Spawn of Nothingness

Lance stood at the airstrip, his duffel slung over his shoulder. The roar of the departing Osprey faded into the distance, a reminder of the life he was leaving behind.

The badge pinned to his chest still bore the emblem of DEVGRU, but this was the end of that chapter. His next destination: Washington, D.C.

The sleek, black SUV waiting for him seemed fitting—low-profile but unmistakably official.

A stone-faced driver greeted him with a nod before silently opening the door. Lance slid into the backseat, his mind racing as the city's skyline emerged on the horizon.

He wasn't nervous, but this transition wasn't just another mission. It was the beginning of something far more clandestine, something that demanded more than his combat prowess—it required every ounce of his strategic thinking, adaptability, and discipline.

The CIA headquarters loomed ahead, an unassuming complex of glass and steel that belied the magnitude of operations within. Lance's escort led him through multiple security checkpoints, each more stringent than the last.

Retinal scans, fingerprint verifications, and coded keypads—the layers of secrecy felt as if they were pulling him deeper into another world.

The silence of the halls was oppressive, broken only by the occasional murmur of operatives and the soft hum of unseen machinery.

Finally, they arrived at a private wing tucked away from the main corridors.

A small plaque simply read: Special Operations Group.

The air seemed heavier here, charged with the weight of unspoken truths.

Lance paused for a moment, taking in the significance of the name, before stepping inside.

"Commander Cross," a woman in a crisp suit greeted him, extending a hand.

"I'm Director Harper. Welcome to SOG."

"Ma'am," Lance replied, shaking her hand firmly. She radiated authority, her piercing gaze scrutinizing him as though searching for cracks in his facade.

Harper was tall, with a no-nonsense demeanor and sharp features that hinted at years of experience in the field.

"Before we proceed, you'll need to undergo a series of tests and briefings," she said. "Standard procedure for all new recruits, even legends like yourself."

Lance smirked at the comment but said nothing. Legends or not, he was here to further his ambitions and pride all over again.

The polygraph room was sterile, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Lance sat in the lone chair, sensors strapped to his fingers and chest.

A technician monitored the readout as a man in a suit asked the questions.

"Have you ever disclosed classified information without authorization?"

"No," Lance replied evenly.

"Have you ever engaged in subversive activities against the United States?"

"No."

The questions continued, probing every corner of his loyalty and past actions.

Lance answered with the calm confidence of a man who had nothing to hide—at least nothing they could detect.

His enhanced physiology made controlling his responses effortless, a secret advantage he intended to keep. He could sense the skepticism in the technician's eyes as the readouts displayed nothing but flat, truthful lines.

After hours of tests—psych evaluations, physical fitness trials, and simulated scenarios—Lance was finally granted clearance. Director Harper handed him a sleek, black ID card marked with the highest level of clearance he'd ever seen.

It felt heavier than it should have, a tangible representation of the responsibility he now bore, the responsibility to achieve his understandings...

"You're officially one of us," Harper said. "Welcome to the Agency, Commander."

The apartment they provided him was nestled in a nondescript building in Washington, D.C.

It was modern but impersonal, with minimalist furniture and bare walls. Lance's few belongings barely filled the space.

He unpacked his duffel, setting his old SEALs coffee mug on the counter and hanging his skeleton frog tattoo's inspiration—a framed trident emblem—on the wall.

Each item felt like a piece of his identity, grounding him in this new, uncertain chapter.

He opened the fridge to find it empty, save for a single bottle of water and a note:

Stock up. Busy schedule.

Lance smirked, grabbing his keys and heading to the nearest grocery store. The mundane act of pushing a cart through the aisles felt almost surreal.

Here he was, a man who'd breached enemy compounds and neutralized high-value targets, debating between brands of coffee creamer.

He chuckled to himself, earning a curious glance from a nearby shopper. It was a strange juxtaposition of the ordinary and extraordinary.

The next morning, Lance arrived at the SOG wing, now officially his workplace.

The private section of the CIA building was a maze of secure rooms and high-tech equipment.

Every detail screamed secrecy, from the encrypted communications consoles to the soundproofed briefing rooms.

The faint smell of coffee mixed with the sterile scent of electronics.

Harper met him in the operations center, a sprawling space filled with analysts and operatives working in concert.

Large screens displayed live feeds from around the globe, each marked with cryptic codenames.

The hum of conversation and the occasional burst of static from radios created a rhythm of controlled chaos.

"This is where the magic happens," Harper said, gesturing to the controlled chaos.

"You'll be leading teams on some of the most sensitive missions in the agency's history. Operations that never make the news. Success means no one ever knows we were there."

"Sounds like my kind of work," Lance replied.

She gestured toward a tall man in his late forties, with close-cropped gray hair and an air of quiet authority. "This is Senior Officer Hander Evan. He'll be overseeing your integration into SOG and briefing you on your upcoming assignment."

Evan stepped forward and extended a hand. "Commander Cross. Welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir," Lance said, shaking his hand firmly.

"Your briefing is scheduled for tomorrow morning," Evan said. "We'll go over everything you need to know about various organizations that are being watched and the current situation we're monitoring. For now, take the day to settle in and get familiar with the facilities."

"Understood," Lance replied.

Evan smiled faintly. "You'll find the pace here different from what you're used to, much more demanding though, you should be able to get used to it."

As the day wound down, Lance returned to his apartment.

He set his few belongings in order, pulling out The Art of War by Sun Tzu from his duffel.

The act of reading grounded him, sharpening his mind for the complexities of the missions ahead. After an hour, he set the book down and moved into a rigorous evening routine to unwind.

Dropping to the floor, he began a set of 300 push-ups, then transitioned to 300 sit-ups, and followed with several sets of 15 pull-ups on a bar he had installed by the window.

By the time he was done, his muscles burned, but it was a satisfying ache—one he relished.

The sharp, throbbing reminder of his effort made him feel alive, feeding a part of him that thrived on pushing limits and embracing the discomfort.

Next, he turned his attention to his modded HK rifle. Sitting at his desk, he disassembled and meticulously cleaned the weapon, ensuring every part was in pristine condition.

The routine was second nature by now, a meditative act that connected him to his past and prepared him for the unknown. With the rifle cleaned and reassembled, he checked the time. Midnight.

Lance logged onto his computer, browsing the internet for a while to unwind further.

News articles, mission reports, and an occasional forum post filled the screen, a blend of work and curiosity.

Finally, he powered down, the glow of the monitor fading into the dimly lit room.

After a quick sweep of the apartment, Lance headed to bed.

The quiet hum of the city outside his window was a very stark contrast to the darkness that would ensue in the following years...