When peering into the dark, cylindrical barrel of a gun, how often would awe and fascination render me speechless?

My captivation was similar to what it had been when Dad first told me the Refuge Inc. legends. The same uncertainty and intrigue came over me now as the black tunnel swamped my vision. As I was about to lift my head and place the weapon back on the wall rack, the butt of the rifle was batted aside.

"You stupid or something, Connor?" When I looked up, my gaze met Vince's. His beautiful golden stare softened, revealing concern peeking through his disappointment. "Gun safety one-o-one, asshole."

"Yeah, I took the class, dick." I smirked when he did and placed the rifle back into its slot on the wall rack. "Sat right next to you, remember?"

"Well, act like you learned something." He flung his pack from his shoulder and into the empty locker beside the rifle rack without a huff.

"You gonna pout again?" My scoff was an attempt at a laugh. A chuckle and a smile was on the verge of revealing itself on my lips. I got my kicks out of teasing him. He got some kind of thrill out of it too. We'd bantered with each other for years. It kept our friendship fun and spontaneous. "The safety's on and it's not even loaded—"

"And you're supposed to be Mr. Fast Learner." He looked away. Is that a hint of real anger in his tone? "Shows how much my dad knows for advancing you."

No, not anger. Jealousy.

Curiosity hit me and I narrowed my eyes. "You're still mad about me advancing?" It wasn't as if I had predicted I would do better than a lot of the cadets after joining, but I needed to do my best regardless. Our gazes met for a few seconds before he lost the staring match. He bent to loosen his boots. "You may have a great mind, but we both know you suck at handling weapons. Because of that, your luck won't continue." He winked.

Being well aware of Vince's playfulness, and because of his wink, I knew he didn't really harbor any ill feelings toward me. However, teasing me was also his way of venting. For the past few years, it had been difficult for him to spit out exactly what he felt. He'd bury his true intentions somewhere among the jokes, sarcasm, and puns, and leave me to dig out the true meaning. But I didn't mind. I'd always enjoyed puzzles.

"You can teach me." I lifted a questioning eyebrow. Like a mathematician was trained to excel at arithmetic, Vince was trained to become a genius with weaponry and combat. The perfect tutor. However, by choosing my words carefully, I hoped he'd get the pun. Maybe our training would turn into something more intimate.

An awkward silence settled over the locker room again as Vince studied me with his striking eyes. So much of our communication was littered with hidden meaning, he was probably trying to determine what level of seriousness the conversation had transitioned to. "Whatever." He released the clasp on his weapons belt and it dropped from his hips.

"I'm serious about training." Seems like he deciphered the pun in my comment and didn't appreciate it. I had to stop the innuendos before our conversation became more awkward. The lockers supported my weight as I leaned against them. Only a few feet separated our bodies. "You can teach me what you know during our down time." I studied his expression. He pursed his lips and his nose twitched a little while he thought about my offer. "For a guy with a major physical advantage, you sure are using a lot of brainpower coming up with an answer." I smirked at my own joke. "Well?"

"Sure. Whatever." His nonchalant demeanor spoke volumes about his modesty, even more apparent by how he suddenly refused to make eye contact. Interesting how he remained humble about his strengths, but degraded himself for his weaknesses. He'd never advance because, according to him, he didn't have the brain for it and his dad only promoted "thinkers."

I had learned the way to show appreciation for another's skills was to ask them for a lesson or demonstration, and I had always appreciated Vince's combat skills.

His issues with managing his anger caused him to frequently experiment with different prescriptions to help him get a handle on it. And although he was good at combat, he could be even better if he could get a leash on his anger rather than allowing it to lead him.

"Cool." My boots flew halfway across the room and tumbled to an abrupt stop against the wall as I kicked them off, first one then the other. A cunning grin curled the corner of my lips. "Dick."

"Asshole." Although Vince refused to glance my way, I managed to catch a glimpse of his smile.

Now as we readied ourselves for a future shaped by Refuge Inc., a time dedicated to the ongoing survival of mankind on the surface, memories of when life wasn't so calculated swamped my thoughts.

As a kid, I had my own idea of what my future looked like. Dad used to recite incredible stories of superheroes adorned with capes and special abilities. Most of the heroes acquired mental and physical strengths, unlike us cadets whose skills focused on one or the other, not both. Even so, my favorite heroes were those whose stories weren't written in books or on paper, but were passed down through word-of-mouth and experienced by a friend of a friend or a great-great uncle.

In the darkness, the world had become a very different place. Not that I remembered much of what life had looked like before impact. Moods stayed with me more than images. Attitudes had been less serious and much livelier back then. Living in an underground bubble surrounded by a world of blackness—and toxic air—can do that to you.

Most people in the facility got through the day much like Vince and I did, performing their duties without disturbing the established flow with meaningless questions or concerns. It had been that way for years. I used to think the routine of the facility was the cause of Vince's occasional cold demeanor and random outbursts. A part of me still did.

There were many mind puzzles available for mental training. The exercises were probably the cause of my odd fascination with objects and their mechanisms. Sometimes I'd find myself studying the most mundane item for hours, wondering how many ways it helped to better people's lives or had yet to improve them.

Take a simple box, for instance. The ninety-degree angle of a box's sides help it fit inside most compartments or to stack. Lightweight but strong, the thickness of the sides made it sturdy enough to hold objects up to fifty percent—

A tap on my shoulder, knuckles gently grazing my skin, and I was back on Earth, staring into honey-colored eyes, and savoring the warm sensation that lingered from Vince's touch.

"Thinking about the old legend again?" Narrowed eyelids obscured most of the dark pupils in his bright eyes, but the striking, penetrating gaze made my breath catch in the back of my throat.

"Huh?" I forgot the question instantly, due to those piercing eyes. A split-second later it came back to me. "No. I was thinking about boxes actually." I punctuated the awkwardness with an equally uncomfortable chuckle.

"Right." His smirk crinkled the skin around the outside corner of his eyes. Tiny lines fanned out like a bird's claws. Dad used to call them crow's feet, and as a kid, the thought of a bird's talons on someone's face elicited a giggle from me every time. "Get dressed." He pivoted. "I'll meet you at training."

I nodded, thankful that he wouldn't see my face turn tomato red, even though he'd already left.    

I scanned the room for my thick-soled shoes while removing my combat gear, which consisted of a tough but flexible material, in order to put on a more casual outfit.

Going straight from combat training with weaponry and into tactical training with our bare hands and strategic skill was supposed to prepare the mind to better receive information. At least Dr. Randolph thought so. "Physical battle is a warm-up for the intellectual war," he had preached. The talk about battles and war seemed excessive within a community where most offenses were petty behavioral offenses, but training also kept us sharp and occupied, so no one complained.

The benefit of tactical training was not only for the mental exercise—but also for better memory, cognitive speed, and problem solving. For the first half of the lesson all cadets were required to do a series of puzzles and conceptual exercises. The second half required putting what was learned to the test.

I left the small room and hastily made my way down the hall. The sound of my shoes tapping against the stark white tiles bounced off the corridor walls as I passed a few residents and the mounted news monitors.

Chatter emitted from the training room as the door slid open. I stepped inside, glancing at the couple dozen men and women in their casual tactical gear. I focused on the familiar last names of my fellow cadets below the bright red Refuge Inc. emblem on their left breast. Names like Brown, Johnson, Ramirez, and Sanford, who came from respected families, which reminded me why I worked so hard—to eventually earn the same respect as the future leaders.

Dr. Randolph Moore—who insisted we addressed him by his first name or "Sir"—adjusted the thin-framed glasses on his nose and made his way down the aisle of erect bodies with his distinguished limp—a kind of waddle and sway only a person of his stature and experience could produce. No one knew for sure what caused his limp or the regular leg pain he endured, but most expected it was from injuries he acquired as a soldier in the U.S. military decades ago.

Each cadet stood at attention, motionless, shoulder-to-shoulder, staring ahead. Dr. Randolph's stringy legs supported his wiry frame as he hobbled from one side of the room to the other. "Betas, choose an alpha, and in pairs you'll take on the simulation. I want to see how well your physical and mental exercises have improved." He glanced to a few others and me. "For those betas who've advanced recently, I expect to see some serious shit."

I successfully snuffed the grin that threatened to expose my amusement.

Just like the word "bomb" should not have been said on airplanes back when airports were in operation, there were certain words never meant to be spoken in the facility. Dr. Randolph called them trigger words. Words that when heard caused action, prompted an emotion, or sparked a reaction. Fortunately, shit wasn't one of them. But coming from the petite balding genius, who'd often used big, eloquent words—which I tried to replicate—the small meaningless words like shit always elicited a chuckle from me. Thank God I'd learned to control it, barely.

"Pick a partner," Dr. Randolph went on, randomly stopping before the men and woman at attention. " I want to see you in action. Choose a name for your squad and take a numbered tile." He preferred to use items that were more popular in his youth than now, such as numbered tiles for a selection process or vintage printed books to read for entertainment, instead of utilizing digital or electronic methods. "Let's go, cadets."

Everyone immediately disbursed to gather in corners and at tables with their chosen partner.

Looking to my left, I caught Vince's eye. He jerked his head—an unspoken invitation.

He didn't have to tell me twice. I made my way over.

When it came to training, the rules for the cadet alphas were simple: fight. Alphas were encouraged and trained to use their brain for the primary purpose of controlling their bodies in combat, which made Vince hard and uncaring—numb—and a lot like an old, incredible comic book character known for turning green and instantly growing stronger with rage. Even though Vince's muscles bulked in the perfect areas and in the most flattering way, he remained thin, with a svelte body I frequently envied. And he stayed a nice, even, milky-bronze tone, never turning green.

While alphas were the fighters, their strength and power are their cherished assets, betas were required to learn both combat and cognitive training, but our quick thinking and problem-solving skills were more important. Fighting was secondary to strategy. Each cadet class focused mostly on their individual skill sets. Like computers, cadet alphas were the hardware and cadet betas were the software. Without the other, performing a task would be extra difficult.

"Ready for this?" Vince sat at the nearest vacant table, leaving room for me to plop down in an empty chair across from him. "A name for the ultimate two-man squad. I'll leave the thinking up to you." A hint of sarcasm mixed with his words. He was teasing again.

I'll let it slide ... this time.

"Titan." The first name that came to mind. In all honesty, I didn't even have to think about it. It had been perched on the tip of my tongue waiting to dive.

His brows dipped. "Titan? Like ... Greek mythology?"

"Close." Should I make him guess? Vince had never been fond of guessing games. Nevertheless, I enjoyed them and I enjoyed teasing him more. "Not Greek but an American legend."

"You must be talking about the old Refuge Inc. crap again?" The question came from behind me, and the voice was familiar, high-pitched and cynical.

When I pivoted in my seat, I looked directly at crossed, cocoa-pigmented arms on a tall and thin frame. "Yes, Tamara. I'm talking about Refuge Inc." I turned back to Vince, unwilling to allow her the satisfaction of riling my emotions—again. But before I could say anything else, she invited herself to sit.

At our table.

Right beside me.

I sighed, shooting Vince an unenthusiastic look that said, here we go again.

She pursed her lips. "You believe in fairytales, Connie-boy? I bet you still believe in—"

"—Santa Claus too, right?" I finished, now unwilling to hide the disdain in my tone. Her inappropriate name-calling made my eye twitch with the need to control my irritation. "You said that last week, remember? Looks like you need new material."

She brushed her shoulder as if removing a fleck of dust. "I was gonna say your future."

Vince leaned forward. "What's Titan?"

If only I had his strength to ignore all annoyances too.

"Who's Titan, you mean." She crossed her arms again. "It's some stupid fucking dog and a stupid fucking myth."

"According to you." I scoffed so loud it cleared my throat. "Titan was Elliot and Adam's beloved companion."

Her chuckle was more annoying than salt in a wound. Her hand hovered above the small mounds on her chest, where her heart should have been. "Beloved companion," she repeated in a droll voice. "Gay." She stood and left the table without so much as a glance back.

I shook my head. "As I was saying, Titan played a colossal part in Elliot and Adam's survival after the first impact."

"Is that why they called him Titan?" Vince's elbows rested on the table and he cocked his head.

Ah, got his full attention.

"No." I shrugged. "Well, I don't think so."

From halfway across the room, Tamara added, "The story ends with them eating the dog. You know ... survival."

I huffed. My frustration apparent. "That's not true. They loved the dog."

"As much as they loved each other, I bet," Tamara went on. "I know somebody got eaten in that story. And it wasn't in a cannibalistic kind of way, either."

"So? What's your point?" I stood, allowing my emotions to completely take over. "Who asked you anyway?"

"That's enough, cadet." Dr. Randolph emerged from the small cluster of men and women in the center of the room, his sights on ... me? "I expect more from you, Cadet Nichols." A swift understanding surged between us, reminding me of my recent promotion. Embarrassment suddenly made my face grow warm.

It took a lot to tear my angry gaze from Tamara, but I did and stared ahead obediently. Instantly disappointed with myself for acting out, I stood erect, left arm stiff at my side. "Yes, sir." My right hand splayed millimeters above my left breast, I gave the proper salute.

"At ease." Dr. Randolph waved a dismissive hand as he turned away, leaving me to resume my seat.

Vince reached over the table and nudged my arm with a knuckle. "Don't let her get to you." He glanced over his shoulder at Tamara who held a look of hatred on her twisted face.

What a shame. I would have considered her attractive if her expression didn't contort with disgust every time she looked my way.

"You know she's just mad you advanced and she didn't," Vince went on.

I figured as much. Most of them, especially the other betas, were upset. They all worked so hard for months to advance, so when I was selected after a few weeks of training, I anticipated a few angry jabs here and there. I also expected them to get over it sooner than later. Our training as cadets was to prepare us to protect citizens and eventually—as we continually advanced over the years—become leaders. Doing well in training was my only goal. Our future depended on it.

"So?" Vince pulled his chair forward. "You were saying?"

"Right." I exhaled deeply, letting go of any anger left inside. "There was no eating of dogs or any sort of cannibalism going on." As much as I tried, I couldn't help but flick my sights to Tamara. "Titan was a symbol of the strength they had acquired to make it through the darkness. And not only figuratively but literally."

"Squad Titan?" Vince lifted an eyebrow.

I mirrored him and added a grin. "My kind of thinking."

"Then Squad Titan it is." Vince stood from his chair, and chose a numbered tile from what was left in the stack at the end of a nearby table. "Four. We're gonna kick some ass." He grinned.

"That's what we're training for, isn't it?" An uneasy feeling twisted my gut. Something, maybe instinct, told me there was more to that question than I was prepared for.

~~~

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