The Nephilim Protocol

Camp Solanas

"So where are we?" I ask.

"That is a thing which I do not know," Destro says, pulling the lid off a banana pudding tin. "We are on an island, and very far north. That is all that can be said."

The dining hall is pretty fancy, really, all gleaming metal-brushed surfaces and light blue and grey tiles. The tables are arranged in long rows but with plenty of space to squeeze in between on hard metal chairs. The food is a bit disappointing—prepackaged pudding tins and spam with noodles.

Not that we'd be in a mood to appreciate any food anyway. Farez is shivering uncontrollably. "My face still hurts," he mutters, hands clutched around his cup. "From the air. How is that possible? How can the air hurt your face?"

"The cold does take some getting used to." Destro nods, nibbling at his banana pudding. "For the first week at least, you should stay inside as much as possible."

"No-one at camp knows where we are?" I ask.

Destro shrugs. "Presumably the soldiers, but they do not speak much to us. There are various theories. Some say we're near Norway; some near Canada; some say that we're actually off the coast of Antarctica." He smiles. "It is something of a puzzle."

"But wait. I'm from America; Miles is from America; Farez is Turkish. But if most cases come from America, it'd make sense to have the camp close by, right? Where are you from, Destro?"

"Ethiopia," he says, polishing off the last of the pudding.

Oh. Well, that explains the accent. No, wait. Actually, it doesn't. "What's with your accent?" I ask. "Like how am I even hearing it? Farez doesn't have one at all."

"Ah. Yes, you're American. I can see how that would be confusing. To you as well?" He looks over at Miles.

But Miles shakes his head. "Threw me for a loop at first, but I've got it now. You're just talking English, right? Like our Nephilim-whatever isn't auto-translating, so we just hear your actual words."

"Just so. I was taught English at a young age. It's a most useful language for trade and travel. I find it helpful to practice." He turns to me. "Unfortunately, your theory does not hold water, my friend. Americans are actually a minority within the camp. Although the guards ... ah!" He stands up. "Forgive me. One moment. I see your roommate over there."

"Roommate?" But he's already gone.

After a few moments, Destro comes hurrying back again, a lanky spot-faced teenager at his heel. "This is Dolphin," says Destro. "Farez, he will be your roommate."

"Dolphin" looks bored shitless. "Sure," he says, nodding at Farez. "Honestly, though, I'm only here until my dad sues the pants off these assholes. You got a name?"

"Farez."

Dolphin looks puzzled, then his face clears. "No, like a handle. A nickname. Have they come up with one for you yet?"

"They've only recently arrived," says Destro.

"Oh." Dolphin nods. "Gotcha. Then you should know: the guys are going to give you some sort of nickname. Makes it easier than constantly dealing with translation issues."

"Like 'Dolphin'? Thought that was an awfully weird name," Miles comments, taking another forkful of bacon. "Why do they call you that?"

"Because dolphins are smart," says Dolphin, tilting his chin.

I catch, just in the corner of my vision, an odd look on Destro's face. I wonder.