The flight from Jos to Washington was uneventful for everyone except those who sat beside the containment crate.
Inside the cargo hold of the Roman Foundation's jet, the sealed armour rested within a reinforced titanium case, surrounded by electromagnetic dampeners and temperature regulators. Yet the air within the jet felt wrong — dense, humming, alive.
Each time the plane banked through turbulence, the lights flickered. The co-pilot swore he could hear whispers — a faint, metallic murmur from the cargo bay. But no one dared open the crate. Not after what had happened in Nigeria.
By the time the plane touched down at a private airstrip outside Bethesda, the crew unloaded the container under strict orders: no photography, no data logs, no contact without clearance. Three black SUVs awaited them.
And watching from a distance, Chief Roman himself stood beneath the floodlights, his expression unreadable.
He looked older than his polished press photos — silver hair slicked back, his tailored coat brushing against the night wind. As the crate was lowered, he placed a gloved hand on its surface and whispered something softly under his breath — a prayer, or perhaps a command.
"Take it to Sector Nine," he said to his head of security. "I want the analysis begun before dawn."
The man nodded. "And Dr. Nwankwo?"
Roman's eyes glinted. "He overstepped. Contain him for now."
---
Far across the Atlantic, back in Jos, Chuka awoke to the cold sting of steel restraints. His head throbbed; the last thing he remembered was the helicopter lifting off, Amara shouting his name.
He was no longer in the excavation site. The air was sterile, humming with fluorescent light. A small room. White walls. A single table. Two men in dark suits watched him from across it.
Chuka tried to sit upright, but the cuffs cut into his wrists.
"Where am I?" he rasped.
The taller of the two men leaned forward. "Roman Foundation Security Division. You're in protective custody, Dr. Nwankwo."
"Protective?" He gave a dry laugh. "That what you call abduction now?"
The second agent — younger, colder — slid a tablet across the table. It showed a video feed from the excavation site: Kalu convulsing, the gem's burst of light, the soldiers thrown back.
"You interfered with Foundation property," the agent said. "You endangered personnel, disrupted containment protocol, and withheld classified artefacts — namely, a violet gem of unknown origin."
Chuka's gaze darkened. "That gem saved your men's lives."
"That's not for you to decide."
Chuka leaned back, chains rattling. "Then who decides what's safe? Chief Roman? Does he even know what he's brought into his country?"
The taller agent's silence was answer enough.
Moments later, the door hissed open and Amara was pushed inside. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale. She glanced at Chuka, relief flooding her eyes. "You're alive."
He nodded slightly. "Barely."
The agents exchanged glances. "Dr. Roman has instructed that you both remain under restricted observation until the artefact is declared stable," one of them said.
Amara's jaw tightened. "You mean until he figures out how to use it."
Neither man replied.
They were escorted to adjoining cells, cold and bare. From a small window, Chuka could see the lights of the airfield flicker as the Roman jet lifted off into the clouds — carrying with it the relic he had sealed with his own hands.
---
Meanwhile, in a subterranean lab beneath the Roman Foundation's headquarters in Washington, a team of scientists surrounded the armour.
The gem embedded in its chest glowed faintly, its fractured surface pulsing like a heartbeat. Instruments beeped erratically. Magnetic readings spiked and dropped with no pattern.
Chief Roman entered the chamber in silence, his presence commanding instant stillness.
There, standing in the center, encased within reinforced glass, was the amour.
The armor was unlike anything Roman had ever seen — its surface gleamed with a dull, ancient bronze patina, etched with Nok spirals that shimmered faintly under the containment lights. Each curve of its design looked deliberate, sacred, almost alive.
He leaned closer, studying it. "Remarkable," he murmured.
"Begin," he said.
One of the lead researchers hesitated. "Sir, the energy readings are unstable. We don't yet understand the—"
"Begin," Roman repeated, his voice a quiet threat.
Reluctantly, the scientist activated the laser array. Thin beams of light scanned the armour's surface, tracing its ancient runes. For a moment, nothing happened — and then the gem flickered violently.
The power grid surged. Every light in the facility dimmed.
The armour moved.
Just a tremor — a metallic shiver, subtle enough to dismiss — but everyone in the room felt it.
Roman's eyes narrowed, his tone calm yet reverent.
"It's waking," he murmured. "Just as I hoped."