They called it "The Farm." A bland name for the horror it contained.
The facility sprawled across what had once been agricultural land in Sector Nine, its art deco façade now crumbling, metal gates twisted and enhancement-scarred from the fighting. Smoke still rose from the eastern wing where Torres had deployed precision charges to breach the defenses. The silver tracery beneath Kasper's skin pulsed with heightened awareness as they moved through the compound—the operation had begun less than an hour after Rivera approved the assault.
"Clear," Vega called from the interior courtyard, his massive frame silhouetted against the setting sun. His enhancement ports cycled combat readiness despite the eerie silence that had settled over the compound. "No hostiles detected. They evacuated in a hurry."
Kasper's silver tracery surged beneath his skin, reading electromagnetic signatures that told a different story. "Not evacuated," he corrected, the words colder than he intended. "They transferred their operation. Recently."
The intelligence Torres had gathered during their reconnaissance had been correct—The Farm was a processing facility, and the Director's presence had clearly triggered an accelerated timeline. The silver tracery flickered with restrained fury at the thought of how close they'd come to capturing him.
"Basement access ahead," Diaz reported, her fingers dancing across a portable terminal as she bypassed security protocols. "Heavy shielding. That's why our scans couldn't penetrate."
"How many?" Kasper asked, the silver patterns momentarily visible at his throat as he struggled to maintain composure. Three days ago, Marisol had disappeared from Los Sueños. Her enhancement ports had been newer models—precisely the type they'd seen being harvested in the security footage Elena had provided.
Diaz hesitated, enhancement ports cycling concern patterns. "Life signs... minimal. Maybe a dozen. Faint."
"Guards?"
"None detecting," Torres confirmed, neural targeting systems scanning for threats. "Either confidence or trap."
"Or they left in a hurry and abandoned what they couldn't take," Moreno suggested, checking the specialized disruption rounds. "They knew we were coming."
The basement door yielded to Diaz's hacking with a hydraulic hiss, releasing the stench of antiseptic mingled with something worse—the unmistakable smell of death, partially masked by industrial-grade chemicals.
Kasper moved first, silver tracery accelerating as his adaptations prepared for combat. The others followed, their enhancement ports cycling from tactical assessment to horror as the space revealed itself.
Row upon row of medical gurneys filled the cavernous room, each bearing what had once been a person. Bodies stripped of enhancement ports, flesh crudely sutured where technology had been excised. Some still breathed—barely—their vital signs flickering as autonomic systems struggled to function without the enhancements that had become integral to their physiology.
"Jesus Christ," Torres whispered, neural targeting systems flickering as he processed the scene. The reconnaissance hadn't prepared him for the reality.
"Not soldiers," Vega observed grimly, checking the nearest gurney. "Civilians. Association support staff. Medical personnel."
"They're harvesting them," Diaz realized, her hands trembling slightly as she accessed a nearby terminal. "Taking the enhancement components, the neural interfaces. Like... like parts."
Kasper moved methodically through the rows, silver tracery pulsing with cold fury as he registered each face. A technician from Association headquarters. A junior hunter who had just received his first ports. A medical researcher who had helped stabilize his adaptations after the Exhibition.
Then he saw her.
Marisol lay on a gurney near the far wall, her once-vibrant features now ashen. The precision ports that had enhanced her sensory perception were gone, leaving raw wounds where they'd been ripped out rather than surgically removed. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular breaths, her enhancement-linked autonomic systems failing without their neural interfaces.
"Kasper," Vega said quietly, recognizing her as well. "We need to—"
The silver tracery flared violently across Kasper's skin, no longer contained beneath tactical clothing. In the weeks since they'd discovered Operation Crucible, since Rivera had shown him the first intelligence about The Farm, his adaptations had accelerated—evolving beyond the medical team's understanding, beyond his own control in moments of extreme stress.
"Find who did this," he said, voice barely recognizable as human. The silver patterns beneath his skin pulsed with something darker than fury—something cold and implacable. "Now."
Movement caught his enhanced vision—a side door opening as someone attempted to flee. Kasper moved with impossible speed, silver tracery propelling him across the room before the others could react. He caught the figure at the threshold, slamming him against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
The man wore a lab coat stained with blood and other fluids, enhancement ports at his temples cycling fear patterns. Not ATA, not military—a civilian technician, eyes wide with terror as Kasper's silver-traced hand closed around his throat.
"Please," the man gasped, enhancement ports flickering as pressure cut off their blood supply. "We didn't... they made us... we just processed the bodies..."
"Bodies," Kasper repeated, the word cutting through the roaring in his ears. His gaze flicked to the man's identification badge—Dr. Emanuel Restrepo, Civilian Medical Corps. "You processed the bodies."
"The ones who were already g-gone," Restrepo choked out, face purpling under Kasper's grip. His words came in desperate fragments. "Dead ones... harvest... ports for reuse. Living ones... k-keep stable until... transfer... primary facility."
Kasper's grip tightened, silver tracery flowing down his arm like quicksilver lightning. "You cut out their ports while they were still alive."
"Not me," Restrepo pleaded, eyes bulging. "Copper-traced... did extractions. Watched us... all the time. My daughter... they took my daughter first..."
Kasper dropped him, the man collapsing in a gasping heap. The silver tracery continued to pulse violently beneath Kasper's skin as he surveyed the room beyond the doorway—a staff area where frightened faces peered back at him. Medical personnel, technicians, even what appeared to be kitchen staff—all wearing the same blood-stained uniforms, all bearing the haunted expressions of those caught between complicity and victimhood.
"How many?" Kasper demanded, silver-traced hand moving to his sidearm. "How many did you 'process'?"
"Hundreds," Restrepo admitted, not rising from his knees. "They brought them in batches. Association personnel first, then military, then civilian enhancement recipients with newer models..." His enhancement ports cycled shame patterns. "We didn't have a choice. They threatened our families... our children..."
At the mention of children, Kasper's enhanced vision caught movement in the corner—small figures huddled together, enhancement ports still pink with recent installation. Children, maybe a dozen, none older than ten.
"Our children," Restrepo explained, seeing the direction of Kasper's gaze. "They enhanced them all... said it was insurance to ensure our cooperation. If we resisted, they'd... they'd be the next ones processed."
Something broke inside Kasper. The silver tracery surged across his skin like a living thing, no longer contained, no longer controlled. He drew his weapon, aiming it at Restrepo's head.
"Get up," he ordered, voice cold and mechanical. "All of you. Line up against that wall."
The medical personnel exchanged terrified glances but complied, moving with the shuffling resignation of those who had expected this moment to come eventually. The children whimpered, enhancement ports cycling fear patterns they were too young to understand or control.
"Kasper," Vega said from the doorway, his massive frame tense with concern. "What are you doing?"
"What's necessary," Kasper replied without looking away from the line of trembling staff. "What they deserve."
Torres and Moreno entered behind Vega, weapons drawn but expressions uncertain as they assessed the situation.
"These people," Kasper said, addressing his team while keeping his weapon trained on Restrepo, "processed hundreds of enhancement recipients. Cut out their ports. Left them to die." The silver tracery pulsed with each word, spreading further across his exposed skin. "They're going to tell us where the primary facility is. Then they're going to face justice."
"Please," a woman spoke up, standing protectively in front of two young boys with newly installed enhancement ports. "We were prisoners here too. They took our children first, enhanced them without consent, then forced us to work. We never killed anyone... we tried to keep them alive as long as possible..."
"Alive for what?" Kasper demanded, silver tracery flaring with his rage. "So they could suffer longer? So more could be harvested from them?"
"We had no choice," Restrepo repeated, enhancement ports cycling between fear and desperation. "If we resisted, they'd process our children next. They made us watch the first time someone refused..."
"Everyone has a choice," Kasper said, raising his weapon to firing position. The silver tracery had spread to cover his face now, transforming his features into something inhuman—something that embodied the burden he had insisted on carrying. The weight of making impossible decisions. The weight of blood.
"Line them up," he ordered his team, gesturing with his free hand. "All of them."
Torres and Moreno hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.
"Kasper," Vega said quietly, not moving to comply. "These are civilians. There are children here."
"They're collaborators," Kasper replied, the silver tracery pulsing with cold purpose. "They enabled this. They're part of it."
"Under duress," Vega countered, his enhancement ports cycling concern patterns. "With their children as hostages."
For a moment, no one moved. The silver tracery continued to flow across Kasper's skin, his finger tightening on the trigger as he stared at the line of terrified medical personnel.
Rivera's words echoed in his mind. "It doesn't always have to be you, Kasper." The burden of making these calls, of living with the consequences. Of bearing the weight.
The silver tracery faltered slightly, its patterns becoming erratic.
He saw Elena's expression when she had asked him why it always had to be him. He remembered Torres watching the processing center during reconnaissance, his horror at what he witnessed. He thought of the people being harvested while still alive—and the frightened medical staff who claimed they'd tried to keep them alive longer.
Who bore the burden here? Who carried the weight of this horror?
The silver tracery pulsed chaotically as these thoughts warred against the rage consuming him. His hand trembled visibly, sweat beading on his brow as he fought the battle within himself. The weapon's sights drifted between Restrepo and the wall, then back again.
What was he becoming? What line was he about to cross?
With a sound that was half roar, half sob, Kasper hurled his weapon across the room. It clattered against the far wall as he staggered backward, silver tracery retreating beneath his skin like a tide pulling back from shore.
"Get them out of here," he ordered, voice raw. "All of them. Find somewhere safe. The children too."
Relief flooded the room, though the medical staff remained frozen, as if afraid to believe the reprieve was real.
"You heard him," Vega said, holstering his own weapon. "We're evacuating this facility. Torres, coordinate transport. Moreno, medical supplies for the survivors. Diaz, download whatever data you can from their systems."
As his team moved to comply, Kasper turned away, unable to face the mixture of terror and gratitude in the civilians' eyes. He walked back into the main chamber, past the rows of victims, past Marisol's still form, until he reached a small storage room off the main floor. There, finally alone, he allowed the silver tracery to recede completely.
Then he broke.
The sob tore from his throat without warning, followed by another, and another, until he was on his knees, shoulders heaving with the force of his grief and rage and shame. His hands shook uncontrollably, fingernails digging into his palms until they drew blood. For Marisol. For the harvested victims. For himself, and how close he had come to becoming exactly what they were fighting against.
He didn't hear the door open, didn't register Vega's presence until the big man's hand came to rest on his shoulder.
"It's okay," Vega said quietly, the simple words carrying more understanding than elaborate consolation could have.
"I almost..." Kasper couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't articulate the line he had nearly crossed.
"But you didn't," Vega replied firmly. "That's what matters."
The others joined them—Torres, Moreno, Diaz—forming a circle around their leader, offering silent support. They had seen him at his worst and remained, not out of fear but out of loyalty to the man they believed he still was, beneath the silver tracery and the rage.
"If I ever," Kasper began, then had to start again, his voice steadier this time. "If I ever order you to harm innocent people—to cross that line—I want you to stop me. By any means necessary. That's an order."
The four exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.
"Won't come to that," Torres said finally, neural targeting systems cycling certainty patterns. "You're not built that way."
"How do you know?" Kasper challenged, the question raw with genuine fear. "Look at what I almost did out there."
"Because we know you," Diaz replied simply. "The real you, under all..." she gestured vaguely at the silver tracery now barely visible at his wrist, "that."
"Rivera knew it too," Vega added. "Why he trusted you with the operation despite your injuries. Not because you're ruthless, but because you know where the line is."
Kasper wasn't convinced, but he rose to his feet, accepting the support of his team—his family now, in all the ways that mattered.
"We need to get these people to safety," he said, tactical focus providing structure when emotions threatened to overwhelm. "And we need to find this primary facility. The ATA is creating more copper-traced operatives. They need enhancement components to do it."
"We'll find them," Moreno promised, his usual irreverent humor replaced by quiet determination. "And we'll take them down. The right way."
Kasper nodded, the silver tracery pulsing once beneath his skin—not with rage or vengeance now, but with resolve. He walked back into the main chamber, where his team had already begun preparing the surviving victims for transport. Marisol was among them, her condition critical but stable enough for movement.
The medical personnel watched him warily as he approached, still half-expecting retribution. Instead, he knelt beside Restrepo, who flinched but held his ground.
"The primary facility," Kasper said, voice controlled and human once more. "Where is it?"
"The old naval base at Punta Oscura," Restrepo answered immediately. "Underground levels. That's where they're developing the copper enhancement technology. Where they're creating more like the Director's elite operatives."
Kasper nodded, processing this information. "Anything else we should know?"
Restrepo hesitated, then reached into his pocket, producing a small data drive. "Security protocols. Access codes. Facility layouts. I've been collecting them... in case an opportunity came." His enhancement ports cycled complex patterns of fear, shame, and tentative hope. "I never wanted any part of this. None of us did."
Kasper accepted the drive, studying the man's face. Not a monster. Not a hero. Just a person who had made terrible compromises under impossible circumstances—and who was now trying to find redemption.
"Get your people ready to move," Kasper said finally. "We'll take you somewhere safe."
As the evacuation proceeded, Kasper found himself beside Marisol's gurney. Her breathing had stabilized slightly, though her prognosis remained uncertain without her enhancement ports. He took her hand, silver tracery momentarily visible where their skin touched.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him. "For what they did to you. For what I almost became because of it."
Outside, the sun had set completely, darkness settling over Costa del Sol like a shroud. But as Kasper helped load the survivors into transport vehicles, as he watched his team work with quiet efficiency, he felt something he hadn't experienced since discovering the truth about Operation Crucible.
Not hope—he wasn't ready for that yet. But purpose. A clear line between justice and vengeance, between necessary violence and cruelty, between bearing the burden and breaking under its weight.
The Farm burned behind them as they drove away, flames consuming evidence of atrocities no one should ever have to witness. Tomorrow they would plan their assault on Punta Oscura. Tomorrow they would continue the fight against the ATA, against the Director, against the copper-traced abominations being created.
But tonight, they had saved lives instead of taking them. It wasn't a victory—not with Marisol's life hanging by a thread, not with hundreds already processed through this facility—but it was a reminder of what they were fighting for.
Not just to defeat an enemy, but to preserve what made them human. To know where the line was—and to have the strength not to cross it, even when bearing the weight of blood.