Agent Debra Garvin had anticipated casualties since day one. The Enhanced Development Program had begun with a 12% projected mortality rate—a number the brass considered "acceptable losses" given the stakes. But Garvin knew better. When you put nearly three hundred enhanced individuals with unstable powers into a high-stress environment, death wasn't just probable—it was inevitable. She'd done what she could: implemented safeguards, created contingency plans, established protocols for every conceivable scenario. But she'd been hoping, maybe foolishly, that they wouldn't lose anyone this fucking soon. Three days. Not even a week into training and already one corpse, one critical injury, and god knows how many traumatized witnesses. And of course, it had to be Holland. Their most valuable Second Evolution asset and simultaneously their biggest liability.

  The training pavilion's entrance grew larger as Garvin sprinted the last few yards, her comm unit already buzzing with incoming situation reports. Time: 1342 hours. Two minutes since the initial alert.

  "—needs immediate medical—"

  "—witnesses secured but volatile—"

  "—Second Evolution user combat incident—"

  Garvin silenced the chatter with a swipe and stepped into chaos. Her eyes locked first on the body—female recruit, neck at an impossible angle, still wearing standard-issue PT gear. Then the second casualty—male, severe head trauma, unresponsive but breathing. A thin layer of glossy black substance was receding from around his head. Medical personnel swarmed around him, applying pressure bandages to what appeared to be a skull fracture. Blood soaked through the pristine white gauze at an alarming rate.

  Holland stood six yards away, unnervingly still while two MPs flanked her without making physical contact. Smart. Nobody should touch a Second Evolution user during an adrenaline spike.

  The other recruits huddled against the wall—shocked faces, hushed voices, some still in combat stances. Sergeant Otsuka was addressing them in clipped tones, maintaining order through sheer force of will.

  Like she'd done it a thousand times before, Garvin grabbed her comms unit and dialed the secure channel.

  "This is Garvin. Training facility secure perimeter, Protocol Echo-7. Full lockdown, no exceptions."

  A crackle, then: "Copy, initiating Echo-7."

  The facility's alarm system activated—not the blaring evacuation warning, but the low, pulsing tone signaling controlled containment. Teams of MPs fanned out to secure the pavilion's perimeter, establishing checkpoints at each open side. No one in, no one out without explicit authorization.

  She spotted Sergeant Remington organizing a group of recruits into witness lines, already separating them by position relative to the incident. The woman's military efficiency was almost comforting amid the bedlam.

  "Witness isolation teams to sectors 3 through 8," Garvin ordered into her comm. "Individual debriefs, full documentation, priority on Cell Papa and Romeo members."

  Medical Director Alvarez was photographing the deceased recruit from multiple angles, his emotions set aside as he documented the scene while his team battled to save Lawthorn.

  "Time of death approximately 1338 hours," he dictated into a recorder. "Cause appears to be traumatic cervical fracture with complete spinal separation at C2-C3 vertebrae. Instant fatality."

  Garvin approached, keeping her voice low. "Assessment on Lawthorn?"

  "Comminuted skull fracture with probable intracranial hemorrhage. Enhanced healing already activating but overwhelming the system. We need to get him to Trauma Bay 1 immediately."

  "Transport clearance granted. Full biometric monitoring, arma suppression protocols active."

  Alvarez nodded and signaled his team. They stabilized Lawthorn's neck, transferred him to a specialized gurney with restraints designed for enhanced individuals, and moved out with expert urgency.

  "Agent Garvin." Captain Bergeron, head of military police, approached with tablet in hand. "Witnesses report Major Holland broke Recruit Cimarron's neck during hand-to-hand training, then critically injured Recruit Lawthorn when he intervened."

  "Evidence collection status?"

  "Team's documenting the scene now. We've got body positioning, blood spatter analysis, and preliminary arma discharge readings. Full report within two hours."

  "Expedite that to one hour. I need preliminary findings before the command briefing."

  Sullivan frowned. "That's pushing it—"

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  "Do it anyway."

  She swept past him toward Holland, who remained standing exactly where she'd been, expression betraying nothing. Two yards away, Garvin stopped and met those cold eyes.

  "Don't fucking move, Major. Not one inch."

  "I was conducting authorized assessment protocols." Holland's voice carried no remorse, no concern—just a falt statement of fact. "Subject Cimarron demonstrated insufficient control during standard joint manipulation. Subject Lawthorn exhibited emotional instability and aggressive response to authorized training methods."

  "Save it for your formal statement." Garvin's gaze tracked to the faint scarring along Holland's neck—evidence of her own brush with death during Second Evolution. A reminder of why the woman was both invaluable and dangerous. "Security will escort you to Containment Room A. No physical contact with other personnel until cleared."

  Holland's mouth curled at one corner. "Am I under arrest, Agent Garvin?"

  "You're under assessment, Major. Something you should understand perfectly."

  The Second Evolution user's eyes flickered briefly to the dead recruit, then back to Garvin—not a single twitch, breathing steady, calmly buttoning her blouse as if nothing had happened. “Following protocol shouldn't result in disciplinary action.”

  "Tell that to the paperwork," Garvin said, then turned away. She'd get nothing useful from Holland right now, and engaging further risked escalation.

  A commotion drew her attention to the far side of the pavilion. A dark-haired recruit—Ramírez, according to his file—struggled against four MPs restraining him. His legs were beginning to change shape, arma visibly manifesting as his control slipped.

  "LET ME GO! SHE KILLED HER! SHE FUCKING KILLED HER!"

  Garvin reached for her sidearm, stopped herself, then sighed.

  The room already had one dead body—adding another wouldn't solve anything.

  "Sergeant Steele," she called, spotting the man approaching. "Handle your recruit."

  Steele moved with surprising speed for his size, placing himself directly in Ramírez's line of sight.

  "FOCUS, RECRUIT!" His voice was the kind that made people listen right away, even in all the noise. "Eyes on me. Right now."

  The struggling recruit's gaze snapped to Steele's face, his breathing ragged.

  "She killed Briella," he said, voice breaking. "Just snapped her neck like it was nothing."

  "I know, son." Steele's tone remained firm but carried an unfamiliar gentleness. "But losing control now won't bring her back. It'll just get you contained or worse. That what you want?"

  The visible arma manifestation around Ramírez's legs began to recede.

  "Good. Now breathe. Count it out like training."

  Garvin left Steele to manage the situation, moving toward where crime scene technicians were documenting the area with holographic mapping equipment. The standard red tape marking a body outline seemed almost quaint compared to the advanced technology surrounding it.

  Her comm buzzed again. "Ma'am, General Washington is demanding updates. Command staff assembling in five minutes."

  "Send preliminary reports to my tablet. I'll brief them myself." She paused, surveying the still-chaotic scene. "And activate Protocol Nightshade for all Section B personnel."

  "Nightshade, ma'am? That's full psychological containment—"

  "I'm aware of what it is, Specialist. Execute the order."

  At the edge of the training area, Dr. Prakash was already organizing a crisis intervention team. The psychologist moved in an orderly way between groups of witnesses, assessing immediate psychological trauma while marking priority cases on her tablet.

  A thin man in a perfectly pressed suit materialized at Garvin's elbow—Zimmerman, her assistant. He'd somehow navigated the lockdown protocols, as he always did. His tablet displayed twelve open action items, each categorized by urgency and security clearance.

  "The command briefing's been moved up," he said without preamble. "General Washington is requesting immediate clarification on Holland's status."

  "Tell them she's secured and under evaluation."

  "And Lawthorn?"

  "Critical but stable, en route to medical. Enhanced healing activated." She scanned the growing incident report on her device. "What's our media exposure?"

  "Minimal for now. The base remains under information blackout, and Cimarron's personnel file hasn't been released to any public database."

  Garvin nodded, moving toward the exit where a security team waited to escort her to command. The controlled chaos behind her was already shifting into procedural order as training kicked in across multiple teams.

  At least something’s working as designed, she thought.

  "Ma'am," Zimmerman asked quietly, "how would you like me to categorize this incident in the official report? The classification will determine notification protocols for next of kin."

  Garvin paused at the perimeter, looking back at the body being photographed, measured, and documented. At the blood drying on the synthetic turf. At Holland being escorted out under guard, her face still devoid of any human reaction.

  "Training fatality," she said finally. "Accidental death during authorized physical assessment."

  Zimmerman's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Ma'am, the witness statements clearly indicate—"

  "I know what they indicate. Write it up as a fucking training mishap."

  "That contradicts witness testimony and physical evidence."

  "We can't afford a murder investigation three days into the program, Zimmerman. Not with what's coming." She lowered her voice. "Holland is the only combat-ready Enhanced with second-tier abilities we have. Until the rest catch up, we need her operational."

  Zimmerman's face remained professional, but disapproval radiated from his rigid posture.

  "I don't like it either," Garvin admitted. "But we're playing a longer game here. The stakes go beyond one recruit."

  "Yes, ma'am." He made the notation on his tablet, voice carefully neutral. "Training fatality it is."

  As Garvin moved past the security checkpoint, leaving the secured crime scene behind, her comm unit lit up with seventeen new urgent messages. The damage control was just beginning.