Dining Table - Reaper HQ

  Fabrizio Turner kept his eyes fixed on Henry. He wasn't eating; he simply stared at the "intruder" with silent contempt. Henry, feeling the weight of that white void, decided it was time to break the barrier.

  — Silas — Henry began, his voice seemingly absorbed by the silence of the white walls. — Now that I’ve proven my loyalty to you by taking out those groups... tell me: who are you? Why do you call yourselves immortals? Why are you immune to poisons? Why is your pain tolerance so high? Where did you come from? What happened inside this place?

  The clink of a fork against Zack’s plate stopped abruptly. Silvia lowered her gaze, and even the unstable Lil went still.

  Silas let out a heavy sigh.

  — Fine, Henry... — Silas murmured, his tone shifting into something almost confessional. — You’re family now; I suppose you have the right to know the truth. To know about our scars.

  He looked around at the immaculate walls as if he could see right through them.

  — Look at this place, Henry. Everything is white, isn’t it? That’s how we grew up. Twenty years ago, Fabrizio and Silvia’s father, Colonel Turner, ran what he called the "Next Evolution." He didn’t want soldiers; he wanted gods who could survive the apocalypse.

  Silas paused, his eyes lost in the blinding white of the table, and the reality of the cafeteria began to dissolve for Henry. The account wasn't just a story; it was an open wound bleeding memories.

  FLASHBACK: CIA Base – Cascades, 2021

  The environment was a symphony of fluorescent lights. Behind reinforced glass walls, human ethics had been discarded in favor of unholy science. Dozens of scientists in immaculate lab coats moved with mechanical haste, tending to "specimens" ranging from 6 to 16 years old. 777 children from around the world, forcibly taken from their parents by the military—all with O-negative blood, with the sole exception of the Colonel’s twin children.

  From the observation gallery in the climate-controlled control room, Colonel Turner watched it all with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes didn't gleam with empathy, but with the fascination of a sculptor standing before marble. To him, those children weren't orphans or sons and daughters; they were the future. They were perfect soldiers in the making.

  The monitoring cameras in front of Turner displayed the horror in high definition:

  Sensory Stimulation Sector: In one chamber, a child was subjected to severe burns by controlled blowtorches, while nearby, another suffered superficial cuts from automated blades. In a ballistics testing room, the older ones were shot with small-caliber ammunition. There were no screams; only the sound of electronic devices monitoring brain responses. The objective was clear: to force the nervous system to reach a pain tolerance that no normal human being could endure.

  Toxicology Sector: Along rows of gurneys, children received continuous infusions. Snake venom and botulinum toxins were injected in doses calculated to almost kill, always followed by healing serums. This process was repeated countless times with every poison and serum until the body developed immunity to the toxins.

  Surgical Block 01: Here, efficiency trumped biology. The Colonel considered the human body "full of design flaws." In a surgical assembly line, organs deemed useless or vulnerable were removed en masse: tonsils, appendices, spleens, and gallbladders. If it could cause a future infection or an unnecessary weakness, it was extracted.

  But the main monitor showed the deepest cruelty. In the case of the boys, Turner went beyond functional biology. To him, the children were made to reap lives, not to create new ones. The castration process was mandatory for all boys. The testicles were removed to eliminate what Turner called an "anatomical blind spot"—a sensitive organ that could cause a drop in blood pressure or incapacitation in combat if hit.

  Curiously, Turner exempted the girls from this reproductive mutilation. Perhaps, in some dark corner of his distorted mind, there was a shred of mercy that kept him from doing that to his own daughter, Silvia, who was only ten at the time. But for Silas, Elijah, Fabrizio, and the others, the future had been cut away before it had even begun.

  FLASHBACK: CIA Base – Cascades, 2030 (A few days before the Fall)

  Colonel Turner’s office was a sanctuary of order amidst the chaos beginning to bubble in the outside world. He sat in his genuine leather armchair, the light from a desk lamp illuminating confidential documents regarding arms deals among the 14 nations still attempting to maintain the appearance of global control.

  The door slid open silently. A chief scientist, his face pale from months without seeing the sun, approached with a white folder in hand.

  — Sir — the man said, his voice trembling between fear and pride. — Out of the original 777 children in the project, over these ten years... only 11 have survived. But the results are statistically impossible, sir. They are all perfect. What you’ve sought for a decade is right here, in this document.

  Turner took the folder. His eyes scanned the files, analyzing the final "products" of his experiment:

  File No. 1: Silas Status: The Alpha Prototype. Strong, fast, excellent in hand-to-hand combat, and precise with a firearm. Holds the highest pain tolerance recorded in the project's history. Psychological Notes: Calm, avoids any non-essential interaction with the technical staff. A natural-born commander.

  File No. 4: Elijah Status: The Martial Prodigy. Impressive combat level. The only one capable of merging Karate, Jiu-Jitsu, and Krav Maga into a seamless flow. High pain tolerance and excellent marksmanship. Observation: Displays traits of arrogance that may hinder disciplinary control.

  File No. 8: Aiden Status: The Esthete. An efficient combatant within the group’s standards of excellence. Demonstrates a pathological indifference to the traumatic experiments he was subjected to; his obsessive focus remains on his own appearance and image.

  File No. 21: Zack Status: The Heavy Specialist. Expert in large-caliber weapons and direct engagement. Inexplicably maintains an optimistic temperament, serving as a positive psychological anomaly within the high-pressure laboratory environment.

  File No. 223: Ian Status: The Sharpshooter. The best marksman among all survivors. Although his pain tolerance is slightly lower than Silas’s, his precision compensates for it. Prefers long-range engagement; demonstrates disdain for unnecessary physical combat.

  File No. 3: Diego Status: The Infiltrator. Exceptional results in stealth and agility training. Hand-to-hand combat focused on speed. He serves as the social link between the other specimens.

  File No. 13: Andrew Status: The Sadist. The youngest. Functional hand-to-hand combat, but what sets him apart is a total lack of moral inhibition. Showed pleasure in executing condemned prisoners without the need for repeated orders. Easily irritated; motivated by simple rewards, like candy.

  Turner turned the page, the glow of the monitors reflecting in his icy eyes as he read the final files:

  File No. 666: Lil Status: The Uncontrollable. One of the veterans. Prolonged exposure to pain protocols has fragmented his psyche. Developed a pathological hatred for direct orders; eliminated two scientists during violent outbursts. Extreme pain tolerance. Inefficient with firearms but compensates with devastating brute force in close quarters. Like Andrew, he manifests sharp sadistic tendencies.

  File No. 776: Fabrizio Turner Status: The Heir. Superior intelligence and elite combatant, on par with Elijah. Impeccable performance in precision shooting and iron discipline. His pain tolerance is described as "enviable." He is the group’s pillar of seriousness.

  File No. 777: Silvia Turner Status: The Crown Jewel. The sole female survivor. Demonstrating that the experiments adapt well to the female endocrine system. Agile combat, excellent marksmanship, and an extraordinary IQ, second only to File 404.

  Turner reached the final sheet. The paper seemed more worn, as if it had been reviewed hundreds of times.

  File No. 404: Name: -------

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Suddenly, a sharp burst of static from the scientist’s communication radio echoed in the room, masking the name being spoken. Turner didn't even blink, focused on the description:

  Status: The Outlier. The project's most brilliant intellect. Legendary-level combat; the only one capable of holding his own in a direct confrontation against Silas. Although technically weak with firearms, his agility is supernatural. He moves like the wind; in tests, Fabrizio fought him for 40 minutes without landing a single blow. Matches Silas in pain tolerance. Psychological Observation: Developed severe Dissociative Identity Disorder due to trauma. Presents three distinct personas:

  Original: Calm, introverted, and analytical.

  Unstable: Hostile, expresses genocidal desires toward project personnel.

  The Jester: A child-like regression where he uses tricks, acrobatics, and high-pitched clown-like voices in a desperate—and successful—attempt to make the other ten survivors laugh in the darkness of the lab.

  Turner slammed the document shut.

  — Perfect — the Colonel whispered. — We have an army of eleven. Humanity may fall tomorrow, but my legacy will be eternal. I have achieved eleven nearly immortal humans.

  FLASHBACK: CIA Base – Cascades, 2030 (The Night of Liberation)

  Only a few hours remained before the total collapse of society outside, but inside the complex, the revolution had already begun. The eleven were in their dormitories, wearing the standard testing uniform: simple white clothes with no pockets. The only exception was the Jester from ten years ago; he was already wearing a cheap plastic clown mask he’d received from a scientist after an IQ test—an ironic prize for being the Colonel’s smartest "toy."

  In the communal bathroom, the sound of the running shower created an acoustic curtain. Silas and Jester stood under the water, hands over their mouths to muffle any whispers.

  — It’s today — Silas murmured, his eyes gleaming with cold fury. — Jester, the cameras?

  — Done, Silas — Jester replied, his voice shifting between analytical seriousness and a nervous laugh. Tucked under his arm, he hid a CIA tablet, a device he had diverted months earlier during drone testing. His fingers flew across the hacked screen. — The loop is running. The guards in the monitoring room are looking at an empty hallway. They have no idea that "Death" has left the box.

  In another wing of the dormitory, the scene was one of devastating vulnerability. Silvia was curled up on the bunk bed, tears streaming down her pale face. Fabrizio held his sister’s hand with a grip that promised eternal protection.

  — I can’t take it anymore, Fab... — she sobbed quietly. — The needles, the cold... I want it to stop.

  — It will stop, Silvia. I promise — Fabrizio said, wiping away her tears. — Tonight, these ten years of torture end. We’re going to kill every single one of them. And if Dad gets in the way... I’ll handle him myself.

  Meanwhile, the first tactical phase was already underway. Elijah and Ian, the most agile and silent among them, moved like shadows through the ventilation ducts. They dropped like ghosts into Security Sector 04.

  Two guards barely had time to register their presence. Elijah applied a rear-naked choke so technical that the guard blacked out before he could scream; beside him, Ian was more definitive, using brute force for a dry neckbreaker that echoed through the silent corridor. They felt no remorse. These were the same men who held them down on surgical tables.

  Quickly, they began stripping the corpses.

  — Put this on — Ian ordered, tossing a tactical vest to Elijah. — Let’s grab their weapons. Nine uniforms to go. We need to clear out the armory before the general alarm sounds.

  The hunt had begun. The children raised to be weapons had finally found their first targets: their own creators.

  The Harvest

  Elijah and Ian moved with haunting synchronicity. They weren’t just two young men; they were predators in a labyrinth. After neutralizing the first two guards, Ian took point at the security sector door, wielding a pistol with the coldness of someone who had fired thousands of rounds in simulators.

  — Elijah, go! — Ian whispered.

  Elijah, wearing the dead guard’s oversized uniform, used the keycard to open the South Armory. Inside, the sight was paradise for someone raised for war: M4 rifles, submachine guns, and grenades lined up like jewels. He didn’t just grab gear for himself. He began tossing black tactical uniforms and ballistic vests into large canvas duffel bags.

  Meanwhile, Silas gave the signal. In the dormitories, Jester remotely opened the door to Lil and Andrew’s cell.

  — Time to play, boys — Jester’s voice echoed through the internal intercom system, hacked via the tablet.

  Lil stepped out of his cell, his eyes bloodshot. He didn’t need firearms. He found an emergency axe in a fire cabinet and, with a single swing, shattered the lock on the door leading to the scientists' quarters. Behind him, young Andrew grinned, clutching a silver scalpel he’d hidden under his mattress for weeks.

  In the central corridor, the group converged. Elijah and Ian emerged from the shadows with the canvas bags. The group gathered in the blind spot of Sector 02. Silas was the first to suit up. The laboratory white was replaced by tactical black.

  — Zack, Diego, Aiden! — Silas commanded, handing out the rifles. — You three take the communications sector. No one sends a signal to the outside. If anyone tries to touch the radio, cut their hands off.

  Zack grabbed his rifle with a skillful spin, a look of pure euphoria on his face. Diego and Aiden simply nodded, moving with the agility their training had drilled into them.

  Fabrizio and Silvia were the last to receive their weapons. Fabrizio picked up an experimental Silver Ghost pistol and handed a rifle to his sister.

  — Don’t look at their faces, Silvia — Fabrizio warned, his voice hardening as he adjusted her vest. — Just shoot anything that moves.

  The plan was simple:

  Jester would lock down all electronic exits, turning the base into a tomb.

  Lil and Andrew would serve as the violent distraction on the lower levels, drawing the rapid response force into a meat grinder.

  Silas, Elijah, and Ian would head to the command level to ensure that no scientist or guard remained standing.

  The twins would go straight to the Colonel’s private quarters.

  The massacre wasn’t loud at first. It was a sequence of shots muffled by suppressors and the sound of bodies thudding against the tiled floors. The scientists, who hours earlier were injecting poisons into those children, now begged for mercy from "assets" who no longer knew what that word meant.

  The Headquarters of Death

  The night of the massacre was a ballet of technical vengeance. Silas, Elijah, and Ian moved through the administrative level like reapers in a wheat field. They weren't just killing; they were executing the elimination protocol with a perfection that would have made the Colonel proud, had he not been the target. Every shot from Ian meant a pierced skull; every move from Elijah, a broken neck.

  On the command room monitors, the image was surreal. Jester watched everything through his tablet, his distorted laughter echoing through the empty hallways via the loudspeakers. — Now... — Jester murmured, his fingers dancing over the security code. — It’s time for the clown to laugh.

  He sealed the exits with military-grade magnetic locks. No one in. No one out.

  Through the corridors, the Turner twins advanced in a flawless "cover and move" formation, taking out guards before they could even draw their weapons. Diego, Zack, and Aiden cleared the communication and power sectors, ensuring the complex remained isolated from the world.

  Meanwhile, in the scientists' quarters, the horror was visceral. Andrew slid on top of a sleeping man, covering his mouth with a small, firm hand. When the man’s eyes widened in terror, Andrew gave a sweet, ear-to-ear grin. — Shhh... go to sleep — he whispered, before driving the blade into the man’s throat. Beside him, Lil preferred the awakening of suffering. He drove his fingers into the eyes of those who woke up, feeling their panic before delivering the final blow with his fire axe, decapitating them with inhuman brute force.

  By the end of that night, the complex was in absolute silence. But upon reaching the Colonel’s quarters, they found only emptiness. Turner had escaped.

  Silvia fell to her knees, chest heaving, hands stained with gunpowder. — He’s... he’s gone, Fabrizio!? — her voice trembled. Fabrizio pulled her into a tight embrace, his eyes fixed on his father’s empty armchair. — We’ve already done the hard part, sister. One day he’ll show up. And he will pay.

  In the following days, the world outside began to crumble. "The Fall" reached its peak. Governments collapsed, armies fragmented, and cities burned. The government tried to retake the base a few times, but Jester had already assumed total control. He activated the high-voltage electric fences and released the cloud of millions of support drones that monitored every inch of the Cascade forest. No one could break the siege.

  In the morning, the eleven survivors dragged the hundreds of bodies of scientists and soldiers to the central courtyard. Under the gray Oregon sky, they set them ablaze. A giant bonfire—the Bonfire of Liberation.

  They all held hands around the flames. Silas, File No. 1, looked at each of his brothers in trauma. — This is our home now — Silas declared, his voice as firm as steel. — We will be together forever. They all nodded in silence. — They wanted to create Death? — Silas looked into the fire. — Well, they succeeded.

  The final scene of the memory showed the eleven already geared up. Jester had used the complex’s workshops to create the first metal masks and black tactical suits. Ten of them walked through the base gates for the first time in ten years, plunging into the chaos of the Fall for their first official mission. Jester stayed behind, eyes fixed on the monitors, leading the drone swarm.

  There, the legends were born. The Original Assassins. Broken children who became the world's greatest predators: the Immortal Assassins.

  Present Day: CIA Base – The White Cafeteria

  Silas finished his account, his eyes turning back to Henry. The white environment seemed colder than ever.

  — Turner is still out there, somewhere — Silas said, sliding his metal mask back over his face. — He created us to be the end of the world, Henry. And we intend to finish the job.

  Silvia and Fabrizio remained motionless, like statues of a past that never died. Henry realized he wasn’t just dealing with a faction of assassins, but with a cult of survivors who had transformed their own trauma into a global weapon.

  The silence in the cafeteria became unbearable. Silas looked at Henry, who now seemed to be processing the level of inhumanity of those surrounding him.

  — Do you understand now, Henry? — Silas murmured, his voice returning to the present. — Turner didn’t give us life. He stole it from us, piece by piece, organ by organ.

  Silvia kept her hand over Fabrizio’s—a gesture of comfort that seemed to be the only organic thing in that sea of technology and trauma.

  — I... I’m sorry for all of you — Henry said, his voice heavy with a sincerity rarely heard within those walls. — I can’t imagine what it’s like to spend ten years being tortured... I’ve been through hard times; I lost my parents. At the beginning of the Fall, they took me from Brazil to the U.S. on a cargo ship, thinking it would be safe here. They couldn't have been more wrong. They died, probably... As sad as that is, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been through. I’m sorry for the childhood that was taken from you and for the loss of everyone’s parents here.

  Silvia looked away, a shadow of sadness crossing her pale face. Silas remained still, absorbing Henry’s words with the dignity of someone who had accepted their fate long ago.

  It was then that Jester’s high-pitched voice, charged with that defining chaotic energy, sliced through the air. He tilted his head to the side, the bells on his garment emitting a sharp, metallic jingle.

  — Oh, at least everyone here is an orphan! — Jester exclaimed in a bizarrely playful tone, almost as if he were telling a joke at a funeral. — Look at what a perfect family we are!

  He let out a short, dry chuckle, clapping his hands lightly.

  Elijah exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth as he looked at Henry.

  — He’s right, in his own twisted way — Elijah murmured. — The difference, Henry, is that we didn’t just lose our parents. We were forced to become the nightmare they taught us to fear.

  Silas rose slowly, signaling the end of dinner.

  — Empathy is a luxury that few still possess, Henry. Guard yours. You’ll need it if you want to survive what Turner has planned for this world.

  End of Chapter

  Psychological Immortality/Pseudo-Immortality of the Reapers:

  The immortality of the Reapers is classified as pseudo-immortality because, while they are seen as invincible legends, their condition is the result of extreme conditioning rather than actual eternal life. The central pillar of this state is psychological immortality: a total absence of fear and hesitation born from ten years of systemic torture in the hell of Experiment 777. They live within the chronology of an ordinary human and under the same biological life expectancy, but they operate with an absolute coldness that detaches them from any trauma or instinct for emotional self-preservation.

  Biologically, these eleven survivors possess superhuman durability and a pain tolerance that no normal human could endure, allowing them to ignore devastating injuries in combat. The CIA optimized their bodies by removing infection-prone organs—such as the tonsils, spleen, gallbladder, and appendix—and rendered them immune to poisons through a rigorous process of Mithridatism. In the world of 2040, this apparent invulnerability is reinforced by the use of skeleton metal masks and rare military-grade ballistic vests—relics from before the Fall that leave them armored against nearly all common threats.

  Despite being treated as indestructible myths, the nature of this immortality is finite and purely physical. They are still flesh-and-blood human beings and, although extremely difficult, they can be killed. Death for a Reaper comes through definitive methods, such as headshots, carbonization, direct piercing of the heart, or fatal neck wounds.

  They also remain vulnerable to massive cranial trauma and, if not struck down in combat, will eventually succumb to the natural causes of aging—proving they are elite biological machines, yet still mortal.