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Iceman Central loomed ominously in the distance, a frowning structure of dark stone and mirrored copper, its sharp angles reflecting the sterile cityscape around it. Broad steps led up to a grand entrance, hinting at the austere nature of the organization that operated within its walls.
Deep within the fortress, a large lecture hall buzzed with the low murmur of conversation as the Icemen gathered, their crisp uniforms creating a sea of blue and silver. The air crackled with a mix of anticipation and tension as the Monitor stepped onto the stage, immediately commanding attention with his authoritative presence. Tall and imposing, his square jaw and closely cropped hair spoke of unwavering discipline. His uniform bore the gleaming silver snowflake emblem of the Iceman elite on his chest, and a wide belt, studded with pouches, cinched tightly at his waist. His appearance left no doubt—this was a man devoted to the fanatical care of both body and mind.
With a serious expression, the Monitor adjusted the microphone, his voice cutting through the murmur as he addressed the assembled Icemen. “Listen closely, my subordinates,” he began, his tone grave. “A fellow Iceman sustained serious injuries during the pursuit of a Runaway in the Sin Bin.” He gestured to the side of the stage, where a younger Iceman stepped forward, his face pale and burned.
The man's skin was marred by severe burns, the surface blistered and raw, a gruesome testament to the encounter. Angry red welts crisscrossed his arms, and a darkened patch of charred skin marred his neck, evidence of the ruthless heat emitted by the Foxtrots. He stood with his shoulders hunched, eyes cast downward, clearly embarrassed and in pain.
“Display your injuries,” the Monitor commanded, his eyes steely. The injured man hesitated but eventually lifted his shirt to reveal a patch of skin that had been scorched black, the flesh peeling and blistered. The sight was horrifying; the skin had turned to an angry, inflamed red, while patches of darkened char marked the areas where the Foxtrot's intense flames had licked at him.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, reinforcing the Monitor's point. “Let this be a reminder,” he continued, his gaze sweeping the room, “that the streets are perilous, and our duty demands both caution and vigilance.” Steed and Emma exchanged glances, the weight of the Monitor’s words settling heavily over them as they prepared for their own routine patrols.
Emma clenched her fists in frustration, her face flushed with anger. “Those damn Foxtrot punks! They think they can just burn our own and get away with it!” Her voice rose, echoing off the cold, dark walls of Iceman Central. “Someone needs to teach them a lesson they won’t forget!”
The injured Iceman, still visibly shaken, raised a hand in an attempt to reassure his comrades. “I’ll be fine, really! I’m on my way to the Fresh Face for repairs,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but firm in resolve.
Steed couldn’t resist the opportunity for a quip, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “Well, if you’re getting a new face, make sure it’s one they don’t recognize. After all, they know you now!” The hall erupted into a mix of chuckles and light-hearted laughter, easing the tension that had hung in the air moments before. Emma shot Steed an exasperated look, but a faint smile betrayed her annoyance, the camaraderie of their unit a comfort amid the grim realities of their work.
As the lecture concluded, the mood shifted from tension to determination. The Icemen rose from their seats, a chorus of shuffling feet and murmured conversations filling the air as they filed out of the lecture hall, ready to face their duties. Steed and Emma lingered for a moment, gathering their thoughts amidst the buzz of their comrades.
Steed turned to Emma with a casual air. “I might just pop in on Fresh Face 594,” he remarked, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
Emma raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into her voice. “Is that really wise, Steed? I think you’re handsome enough already.” Her tone was light, but there was an underlying concern for his well-being.
Steed's expression shifted to one of seriousness as he shrugged. "It's because of that last Runaway," he said firmly, his voice filled with resolve. "Someone in 594 was helping him, and that’s treason!" The weight of their duty pressed heavily on them, the implications of such betrayal too severe to ignore. With a final glance at Emma, they turned into the corridor. It stretched nearly a kilometer ahead, impressively wide and lined with intricate, slim metal arches supporting the ceiling. The silence of the bare corridor amplified the urgency of their patrol, their previous banter now overshadowed by the seriousness of their mission.
A smaller door slid open on their right, and Steed and Emma casually stepped into the vast expanse of the Ready Room. The bare floors exaggerated the room’s size, making it feel even more immense. Along the walls, two stories of unrelenting instrumentation blinked with steady electronic pulses, lights winking in response to the data streaming through. Icemen, stationed at their posts, conversed in low tones, comparing notes on the latest terminations. Their eyes briefly flicked up to acknowledge Steed, a quiet camaraderie passing between them in the shared, unspoken understanding of their work. Above them, two spectrographic displays filled separate screens, breaking down various sectors of The Dome into coded colors and numbers. Dominating the space was a larger screen, its complex pattern of concentric lines and colors shifting fluidly as the Icemen monitored it.
Near the far end of the room was a series of large consoles that functioned as the command center. Lights sparkled more intensely there than anywhere else. Additional Icemen operated the instruments on two levels, some standing, others seated.
"What's wrong with you?" The source of the voice was in a darkened section of the chamber. Something, a large circular console, rotated to face them. The Monitor sat inside it; his figure cloaked in shadow, directing his attention to Emma.
Emma, brushing a hand through her hair and grimacing slightly, offered only a cryptic response. “Last night,” she said, her expression hinting at a hidden frustration.
To her surprise, the Monitor's demeanor shifted from irritation to amusement, a sly smile creeping onto his face. The other Icemen chuckled softly, their mirth lightening the tension in the room as Steed and Emma pressed on toward the Debriefing Chamber.
The black door swung open, revealing a vast chamber looming like a shadowy cathedral. As they entered, the sheer scale of the room struck them, its vaulted ceilings stretching high above where four colossal Crystalflowers—white, yellow, green, and red—towered majestically. Each flower pulsed with a soft, rhythmic heartbeat, their synchronized glow dictating the crystal cycles of the city and ensuring that no life slipped unnoticed through its vigilant gaze. The walls were lined with inscrutable components and strange devices, a chaotic blend of machinery whose purpose was veiled in mystery. One side of the room had the eerie feel of a witch doctor’s lair, filled with peculiar artifacts, while the other side showcased a grim, functional diagnostic computer, bridging the gap between ancient rites and futuristic surveillance.
Emma stepped deeper into the chamber, striding purposefully as she approached a circular table nestled beneath an overhanging dome. On its surface, a groove shaped precisely like a Crystalflower awaited her touch. She retrieved a plastic bag from her side, containing the personal effects of the deceased Runaway she had dispatched earlier, and began to arrange them methodically on the table. Nearby, four large, sealed shapes emitted a faint glow, each surrounded by its own ethereal aura, adding an air of mystery to the scene.
As soon as the first item made contact with the surface, a scanner embedded in the overhang activated with a soft whir, illuminating the area with a faint blue light. Emma stood alongside the table, her demeanor entirely matter-of-fact, as if she had performed this ritual countless times before. She absently touched her head, a gesture that betrayed a hint of discomfort—perhaps a lingering hangover from the previous night’s escapades.
Moments ticked by, tension threading the air, until the scanner came to a halt. The voice of Mother filled the room, its tone stern and unyielding, demanding identification. Emma placed her palm into the groove, her heart racing slightly as she awaited the verdict.
“Emma-8-Peel,” Mother declared harshly, the mechanical voice echoing through the chamber. “You are cleared.”
Steed watched, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, relieved to see Emma handle the situation with her usual composure. With the initial hurdle behind them, they were now ready to proceed with their duties, the weight of their responsibilities settling over them like a shroud.
“Looking forward to your company in the Sunray Chamber,” Emma said, her tone light and teasing as she flashed a quick smile at Steed.
He nodded, watching her exit with a mixture of appreciation and admiration, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss. Alone now, Steed turned his attention to the contents of the plastic bag—items retrieved from the unfortunate Runaway who had jumped to his death. As he spread them out on the table, his gaze was drawn to an odd-shaped piece of jewelry nestled among the more mundane objects. Its ancient form stood in stark contrast to the sterile, metallic surroundings, a relic of a bygone era that seemed almost out of place in the futuristic environment.
Steed adopted a nonchalant posture, leaning against the table as the scanner began its methodical sweep over the items. He expected a quick identification, just as Emma had received moments before. However, as the seconds stretched into minutes, impatience began to gnaw at him.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, glancing at the scanner. It had never taken this long before; something was off. His brow furrowed in confusion as he shifted his weight, his foot tapping lightly against the floor.
Suddenly, the mechanical voice of Mother broke through the stillness, sharp and uncompromising. “Contraband item detected,” it declared, the warning echoing through the chamber like a broken record, each repetition catching Steed’s attention with increasing urgency.
“Contraband item detected,” the voice repeated, the warning reverberating in his ears. Steed’s expression shifted from mild annoyance to concern, an instinctive awareness prickling at the back of his mind.
“Approach,” commanded Mother, the tone unmistakably authoritative.
“Curious,” Steed murmured, a frown etching deeper across his brow as he processed the unusual turn of events.
He walked to the corner of the room, curiosity piquing with every step. There, he found a chair that seemed to beckon him, sleek and angular, its surface polished to a reflective sheen. It was unlike any seat he had encountered before—designed for function as much as form.
As he sat down, the glass cube before him flickered to life, illuminating his face with a soft glow. The arm of the chair had a stellar groove, exactly like the one he had seen on the circular table, the shape of a palm crystal glowing with an inviting yet ominous light. The moment he settled into the chair, he felt an almost magnetic pull toward the cube, an inexplicable connection that hinted at revelations yet to come.
“Identification required!” Mother’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, echoing through the sterile chamber with the inflection of a drill sergeant demanding obedience.
Steed, feeling the weight of authority behind the voice, placed his right palm—the crystalflower embedded within it—into the groove of the chair. Instantly, a holographic projection of Mother flickered to life, materializing in the air before him. The figure was imposing, seated in a wheelchair, and the flickering light cast ominous shadows that danced across the clinical walls.
The man's eyes were cold and calculating, devoid of warmth or empathy. As Steed approached, the holographic projection of Mother became more defined, his stern visage emanating an air of authority and intensity. Thin lips, unsmiling, curled into a slight frown, revealing a hint of irritation that lay just beneath his composed exterior. Sharp and analytical, Mother’s gaze flickered with mechanical precision, focused intently on Steed.
“John-6-Steed,” Mother began, his voice resonating with a metallic edge that cut through the air, “an object has been detected in a nonrandom pattern and frequency.” The words were heavy with significance, and Steed felt the scrutiny of those cold eyes bore into him, measuring his every reaction.
“It is linked with an obsolete term: Sanctuary. Probability of its existence has been established,” Mother continued, the corners of his mouth tightening further, and his brow furrowing deeper as he leaned slightly closer. There was a chilling insistence in his tone, a reminder that every word was a command and that the stakes were higher than ever.
“Do you identify the object?” he pressed, the mechanical undertones of his voice vibrating with authority. Steed felt the weight of the question hang in the air, thick with tension, and he understood that this moment would determine not only his fate but perhaps the fate of others in ways he couldn’t yet comprehend.
Steed swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Mother's piercing gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t know what the object is, Mother,” he replied, injecting a note of feigned innocence into his voice. The tension coiled tightly in his stomach as he considered the possible repercussions of this interaction. What sin had he committed in this moment of carelessness? How would Mother punish him for it?
“Perhaps you could enlighten me,” he continued, his tone measured but laced with a subtle edge of apprehension. “What exactly is this object linked to Sanctuary?” The question hung in the air, both a deflection and a desperate plea for clarification.
“It is a premillennial symbol,” Mother intoned, his voice echoing with the authority of a seasoned professor addressing a wayward student. “It is called an Ankh. Define the concept of Sanctuary, please."
“I can’t define it, Mother. I’m afraid I don’t know what Sanctuary is.”
“Sanctuary is a coded term from pre-millennial religions, referring to a place of immunity from harm.”
Sweat began to bead on Steed's forehead, trickling down his temples as his heart raced. The sterile environment of Headquarters, usually so comforting, felt suddenly stifling. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his mind racing with questions. What could Mother be hinting at? A sense of dread settled in his gut.
“I don’t understand,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, betraying the turmoil within. “What do you mean by ‘Sanctuary’?”
“Sanctuary is now mathematically linked to unaccounted citizens, totaling one thousand fifty-six,” Mother stated, his voice stern and precise, reminiscent of an economics teacher delivering a lecture.
Steed opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, Mother cut him off with a sharp command. “Silence, John-6-Steed. Your inquiries are unwarranted.”
“Object Ankh linked to unaccounted citizens: 1,056,” Mother declared, his voice as cold and precise as a data analyst. “Conclusion: Sanctuary exists... target: the Runaway.”
“1,056? That can’t be right!” Steed exclaimed, disbelief etched across his face. “There’s no way so many could have escaped the Dome!”
“Data is irrefutable, John-6-Steed,” Mother stated firmly, his voice unyielding. “The figure is accurate and beyond question. You will refrain from disputing established facts.”
“Maybe most of them reached Renewal through Commencement,” John-6-Steed suggested, attempting to reason with Mother.
“Negative. Unaccounted citizens: 1,056,” Mother replied, his tone cold and unyielding, the flickering data on the screen echoing his words.
“None of them reached renewal?” Steed pressed, disbelief evident in his voice.
“Zero,” Mother confirmed sharply, his voice devoid of any hint of compassion.
“But everyone believes that some—” Steed began, but the screen interrupted him with an emphatic answer.
“Answer: Zero. Unaccounted citizens: number 1,056. Four have been assigned to locate Sanctuary and report,” Mother stated, his demeanor as unyielding as the data he provided.
Steed’s frustration surged, spilling over as he demanded, “You mean nobody’s ever been renewed?”
“John-6-Steed,” Mother admonished, his voice harsh and clipped, “it is none of your concern. You are not to question the system. You are now assigned a critical mission.”
Steed straightened in the chair, forcing his mind to focus despite the unease gnawing at his insides. “What is it?” he asked, bracing himself.
“You are now authorized to penetrated Dome seals,” Mother declared, the weight of his words settling heavily upon him.
Shock rippled through Steed. "The seal..." he muttered to himself. His voice trailed off as the implications dawned on him. “The seals? Go outside?" he managed to stammer. “But there's nothing outside!"
“Your ignorance is not an excuse,” Mother replied coolly. “Your objective is to probe Territory 14E, E for England, in search of Sanctuary. Should you locate it, your orders are to destroy it."
“Mother,” Steed said, his voice steady yet laced with an undercurrent of determination, “I accept the assignment.”
“Understand, Steed,” Mother admonished, his holographic visage devoid of emotion, “that the assignment is top secret.”
Steed raised an eyebrow, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “What if I need help from another Iceman?”
“Negative,” Mother intoned, his tone unyielding. “The conditions of your mission require discretion. You must operate alone.”
“You mean I’ll become a Runaway seeking Sanctuary?” Steed's voice was taut, his thoughts racing as he tried to grasp the implications.
Steed took a breath, steeling himself. “How can I pretend to be approaching Lastday?”
“Your crystalflower will be altered,” Mother informed him dispassionately, his gaze unflinching.
Steed's expression shifted to one of fear. He began to ask, “What about my crystalflower—” but the words were cut short as a shock of pain jolted through him, immobilizing his hand.
Staring down at the back of his hand, it felt as if it belonged to someone else. Sweat glistened on his forehead as the chair and the cube projecting Mother’s image began to glow a bright red. The illumination intensified until Steed was forced to shut his eyes against the brilliance.
When he opened them again, he looked down at his right hand, where the red crystalflower in his palm was now blinking. His heart raced as he stared at it, a mix of fascination and fear flooding through him.
“Am I still… a Class 4?” he asked urgently, the words barely escaping his lips. “Tell me, Mother. Will I get my remaining years back?”
“John-6-Steed,” Mother replied, his tone stern and schoolteacher-like, “you are dismissed. I am not programmed for childish arguments.”
“I know that, but I had four more years,” Steed insisted, extending his palm to reveal the blinking crystal. “This means ten days to Lastday. Of course, I will get the four years back, won't I?”
“Your Crystalflower has been altered,” Mother declared, his voice devoid of warmth.
"Do I get my four years back?” Steed pressed urgently.
“Take the object with you,” Mother commanded, his image fading from the cube.
For a moment, Steed's lips parted as if to voice something more, but he changed his mind and turned away. He walked over to the table and removed the ankh, a reflexive motion guiding his hand toward the groove. He winced at the sound of Mother's voice booming through the air: "John-6-Steed cleared."
While he couldn’t yet assign specifics to everything he’d heard, together they formed a puzzle whose outlines were beginning to emerge—outlines he was almost reluctant to consider. They hinted at an ominous possibility that made him tremble as he glanced at his blinking crystal, a stark reminder of his dwindling time. Processing this new reality, Steed felt the weight of his situation pressing down, heavier than the Dome itself. He was no longer merely an Iceman; he was now a fugitive within the very world he’d been trained to surveil. As he moved through the sterile corridors of Iceman Central, a sense of being utterly lost settled over him.
ns 15.158.61.55da2
