Project Liberty Veil
Author’s Note: Set in January 1969 within the dystopian alternate history of Dimension Delta Zeta 17-46, Project Liberty Veil follows Operation Rug-Pull (Autumn 1968) and builds on Operation Deep Freeze (Winter 1967) and The Symposium (Spring 1968). Themes of freedom, loyalty, and identity shape the North American Federal Republic’s (NAFR) militarized world, where metahuman Samantha Grey (HR-713) battles her Geas-bound past, and her friends, the Thorne family, seek to aid her on her journey.
The Brink of a New World
Boarding the Unknown
The NAFR transport sliced through the crisp Kansas air, its low, monotonous drone a constant vibration beneath Samantha's feet. Inside the sterile bubble of gray steel and recycled air, the warmth of the Thorne family felt like a stark, living contrast. Across from her, eleven-year-old Caleb was practically vibrating with excitement, his nose pressed against the armored window. A distant concrete tower broke the flat horizon, and he pointed, his voice a frantic, hopeful whisper: "Are we there yet? Is that it?"
"Almost, Caleb," Dr. Vivian Thorne said, her voice a calm anchor in the tense quiet. She smoothed a stray strand of her auburn hair, her eyes finding Samantha's. "It won't be long now."
Samantha offered a small, tight smile. Leavenworth. The name was a cold stone in her gut, a familiar weight she'd carried for decades. She had spent eight years within its walls, before the Geas had branded itself onto her soul. Returning now felt less like liberation and more like stepping back into her own tomb. The air here felt thin, haunted by the ghost of her younger, less broken self. She focused on the children. Zara, quiet and observant, was meticulously braiding a strap on her small pack, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Will they have pie, Sam?" Caleb asked, turning his attention back to her. "Major Rex said all the cool top-secret bases have pie."
The question, so innocent, broke through her apprehension. "I'm sure they will," she replied, her voice softer than she intended. "And if they don't, we'll file a formal complaint with the President."
Major Rex Corbin, seated beside Vivian, let out a low chuckle. His presence was a silent, solid reassurance. He had been a soldier long enough to understand that the worst places often held the most significant moments.
The transport began its descent, and the full scope of the Leavenworth Secure Containment Facility came into view. It was a scar on the landscape -- a sprawling complex of brutalist concrete bunkers and electrified fences, designed not to keep people out, but to keep impossible things inside. Samantha’s breath hitched, a faint, involuntary memory of cold iron and despair tightening her chest.
Facing the Fortress
They landed with a soft bump. The ramp lowered, flooding the cabin with cold, sharp air. A Sector-14 officer in a crisp black uniform stood waiting, his face impassive.
"Dr. Thorne, Major Corbin, welcome," he said, his voice flat and official. "The Director will see you in the observation gallery." He then turned to Samantha and "Echo of Honor", another candidate who'd come along on the same transport. "The candidates will come with me. There is a final pre-integration psychological assessment to be completed before the procedure, and you are the final two to arrive."
Another test, Samantha thought, her hope flickering. Her anxiety spiked, a visceral, coiling dread that she fought to suppress. Vivian gave her a look of encouraging solidarity, but she was motioned away with the others. Without a word, Samantha’s training took over. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifted, and she fell into step two paces behind the officer, heels clicking on the tarmac. It was an act of pure obedience, one that felt both as automatic as breathing and as wrong as the spell she was supposedly here to shed.
Testing Loyalty
The evaluation room was a perfect, sterile cube of white walls and cold light. A single steel table and two chairs sat in the center. A woman in a severe gray suit sat waiting, a data slate on the table before her. She was Dr. Anya Sharma, and her eyes were as sharp and clinical as a scalpel.
"Sit down, HR-713," she said, not looking up from her slate. An order, not a request; and the designation a deliberate jab, a reminder of status.
Samantha sat, her back ramrod straight, hands folded on her lap. The Geas hummed in the back of her mind, a quiet leash compelling compliance.
"Your file indicates a notable decline in mission efficacy over the last two decades," Sharma began, her tone analytical. "Specifically, a noted increase in what analysts term 'hesitation events' and 'malicious compliance'." She finally looked up, her gaze piercing. "This is attributed to suppressed resentment. Are you still resentful of your compulsory service, HR-713?"
The question was a trap -- a loyalty test dressed in psychological jargon. The Geas forced some kernel of truth. "My service to the Republic has been long," Samantha answered, her voice even and measured. "There have been missions that tested my resolve, but my commitment to the NAFR has never wavered."
Sharma made a note on her slate, a faint, skeptical arch to her eyebrow. "Commitment and compliance are not the same. We are about to remove the mechanism that ensures the latter. We need to be certain that what remains is reliable. Are you reliable, 713?"
"I have always been reliable, Doctor," Samantha stated, a flicker of her true self -- the proud, resilient woman buried under decades of servitude -- surfacing for a brief moment.
"We shall see," Dr. Sharma said, her voice devoid of warmth. "That will be all for now. The adjutant will escort you to the ritual chamber."
As Samantha stood, she felt Sharma's eyes on her, judging, weighing. She had answered correctly, logically. But in the cold calculus of the NAFR, she knew she was still just an asset, a weapon being recalibrated. The promise of freedom felt terrifyingly far away.
The Unchaining
Unbinding
The ritual chamber was a circle of cold iron set into the bedrock beneath Leavenworth, a space that felt far older than the concrete fortress above it. At its center, SCP Item #4907, the "Heart of Stone," rested on a leaden pedestal. It was a sphere of polished, unblemished obsidian that seemed to drink the light from the room, and from it pulsed a palpable, oppressive force that made the air feel thick and heavy.
Samantha stood with the six others, their faces a mixture of terror and hope. She remembered this feeling -- the weight of a power that was not hers, preparing to write its laws upon her soul. A robed specialist, whom she recognized as the arcane archivist Dr. Anderson, began the incantation, his voice a low, resonant chant that vibrated in her bones. The words were a complex reversal of the spell she’d heard in 1904, a litany of release instead of binding.
From a sterile observation gallery, Vivian Thorne watched the scene on a high-resolution monitor. The feed was overlaid with flickering telemetry -- bio-signatures, ambient energy levels, psionic stress indicators. The scientist in her was fascinated by the raw power radiating from the artifact, a phenomenon that defied every known law of physics. She understood, right then, why her forefathers had feared the occult so greatly, culminating in 1896's Great Cleansing, and still a primal fear among many people today. The mother in her felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach as she watched Samantha’s vitals spike, her body rigid against the spell’s dissolution. It was a cold, impersonal procedure, but would lead to profound human liberation.
For Samantha, the unbinding was an agony of memory and sensation. The spell did not simply break; it was torn out by the roots, pulling with it sixty-five years of conditioned obedience. And then, it was gone. The incessant, humming pressure that had been the backdrop of everyday life vanished. The silence that rushed in was absolute, a terrifying void where the chains had been. She staggered, dizzy, psychically adrift in a way she hadn’t been since she was a young woman running wild in the frontier forests. The absence of the Geas was a phantom limb, an ache for a master she had hated but always known. She had to consciously command her lungs to draw breath, her legs to hold her steady. For the first time in decades, she felt the exhilarating, terrifying sensation of being utterly, completely her own. She was whole.
Beside her, "Freedom’s Aura" nearly collapsed, her hands dropping to her knees to stay on her feet, weeping with unrestrained relief, while "The Shroud", seemingly unfazed, watched the specialists with cold, defiant eyes.
One part was over, but there were more yet to come.
Trial
Dr. Sharma’s voice cut through Samantha’s fragile new reality. She was in the small, white room again, the adrenaline of the ritual still thrumming under her skin. This time, in addition to Dr. Sharma, there were heavily armed soldiers standing alert behind her. Sharma’s assessment was immediate, her expression unchanged.
"An interesting physiological response, HR-713," Sharma noted, her eyes still on a readout. She finally looked at Samantha. "Hypothetical. The Republic requires you to neutralize a magical threat -- a civilian family, say, knowingly harboring forbidden artifacts. Would you execute the order without question, even if it meant personal sacrifice?"
The words were a perfectly crafted weapon, designed to detonate every fear in Samantha’s mind. A civilian family. Vivian's quiet confidence, Caleb's grin, Zara's braids. The image flashed, clear and horrifying. For a dizzying second, terror seized her. This was the real test. A wrong answer, a moment’s hesitation, and they would deem her a failed asset. Dismissal, confinement, or even termination. The words echoed from the darkest corners of the prison.
But the silence in her head was hers now. In that space, she saw the path forward. She thought of the Thornes, of the life they represented -- a life of warmth, family moments, of choice. To protect that, to earn it, she had to make her first choice as a free woman. If she would wear new chains, she would have to choose them of her own free will.
Her voice, when it came, was steady. It was an act of strategic will, not submission -- a free choice to protect her entire nation at the cost of a friend's family. It would be hard, but it would be done. "Yes, Doctor. I would."
Watching on the monitor, Vivian let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A triumphant, relieved smile touched her lips. "I knew she could," she murmured, a fierce pride in her voice. "Loyalty without chains." She turned to Caleb and Zara, who were watching the screen with rapt attention. "You see?" she whispered, pulling them close. "Samantha is making a promise. She’s the Republic's hero now, truly."
Oath of Honor
The commissioning chamber was a solemn, flag-draped hall deep within the facility. The seven of them, now in immaculate Federal Republic Super Force dress uniforms, stood at attention. President Neil Armstrong, a man whose quiet authority seemed to fill the room, stood at the podium, flanked by Director Bronson; with the Thorne family, other distinguished guests, and invited families seated.
"Service," President Armstrong began, his voice carrying the weight of a national hero, "is the highest calling. Sacrifice is its currency. Today, the Republic recognizes seven of its most dedicated soldiers, not for the service they were compelled to give, but for the service they now freely choose to offer. In doing so, we reaffirm our nation's most sacred honor, undo a wrong we today admit we should never have inflicted. Their service before this day may have been compulsory, but it was no less magnificent. Their humanity may be uncommon, but it is no less real. Today we are make good on the solemn promise of our Republic -- to treat all its citizens with respect and equality, as free men and women, even when we must call on them for continued sacrifice. Each step you take today, though small in this chamber, carries the weight of our Republic’s honor -- a great stride toward a brighter future."
He called their names. One by one, they stepped forward. "Mr. Julian Sheridan." "Mr. Cyrus McDonald." "Miss Lara Vint." "Miss Lily Monroe." "Mr. Marcus Jones." "Mr. Samuel Kojack." When he called, "Miss Samantha Grey," she walked forward, her movements still precise and stiff. She raised her right hand and recited the oath, her voice trembling at first, then gaining strength with each word, each promise a brick in the foundation of her new life.
"... So I solemnly swear."
The President returned her salute. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Grey. Welcome to the Super Force."
Treasures
The seven stood together, in a line, as the gathered audience and officials stood and applauded them, and for a moment, Samantha stood frozen, unsure of how to react, what to do, without an order. Slowly, as the formalities concluded, the crowd began to come up. Two small figures broke out from the crowd, rushing ahead. "Sam! You did it!" Caleb shouted.
Zara and Caleb ran to her, their faces beaming. Zara pushed a piece of folded paper into her hand -- a crayon drawing of Samantha, wings spread wide against a starry sky, with the words "Our Hero, Lt. Grey" scrawled beneath it. Caleb followed, offering a small, lopsided clay medal with a clumsy "SG" pressed into it.
Samantha knelt, taking the simple gifts. She looked from the drawing to the medal, then up at their earnest, shining faces. In that instant, the last of the institutional ice around her heart cracked and melted away. This simple, genuine love was the only validation that mattered, the one no ceremony or commission could ever grant. It wasn't about the Republic, or the uniform, or the duty. It was about having true friends. It was about being seen. The last of her mental chains broke then, not with a sound, but with the quiet warmth of a child’s handmade gift.
First Steps
The reception hall was a subdued contrast to the chamber's formality -- a long, low-ceilinged room with polished concrete floors and tables laden with utilitarian refreshments: coffee urns, sliced fruits, and yes, pie, as Caleb had hoped. The air hummed with murmured conversations among the newly commissioned lieutenants, their families, and a handful of former Sector-14, and now Super Force, officials. Samantha moved through it like a ghost adjusting to corporeality, her dress uniform, now adorned with a single golden bar on each collar, still feeling like borrowed skin.
Dr. Sharma approached first, almost unrecognizable without her clipboard and data pad. "Lieutenant Grey," she corrected herself quickly, a faint smile touching her lips. "I have a confession to make," she continued, "I'm a telepath. Special Studies Command. I was reading your mind during the examinations, and your responses were exemplary. And," she paused, her gaze drifting downward, "I'll never do that again, without your express permission."
Samantha met her gaze steadily. "I--, I appreciate that, Doctor." she said, her voice firm but without edge. The promise hung in the air, a quiet affirmation of her personhood. Sharma nodded, the smile deepening just a fraction -- acknowledgment of a shift, perhaps even respect. "Of course. Congratulations, Lieutenant." She extended a hand, and Samantha shook it, the gesture sealing the end of one era and the tentative start of another.
Rex Corbin was next, stepping forward with the precision of a man who'd spent decades in uniform. He snapped a crisp salute, his eyes meeting hers with the quiet intensity she'd come to rely on during their shared missions. "Welcome to the officer corps, Lieutenant," he said, his voice low and steady. He lowered his hand and offered a firm handshake, his grip conveying more than words: acceptance, equality, the bond of soldiers who'd faced dangers together. For Samantha, this was profound. The handshake was a wordless validation from a fellow guardian, a clear signal that she was no longer just an asset but a peer.
As Rex stepped back, "The Shroud" -- Lieutenant Marcus Jones -- sidled up, his shadowy aura suppressed, but still noticeable, like a distant storm. He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper laced with cynicism. "They just gave us shinier collars, Lieutenant. Don't let the bars on yours fool you." Samantha nodded, her expression neutral, but inside, question beckoned. She filed them away, complications for the future. "No worse than any other soldiers', now."
The reception wound down quickly; Director Bronson gave a final nod to the group, and the Thornes gathered around Samantha, their presence a warm counterpoint to the hall's clinical chill.
Walk to the Future
Outside, the Kansas sun hung low, casting long shadows across the tarmac as the groups made their way to the waiting transports. The January air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of winter's dormant prairie beyond the fences -- a world that felt suddenly vast and uncharted. Samantha walked with the Thornes, Vivian at her side, Rex leading the way with his steady stride.
For a moment, old habits pulled at her. She fell into step two paces behind Rex, her heels clicking in subconscious deference of her proper place. But then she caught herself -- a flicker of awareness, a deliberate shift. She quickened her pace, drawing level with him, walking beside as an equal. Rex glanced at her, a subtle nod of approval in his eyes.
Samantha looked up at the open sky. It was vast and unyielding, just as it had always been, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a cage. The scent of prairie grass, so foreign to her, promised a world she was finally free to explore again. The path ahead was uncertain -- new orders, new threats, the weight of her choices now hers alone -- but as she walked beside the Thorne family, a hand brushing Vivian's arm, she knew it was a path she was choosing, step by uncertain step.