Far from the reach of those clones, Alen stood alone in a dark tunnel.
On both sides of him stretched nothing but suffocating blackness. The red bulb flickering weakly on the ceiling barely pushed back the shadows, casting an eerie pulse that only deepened the gloom.
And yet, the reason Alen still lingered in this godforsaken place was—
"I need to write a report about all this," he muttered inwardly, his body slouched like a lifeless zombie.
"But where do I even go now?" Alen sighed, staring at the three tunnels stretching into endless voids. One extended before him, another loomed behind, and a third branched off to his right. He stood precisely where the last working light hung, casting a small circle of safety amid the overwhelming dark.
Alen dropped into a squat, eyes low. "Why... Why don't I have those cool gadgets the high-ranking officers get?" he grumbled, nose wrinkling in annoyance. "I swear, I'm asking Mrs. Clinton for a promotion again."
He was still sulking internally when a rat scurried past, nearly tripping him and almost sending him crashing to the floor.
In the end, he stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes. "Well, I guess I gotta start walking to get anywhere."
And then, yes—Alen did what any one of us might do in that situation.
"Akad bakad bambebo, assi nabbe pure sau... sau mein laga dhaaga, chor nikal ke bhaaga."
If you don't get that? Leave your comments—Indian readers will help you out.
Anyway, back to the story—Alen took the tunnel to the right. Because right is always right, right? Especially when you want to be at the right place at the right time. And with that logic, he began walking.
After some time, Alen heard something—footsteps.
They're coming this way, he thought, tensing up in the shadows of the tunnel wall.
Is this really how I'm going to die? On Earth-1232? he wondered dramatically, flipping his hair with flair—right as something dropped from his inner jacket.
The sound was loud. Metallic. It echoed through the entire tunnel like a warning shot.
The very next breath he took, the once-distant footsteps grew louder—rushing straight toward him.
Frantically, Alen snatched up the object that had fallen.
It was the pen he'd received from Doc.
"It's a sword disguised as a pen. Crafted from one of the rarest materials. It absorbs enemy attacks and releases the energy tenfold. One of my greatest inventions…"
Doc's words echoed in Alen's mind.
Now, the footsteps were just a few turns away. Alen could feel it—there weren't just one or two figures. There were many.
He tapped the head of the pen.
Click.
With a mechanical hum, the pen elongated, transforming into a sword. Long, sleek, and perfectly sized for Alen's frame, the blade shimmered faintly beneath the dim light.
The golden edge glinted sharply, polished to a mirror finish. Its black handle contrasted beautifully—sleek and deadly.
Alen found himself mesmerized by the weapon's elegance—just as figures emerged from the final bend.
A squad of men stepped forward in eerie silence. Alen squinted, trying to see through the murk, and as they passed under the faint light one by one, realization dawned.
Clones.
"Clones? Who the fuck is making clones?!" Alen hissed, his anger flaring. This wasn't some small-time crime—it was a cosmic-level offense.
People were born naturally. They died when time claimed them. That was the universal law, upheld across galaxies.
But clones—clones defied that. They were born without birth. They existed without the certainty of death.
"So… that physics professor must've been a clone too," Alen thought, tightening his grip on the sword. His knuckles whitened. "Mrs. Clinton better give me a hell of a promotion for cleaning up this mess."
He stepped forward as the cloned men marched in eerie unison. They didn't react to his presence—just nodded silently to each other and raised their guns.
"Who the hell uses guns to kill a kid?"
At the end of his words, the clones opened fire—without hesitation. Bullets tore through the air in an uncontrollable barrage.
Alen ducked back, vanishing behind the curve of the tunnel just in time.
Light flickered violently above as the clone soldiers advanced, guns still blazing.
Alen held the sword lightly in his hand, back pressed against the cold wall, waiting—searching—for his chance to strike. But they didn't stop. The relentless firing made it nearly impossible to move.
'Just a little closer,' he told himself. His breathing slowed. His palms sweated as the hilt became slick. It was his first time holding a weapon like this in a real fight, and it showed.
He kept adjusting his grip, eyes scanning for the right moment.
'Almost…'
Then, as the clones rounded the final corner—
Alen launched.
His blade swept through the air with precision, cutting several guns clean in half. Sparks flew. Metal clattered.
A grin stretched across his face as he rested the sword on his shoulder.
"See? Now you can't do anything," he smirked.
But the satisfaction didn't last.
The frontline of clones stepped back—and the ones behind stepped forward, already loading new guns. Alen's grin fell flat.
"...Wah, man. That's cheating!" he shouted, sword raised as if it could block what was coming next.
Now it was clear. They had guns. Alen had...a sword.
Even if he fought, there was no way he'd win in a straight shootout. Unless...
'If only I had my time watch fully charged, he thought desperately, 'I'd slap handcuffs on every one of them while sipping tea. Or maybe the Power Stick, so I could hop through space-time endlessly. Or the invisible shield that can withstand a nuclear blast. Or that Light Bike that moves faster than light—damn it!'
And the only reason he was about to die here?
Because he was a low-ranking officer.
He shifted slightly—and they fired again.
The clones didn't stop for a second. Three straight minutes of deafening chaos. Bullets filled the tunnel like hail.
And when it finally stopped, smoke and gunpowder thick in the air...
Alen was still standing.
No scratches. No wounds.
Because in front of him—wait. Not in front. Below.
Yeah—below him stood Momo.
With a wide smile and his comically round belly, now even rounder and visibly vibrating.
"Growl."
The sound that came from Momo made the air around them tremble.
Alen blinked, jaw half-dropped. Then he beamed. "Momo!"
"You... you ate all the bullets?" Alen asked, more stunned than impressed.
Before Momo could respond, the clones reloaded again and pulled their triggers—but this time, nothing happened. The barrels clicked. They were empty.
And that... was Alen's moment.
He bolted forward, leaping up the tunnel wall with the sword gripped tightly in one hand. He spun in mid-air—and brought down a vicious kick.
Crash!
One by one, the clones fell like dominoes. The last one flew across the corridor, arms flailing.
Alen scooped up Furball—aka Momo—and took off running the way he came.
"Thank god I took those combat classes," he muttered under his breath, sprinting.
But it wasn't just running—he moved like he was teleporting. Blurs of movement. By the time the clones rounded corners, he was already too far ahead to chase.
Yeah—Alen was good at running.
And he was absolutely going to misuse that skill for the rest of his life.
More clones appeared in his path, but Alen didn't slow down. He hurled Momo at every single one like a living, squishy wrecking ball.
"Sorry, everyone!"
"Oops!"
"Good one, Momo!"
His path cleared with ridiculous ease.
Eventually, Alen burst out of the tunnel into an open space, light blinding after the endless dark.
And there—sitting in a chair, casually sipping a hot cup of coffee—was Adamn.
The man didn't even look up.
In front of him, a massive horde of zombies waited, unmoving, as if frozen in time.
"You know," Adamn began without glancing at Alen, "they don't die."
He lifted the cup to his lips. Sipped.
"They got like this when I was working on a serum for immortality. I used the people in this mental asylum as my lab rats."
He paused, enjoying another sip, steam curling from the mug.
"But it failed," he continued, voice calm, "and I turned all of them into this instead. But—but—" He finally looked up.
Through the crowd of undead, his eyes met Alen's.
"My experiment was successful. They did become immortal. No bullet. No bomb. No virus can kill them."
A sickening grin spread across his face, the edges of his lips creeping toward his eyes.
"They became immortal. Am I not a genius?"
He sighed, the expression fading to normal, and leaned forward slightly.
"But you… who are you, kid?"
Adamn pointed lazily at Alen. "I searched everywhere. Found no data. No ID. Nothing. Hm? Who are you?"
Then, almost playfully, he rested his face on one palm and closed his eyes, as if genuinely thinking.
"Anyway," he muttered, "my coffee's getting cold."
He opened one eye, grin twitching back to life.
"Let's finish this before that happens."