VERIFIER
EPISODE 02 | SCENE 06
19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328
The two young men freeze, staring down the barrel aimed at them. Renegade studies them from the floor—both less than half his age, maybe not even twenty. They’re gaunt, malnourished, their clothes threadbare, their hair unwashed. A sour odor hangs around them.
“Hands!” Renegade barks.
They raise them instantly. Keeping his gun trained on them, he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees with his free hand. He expects fear—terror even—but one of them meets his gaze, bold.
“Who are you?” the young man says, his voice carrying only a slight quiver.
“I think we’re supposed to remain quiet,” the taller one mutters, glancing sideways.
“Identification” the first says, louder now, his voice cracking.
Renegade’s gun clicks, safety off. The sound snaps through the silence. Both swallow, trembling.
“How about I shoot both of you straight through your tiny skulls?” he growls.
Their knees quake, hands twitching in the air.
The taller one speaks, voice brittle. “How’d you find this place?”
Renegade bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. After a moment, he slips a hand into his pocket and opens his palm. The coin gleams faintly. Both young men gape.
“Where’d you get that?” the shorter one forces out.
Renegade lowers the gun, though the safety stays off. “Let’s do a trade,” he says evenly. “You tell me the origin of this coin, and I’ll tell you how I got it. Fair?”
They exchange wary looks, each waiting for the other to speak.
Renegade holsters his weapon. “See? A friendly exchange.”
“It’s been here for generations,” the taller one finally says.
Renegade waits for more, but silence stretches between them. “I just happened to find the coin one day.”
The shorter man frowns, not liking the answer. “It’s not just a coin. It’s an ancient document, smuggled into Penumbra since the first century. The knowledge it carries is dangerous—still dangerous. The original makers hid it as currency to keep it from discovery. But once physical money went extinct within the first fifty years, the disguise lost its use.”
Renegade narrows his eyes. “What makes it dangerous?”
The taller one starts to answer—“You said—”
But the shorter man elbows him hard, silencing him “The Verum has been preserved with great caution,” he goes on. “Every attempt to reveal its teachings has led to persecution and near extinction. Secrecy has become a painful necessity.”
“Why would a coin—a mere document—provoke such hostility?”
“Information is powerful,” the short man replies.
Renegade smirks. “Looks to me like the persecution’s well earned. You’re spreading grand counterclaims, challenging everything this city’s built on. Who could fault anyone for stamping out a conspiracy that seeks to upend Penumbra itself?”
“It’s not a cons-spiracy,” the tall one stammers. “I-it’s the truth.”
Renegade scoffs. “All I see in front of me is madness.”
“That’s called obedience,” the other man forces out. “Something you wouldn’t know. There is nothing in Penumbra that can stop the Verum. Not even the Anima Project. It will fall and be swept away like every empire that tried to usurp Yahweh. But the Verum will endure.”
The tall one flinches as Renegade’s gun jerks up, the muzzle aimed squarely at them. Even the short one shudders.
The tall one trembles, eyes shut tight. The shorter man whispers, “I-it would be an honor to die like our Savior.”
Renegade’s finger settles on the trigger. His breath deepens.
“Oh, God!” the taller one cries, eyes lifted upward. “If You want us with You, how can we protest? I only ask that You forgive this man. Show him mercy as You’ve shown us. We have all shed innocent blood!”
Something in Renegade falters. The fury drains from his face, replaced by a sudden, quiet fear. Every word grips him. He lowers the gun, though his gaze stays fixed.
The tall one still refuses to open his eyes, but the shorter man watches as Renegade backs down.
Renegade nods toward the other room. “That monitor. Where’s it recording?”
The man hesitates, chest heaving.
“Take me there.”
“W-we can’t,” he stammers. “If we let you in, we put everyone at risk.”
Renegade slides the gun aside again. “Miles gave me this coin.”
The tall one’s eyes snap open.
“Where is he?” the shorter man asks, voice trembling.
Renegade takes a long breath. “He couldn’t make it. So he sent me. I’m his partner—Renegade.”
At the name, both men recoil, breath catching.
“Why couldn’t he come?” asks one of them.
“He’s sick. Really sick. He can’t even get out of bed. He didn’t know if he’d make it, so he called me over and gave me this coin. He told me I needed to come here, but he said little else.”
The tall one glances at his companion, who eyes Renegade with weary suspicion, gaze dragging up and down his frame. “No weapons,” he mutters.
Renegade’s hand hovers near his holster. He considers, then unclips the gun and passes it over.
“Anything else?” the short one presses.
“No.”
A quick nod, and the taller man steps forward to search him. His touch is timid, almost twitching. Renegade feels a flush of humiliation crawl up his neck as the boy pats him down, thorough but clumsy.
The young man steps back and shakes his head. “He’s clean.”
The short man clears his throat. “Follow us.”
The three descend inside a narrow, rust-bitten shaft that moans all the way down. No one speaks. The tall one keeps his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding Renegade entirely.
At the bottom, the metal lattice slides open with a groan. Faint murmurs drift through the rough, echoing corridor. Everything is raw—unfinished walls, jagged seams of cement, no polish, no color. Only a dim, tawny light emits from somewhere beyond the bend.
“This way,” the short one says, turning sharply.
A honeyed glow spills out from a hemmed in mess hall ahead. Children are the first to spot Renegade. They keep playing, but their laughters taper off into whispers. Then the adults turn, one by one. Conversations die. The whirr of life collapses into silence. Even the babies quiet.
Renegade stops, staring back at the roomful of eyes fixed on him.
“Over here,” the short man breathes, rapping lightly on a door tucked to the side.
Renegade turns toward it, feeling the crowd’s stares burning through the corners of his vision. He waits, motionless.
A minute drags by. Then the hatch slides open, and shadowed hands from within seize the two young men, yanking them inside. Renegade hesitates, then steps forward, crossing the threshold of the control room.
The door slams behind him, locking shut with a series of hard brassy clicks. Instantly, seven guns snap up, aimed dead at his chest. Renegade raises both hands slowly.
“What in the world are you thinking?!” a man with a silver flattop barks, voice cutting through the tense air.
Renegade starts to speak, but the short one interjects. “It’s Renegade, sir.”
“I don’t care who he says he is!” the older man snaps. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“We disarmed him,” the tall one splutters, barely keeping his voice steady.
“The Elders don’t need guns, you fools! You’ve just exposed us all!”
“He was already inside the bunker, sir,” the short one pleads.
The man’s fury spikes. “I told you never—absolutely never—to bring anyone in without verification!”
Neither of the young men answers. The room falls into a thick, punishing silence.
The older man fixes his glare on Renegade. “For all we know, he could be an anima.”
“I’m human,” Renegade says flatly. “Shoot me. You’ll see.”
“Don’t test me,” the man warns, voice cold and steady, his finger grazing the trigger. “I’ve no problem putting a bullet through wires.”
Without breaking eye contact, he addresses the others. “Send us into Code Blue. If he’s a spy, hit the evacuation switch without hesitation. If the Elders are truly behind this, we’re probably too late.” Then, quieter, almost under his breath: “Help us, Yehshua.”
One of the men lowers his weapon and slams a blue button on the console. Alarms blare from beyond the sealed door.
“Fine,” Renegade snaps. “Cut me open.”
“There could be animas with synthetic blood. No. You’re going in there.” He gestures to a reinforced door behind him.
“What’s in there?” Renegade demands.
“Now!”
Renegade glances at the door—solid alloy, no windows—and edges toward it.
Another man hauls it open with effort, the hinges groaning. Renegade steps inside without protest. The door slams shut behind him, locking tight.
A drone builds overhead. Whirring sounds pulse through the chamber. Renegade looks up to see a circular fan spinning faster and faster. The air whips violently, swirling through the vault until it steals the breath straight from his lungs.
But nothing else happens. Five long minutes drag by in silence before the fan grinds to a halt and the air settles dead still. The door creaks open. Standing in the frame is the man with the flattop, his expression unreadable.
“Follow me,” he says.
Renegade steps out. Together they move through the control room, past the now-empty mess hall, and down a narrow passage. The echo of their footsteps is the only sound until they reach a smaller room—bare except for a battered desk and a few chairs. A spray-painted teardrop mark covers the stark, gray wall behind.
The man gestures for Renegade to sit, then shuts the door and circles behind the desk, lowering himself into a chair with a heavy sigh. The silence lingers.
Renegade’s eyes drift toward a few childish drawings taped to the wall beside the desk.
“My son,” the man says, catching his gaze. “He loves to sketch. Just made those today.”
Renegade doesn’t answer.
The man opens a drawer, pulls out a worn photograph, and slides it across the table. “That’s him,” he says softly. “And my wife.”
Renegade looks down at the image—the young boy, the gentle woman, happiness caught in their faces—then back up without a word.
“Oh, right,” the man says. “You don’t even have a concept of what a wife is. Well, maybe that’ll be a good conversation for later on.”
He sets the photo aside and leans forward, voice lowering. “I owe you an apology, friend. We can’t risk exposure. I had to be harsh—for everyone’s safety.”
“I understand what it’s like to be in authority,” says Renegade. “Especially making decisions under pressure.”
The man gives a brief nod of understanding. “I’m Puck, but the way.”
“Renegade.”
“I knew it was you the moment I saw your face on the cameras,” Puck says. “Anyone would—well, except those boys. They don’t get word of what happens topside. Can’t fault them for not recognizing you, I guess. Still, no one could be sure it was really you until the scan confirmed it.”
Renegade’s tone is flat. “And if I had been an anima?”
“You’d have been swept up through those blades by specialized magnets. And that’d be that.”
Renegade says nothing. His eyes drift to a small scratch carved into the desk’s surface.
Puck studies him. “It was risky business for you coming here so undauntedly. Did Miles not tell you to be careful?”
Renegade keeps his gaze fixed on the flaw in the wood.
Puck’s voice softens even more. “Where is our friend, Miles?”
The silence raises suspicion, but Renegade confirms it. “Dead.”
Puck freezes, his breath stops. Slowly, he sinks back into his chair, running a hand through his hair. His eyes widen with disbelief, then sink with grief. “What happened?” he asks, unsteady.
Still staring down, Renegade mutters, “He got himself killed.”
The air turns grim, the warm lights seemingly turning a pale color.
Renegade pulls the coin from his pocket and sets it in Puck’s hand. Puck receives it gingerly, his fingers trembling. He studies the metal in silence, eyes wet, a tear slipping down, then another.
“Miles always prayed about this day,” he says softly. “When you’d finally learn about the Verum. And about us.”
Renegade lifts his eyes. “Who are you?”
“VITA,” Puck says. “That’s what we call ourselves.”
“Why do you live like this?” Renegade challenges.
“Because we have no choice. If we surfaced, we’d be slaughtered.”
“Same either way, isn’t it? Those boys look like death.”
“No, not the same. Though their bodies are wasting away, their souls grow ever stronger. Their rewards, ever greater. That’s the truth.”
Renegade’s eyes narrow. “What is truth?” He pauses. “If this is what it leads to, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” Puck says quietly. “The Verum holds life itself—real life. A life that endures. Something that can’t be manufactured by what you’re creating up in that tower.”
“In your mind, all those animas aren’t real people, is that right? What do you think they are, then?”
“Hollow imitations. Nothing more.”
“So you think they’re all dead.”
“More than that,” Puck says firmly. “I know they are.”
“Says who?”
“Says the Verum.”
Renegade leans forward. “How do you know the Verum can be trusted?”
“I can tell you one thing: no one who is really drawn in by the Verum goes out and slaughters another human being. Have you looked around? We’ve given up our worldly strength. Some of us have come from high positions. And with a lot of ease and wealth. They had real power, and they chose to give it up, all the while everyone else claws for more.”
“Not Miles.”
“Miles was advised to stay.”
“By who? The Verum?”
“Me.”
“Why? So you could spy on me?”
“No,” Puck says. “So we wouldn’t be exposed. He was a public figure, like you. He couldn’t just vanish.”
“He could have cloned himself and left.”
“Miles refused. So, we asked him to use his influence to see if he could turn the Project around. It took some convincing, but he agreed.”
“Agreeing to that was ultimately what got him killed.”
Puck’s tone changes. “Did you kill him?”
Renegade says nothing. His silence is enough.
Puck swallows, grief tightening his jaw. “He thought of you as a friend. You know that?”
“We were friends,” Renegade says quietly. “But he drifted.”
Puck’s fingers drum against the desk. “So that’s it—you killed him and ran off with the coin.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “I should’ve known we’re not safe. You’re just buying time.”
“Wait,” Renegade says when he sees Puck rising from his chair. “I’ve not come to turn you in.”
“The Elders know you’re here, don’t they?”
“The Elders don’t know anything,” Renegade says. “No one knows I’m here. I wasn’t planning on hurting anybody.”
“You came with a gun. You pointed it at those boys, ready to end their lives just because they were in the way of your goal. I saw.”
“I don’t know what my goal is,” Renegade admits.
Puck takes note of the quiver in his voice. “Then why are you here?”
Renegade’s tone breaks. “Just kill me, then. You’ve got me—unarmed. Trapped. You can end it all.”
“I don’t want your life, Renegade.” Puck says evenly. “Anyway, that’s not my place.”
“Why not? I’m here. Just take it!” Renegade’s voice cracks—fear in it, but something deeper too.
Puck observes him, eyes narrowing. “Because if you died right now, you wouldn’t see your son—or anything good—on the other side. That much I promise you.”
Renegade lifts his eyes, says, “And another thing—what is the point of giving up everything if everyone has the same fiery outcome?”
Puck frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“The Pod showed me. It said all humanity has been left to some kind of living wrath. So tell me—what difference does it make if you kill me now or I die later?”
Puck exhales slowly, then rises from his chair and moves around the desk. Renegade stays slouched, eyes low.
“Willing to follow?” Puck asks, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I want to show you something.”
Renegade twists in his chair. “Show me what?”
“The truth.”
Renegade gives him a skeptical look.
“If you give me your word that me and my people are safe,” Puck says, “I’ll show you. Besides, you don’t have to believe it. But after everything you’ve said—and after seeing that miserable face of yours—it seems you could use a hopeful alternative. I’ve got one.”
The word hope echoes through Renegade’s mind like something foreign, something he hasn’t heard in years—maybe lifetimes.
At last, he says, “My word.” Then, he pushes himself to his feet, hesitant but willing, and follows Puck out the door.
