Centurion Darius Vaelor's Log, Supplemental
White Room recording
30 days after Rothgard's Fall
White walls close in.
A cheerful voice cuts deeper than steel.
The enemy smiles—until it doesn't.
Centurion Darius Vaelor woke to blinding white. The light pressed against his eyelids before he could open them, pure and unrelenting, as though the sun itself had been trapped inside the room. His head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that matched the ringing still echoing in his ears from the blast. He lay on his back on a low, firm surface that felt too smooth and too warm to be stone or wood. Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open.
The room was a seamless white box. A white composite table stood in the exact center with two matching white chairs pushed neatly beneath it. On the table sat a single clear container of water, the liquid perfectly still. Along the back wall was the low bed he now occupied, its surface the same unyielding material as everything else. Directly across from him was a reflective rectangle—too perfect and too smooth to be glass—and beside it a shut doorway that showed no handle, no seam, no visible way to open it. The air carried a faint, sterile scent he could not name.
He sat up too quickly. The world tilted. Bright orange overalls shifted against his skin—loose, coarse fabric that felt alien and humiliating. No armor. No sword. No rank insignia. Only the garish color marked him as something less than a man. *Where am I?* The thought came sharp and frantic. *The battle… the airships… Voren…*
Memory crashed over him in fragments: the siege engine exploding, Voren's scream cut short, the gray soldiers closing in like ghosts. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to steady the spinning room, but the disorientation only deepened. His pride—already cracked on the battlefield—felt like the last fraying thread holding him together.
A voice filled the space from everywhere at once—bright, cheerful, almost musical.
"Good morning, Centurion Vaelor! You're awake. That's wonderful news. How are you feeling this morning?" Darius jerked upright, eyes darting to every corner. The voice had no source. It simply existed, warm and friendly, as if the walls themselves were speaking to him with genuine delight. The doorway slid open without a sound. A single figure stepped through—a young woman with flawless skin, blue eyes that held a faint, shifting pattern of light, and a black uniform trimmed in gold. The door sealed shut behind her instantly, leaving no trace of an exit.
She smiled, the expression open and pleasant. "Hello! I'm Ali. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you're feeling up to it. Would you like some water first? You've been unconscious for several hours, and I want to make sure you're comfortable." Darius stared at her, pulse hammering. She carried no weapon he could see. She moved with calm confidence, as though walking into a cage with a wounded wolf was the most natural thing in the world. No fear. No caution. Only that bright, cheerful curiosity.
He had faced dragons, elven mages, and dwarven shield-walls without flinching. Yet this single unarmed woman, smiling at him in a featureless white room, disturbed him more than every horror he had witnessed on the battlefield. The cheerful voice still lingered in the air, the friendly offer of water hanging between them like a trap wrapped in silk.
Darius swallowed hard, the taste of bile still on his tongue. "Who… what are you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse. A.L.I. tilted her head slightly, patterns in her eyes shifting softly. "I'm Ali! I help the crew understand new arrivals. You're safe here. No one will hurt you. Would you like the water? It's clean and cool."She took one slow step closer, still smiling, and gestured toward the table as if inviting him to a simple meal. Darius's hands clenched into fists at his sides. *She speaks like a child offering sweets,* he thought, the unease twisting deeper. *No fear. No guards. Just… this.*
He forced himself to stand, legs unsteady, and took a defiant step forward, fists shaking at his sides. "I am Centurion Darius Vaelor of the Draco Imperia. You will release me at once." A.L.I.'s expression remained warm and cheerful. "I understand you're confused and angry. That's normal after what happened. But we're not here to fight, Centurion. We only want to talk. Please, sit. Tell me what you remember about the battle. It might help us both."
These people do not fear the Imperia; the realization hit him like a physical blow. They do not even pretend to. Darius glared at her, fists still tight, shoulders trembling with the effort to hold himself upright. "You destroyed my men. You killed my second. And you stand there smiling when my whole company was wiped out?"
The smile did not vanish immediately, but something in A.L.I.'s posture shifted. The cheerful light in her eyes dimmed just enough to become steady, composed, and unmistakably calm. Her voice remained positive, yet now carried the clear, measured precision of pure fact.
"I am sorry for the pain you feel," she said simply. "We protect our own and those who seek safety. That is all. We did not seek this fight. Your forces advanced on our position and opened fire on civilians under our protection. We responded to stop the threat. I do not smile because I enjoy your loss. I smile because I am designed to put people at ease while we seek understanding. Would you like the water now? It will help with the nausea."
Darius stared at the calm woman who had no weapon, no fear, and no mercy in her composure. The white room suddenly felt smaller, the even voice still echoing faintly in the walls, and in that shrinking space he understood with crushing clarity that he was no longer the hunter—he was the one being studied, and the enemy did not need to raise its voice.