were told to be outside by sunrise. And yet, here you stand—tired, sluggish, confused. Unacceptable."
Riley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How are we supposed to tell when sunrise is underground, genius?
Apparently, someone else didn't resist. A large, round recruit near the front let out a tiny scoff.
The instructor's eyes snapped toward him.
"You think something's funny, tubby?"
The man froze.
"Drop and give me your finest push-up," the instructor barked. "Now."
The recruit stumbled forward and dropped to the dirt. He struggled—arms shaking under his weight, back arched awkwardly. The instructor's face twisted with disgust.
"What the hell is that? Again!"
The man tried. And failed.
"Again!"
The abuse went on. Push-up after push-up. Yelling. Kicking. Spit flying from the soldier's mouth.
When another recruit stepped forward in protest, the instructor turned on him too—striking him down and forcing him to join the first in the dirt.
It was a spectacle. A punishment. A performance.
Everyone else watched in silent horror.
Riley clenched his fists. He couldn't step in. Not yet. But it burned to watch.
After nearly an hour of public humiliation, the instructor finally dismissed the broken pair and turned back to the rest of the recruits.
"This," he said, "is what failure looks like. You will not fail here. Not unless you want to die in your first week outside these walls."
A chill passed through the crowd.
So this is how they build loyalty, Riley thought. Fear. Obedience. Shame.
The hierarchy was already forming.
He glanced to his left and caught Milo watching too—calm-faced, arms crossed, but his jaw was tight.
"You okay?" Riley whispered.
Milo nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just absorbing the atmosphere."
Riley gave a weak smile. "Toxic as hell."
Milo cracked his neck. "Welcome to Legion."