The Search for Artemis - By P. D. Griffith Page 0,103

cement walls. The sun was just peeking over one of six lookout towers that were built into the hexagonal barrier walls. The air smelled salty.

Just as we expected, Dr. Wells’ son had his apocratusis just before his thirteenth birthday and was then brought to a secret facility to train and develop his abilities. It was an exciting time for us. We used the new data to improve on the gene, and the government required the subjects to participate in extensive combat and espionage training programs to prepare them for the field. Within the year, seven more candidates joined the training program, each one proving to be more exemplary than the next. What these kids could do far exceeded any of our wildest expectations.

Standing in front of Landon, who was joined by a large group of scientists and military personnel, were eight teenagers—three women and five men. They all were wearing identical training clothes: military green utility pants and white t-shirts. They all stood in a single file line before Landon and the others, like a police line-up. Each had a large training ball sitting on the floor in front of their feet.

The unruly, red hair of the girl on the end blew in the wind, tousling her curls around her petite, freckled face. She was small and delicate-looking, yet she seemed fiery and tough. Beside her, a chestnut-haired beauty stared at the ground, apathetic. She slowly twirled a lock of hair from her tight ponytail around her right index finger. She was striking—Landon’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her—but there was also something diabolical about the way she cast furtive glances to her male teammates to see if any of them were watching her. Her eyes shot quickly to her left when the African-American boy next to her began cracking his knuckles one by one.

He was built like a brick wall, and the sun glistened off his oiled, buzzed hair. He peered back at the brunette out of the corners of his eyes and smirked arrogantly, one corner of his mouth stretching up to reveal the slightest bit of pearly white teeth. A moment later, he turned to his right, and upon noticing the hostile look he was getting from his neighbor, who looked rather domineering, he dropped his smug expression along with his shoulders.

This domineering guy faced the crowd Landon was standing in; he looked determined and serious. His brown hair was short, and he was the most average-looking of the bunch—medium height, moderate build, fair-skinned—but he had such an authoritative air. He commanded such respect that Landon thought he would do whatever he asked with-out question.

Nearby were a Mediterranean-looking boy with olive skin and black, curly hair and a tanned girl with long, raven hair and piercing hazel eyes. They were stark contrasts to the pale guy between them, who was tall and lanky with skin so white it was almost translucent. Even from where Landon was standing, he could see the subtle bluish-green of the veins running up the teenager’s exposed arms.

Yet of this band of misfits, the last guy in the lineup looked the most out of place. He had tight, platinum blond curls on top of his cherubic face. He was short and a bit chubby as if he’d never lost his baby fat. His round cheeks were flushed, and Landon wasn’t sure if that color was from his nerves or whether he was already getting sunburned from their time outdoors. Either way, he looked more suited for a book club than military training.

“Attention!” The middle of the word was drawn out and built up in volume in typical drill sergeant fashion. A man in military fatigues walked out from the back of the awaiting crowd and stationed himself at the edge of the field. His chest was puffed out and his hands were clasped behind his back. In unison, the students tightened up their muscles, straightened their backs, pulled in their feet, pressed their arms and hands to their sides and lifted their heads.

Demonstrations became commonplace as the military was enamored by our creations. At this point, they hadn’t even completed one mission, but the Pantheon’s potential had the military foaming at the mouth.

“Apollo,” the drill sergeant shouted. “Attack Sequence Delta!”

Apollo? The serious-looking guy broke from his rigid stance and fell back into an attack position. He was probably the oldest of the eight. Landon tensed up in anticipation. There was something oddly familiar about the way Apollo held himself,