"Starting extraction procedure for subject S92-006," the voice of an elderly woman broke the silence, her face obscured behind a surgical mask as she checked Roger's pupils. "Recording devices on."

Roger lay restrained on a cold, metallic table, the stark lights of the lab casting long shadows across the room. The air was thick with antiseptic, punctuated by the soft hum of machines.

Beside him, a calm voice announced, "Starting with oxygen."

Roger's heart pounded against the restraints. His hands flexed futilely as panic rose. For the tenth time, he tried to cycle his Ch'ulel, seeking any internal escape, but found nothing. His power was blocked, his connection totaly severed, unlike before.

"Log entry for subject S92-006, March 12th. Initiating electrostimulation under controlled conditions. Subject is male, mid-thirties, minimal anesthesia applied to monitor live neurological responses," Dr. Márquez continued methodically, her tone clinical but laced with anticipation.

Roger shuddered as the cold touch of metal pressed against him. "Insert the rectal stimulation probe," Dr. Márquez instructed a technician who hovered just out of Roger's sight.

"Watch the positioning; we don't need complications," she added, her voice a chilling blend of professional caution and detached cruelty.

As the electrical current began, stimulating him involvably, Roger clenched his teeth against the violation, his eyes squeezed shut in silent protest.

"Vitals are stable. He's responding to the stimulation," noted a nurse from across the room.

Roger's feeble attempt to pull at his restraints was met with a firm directive, "Hold him down!"

"Collection achieved for subject S92-006 on March 12th at 14:07. Stimulant level 4. Sample size recorded at 3.5 ml. Sample will be coded and sent for analysis."

"Should I terminate the stimulation?"

"Yes, conclude the stimulation phase. Prepare subject S92-006 for post-procedure monitoring. Ensure all data is backed up securely."

"Administering post-procedure sedative. He will be transferred to observation."

"Procedure concluded without complication. Subject will be monitored for any adverse effects over the next 24 hours. This log will be sealed according to protocol guidelines. Dr. Elena Márquez signing off."

"Are the four insemination candidates ready? I want the procedure done as soon as the sample is verified."

"Yes, Doctor. We have the other four Ch'ulel types now."

"Finally! We're close, Bernie. Very close!"

As the sedative took hold, dimming the edges of his consciousness, Roger heard her final instructions, a promise of further trials: "Make sure he recovers; I want to test his capabilities as soon as possible."

"Subject S92-006, initiate Ch'ulel sequence," the assistant's sterile and emotionless voice echoed through the room.

Roger stood in the center of a stark white room, its walls riddled with etched Mayan symbols and high-tech monitoring equipment, his body covered in electrodes. Dr. Márquez, observing from behind reinforced glass, nodded to her assistant to begin the test.

Roger closed his eyes, his mind a conduit for the ancient power of Ch'ulel. He felt the surge of energy, a familiar yet exhilarating sensation that tethered him to the earth's core. I need to be ready for an opportunity.

Suddenly, the room shifted. Panels in the floor opened, and mechanical arms extended towards him, Mayan scripts written on them, each equipped with different sensory stimulators designed to provoke and measure his mystical responses. Lights flashed rhythmically, creating a disorienting pulse of colors while infrasonic waves hummed at the edge of hearing, testing his mental focus and physical reactions.

As Roger deflected and countered the mechanical threats with growing confidence, the complex's alarms blared, their shrill tones piercing the air. The room's controlled environment shattered into a whirlwind of chaos, and lights flickered wildly, adding to the disarray. He tried to analyze the patterns, looking for a weakness he could exploit.

"Intrusion detected. Initiate lockdown protocol!" echoed the intercom, its cold, automated tone clashing with the sudden uproar. Across the room, behind the safety of reinforced glass, Dr. Márquez's composed demeanor shattered into a visage of calculated fury. Her eyes, burning with a mix of fear and resolve, fixed intently on Roger.

"Secure the perimeter and maintain subject containment!" she commanded, her voice slicing through the tumult.

"Abort the test! Secure the subject!" the assistant echoed over the clamor, but Roger was already using the distraction, feeling his Ch'ulel pulse with potential escape.

Before the doors automatically started sealing shut, Roger steeled himself.

He whispered, "K'at Balam," and instantly felt the connection to the earth. He poured every ounce of mystic energy he could muster and exploded toward the doors. The Ch'ulel reinforced impact, causing an explosion that broke one door of its hinges. The shockwave rocked the building. Debris flew everywhere.

Four Ch'ulel-wielding guards came to subdue him, but this time, he held nothing back. His energy met theirs, surrounded them, melded, and, with a final push, crushed them. "This is why Spirit is supreme," Tata's teaching resounded in his head.

Gunfire could be heard in the distance, and Roger moved quickly down the corridor toward it. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Just as he reached the exit of the building, a confident Dr. Márquez intercepted him.

"Where do you think you're going, grandson?" the venomous tone of her voice froze him.

Gunfire echoed through the air as Claire took cover behind the armored SUV, her pulse racing. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the rain-soaked ground. Despite the chaos, Claire's gaze was fixed on a distant figure—Roger locked in a mystical duel that illuminated the twilight sky with bursts of spectral light.

"Commander, we need to push towards that lab building!" Claire said, her voice urgent yet clear over the roar of battle.

Commander Adkins, standing by her side, nodded and quickly relayed orders. "Alpha team, advance to quadrant three. Bravo, flank them on the east and create a diversion. We need to break their line and give him some support!"

The Mexican Marines, coordinated by Fiscal González, moved swiftly. Their disciplined advance was a sight of strategic precision, taking advantage of the terrain and the cover provided by sporadic boulders and fallen trees.

"Delta team, secure that breach! Prepare for quick extraction once we reach the target," Adkins barked into his radio, coordinating with the ground forces as they maneuvered through the underbrush.

Claire watched intently as her security detail, a mix of ex-Seals and seasoned mercenaries, collaborated seamlessly with the Marines. They used the chaos to their advantage, pushing forward toward Roger's position with a calculated aggression that Claire had insisted on during their planning sessions.

The battlefield was a blur of motion. Marines and mercenaries laid down suppressing fire while others advanced in tight formations. The air was filled with shouts and gunshots, and the eerie hum of mystical energy clashed.

"Keep the pressure up! Don't let them regroup!" Claire called out, her strategic mind mapping the unfolding skirmish as if on a chessboard. Adkins relayed her commands, his presence commanding and focused amid the cacophony of war.

The mystic duel at the center of the conflict became more intense. Roger's silhouette was now visible, his movements fluid and desperate against the onslaught of arcane attacks from his opponents. Claire's heart thudded painfully with each burst of light—each one could mean disaster.

"Squad three, provide covering fire for Roger's position! Squad four, maintain your perimeter!" Adkins shouted, his voice carrying over the din.

Claire's eyes remained locked on Roger. She could see the strain on his face, the physical toll of the mystical battle, etching lines of exhaustion and determination across his visage. Her fear for his safety was palpable, pushing her to direct their forces with even greater urgency.

As the Mexican Marines breached another section of the compound, the enemy's resistance wavered. The opportunity to push forward was fleeting, and Claire knew it.

"He needs us now! Advance!" she urged, her voice a beacon for their concerted efforts.

The team responded with a renewed vigor, closing in on the laboratory building. The sounds of battle reached a crescendo as they approached Roger's location, each step forward hard-fought and costly.

Just then, a loud explosion near the laboratory sent a shockwave through the area. Dust and debris billowed into the air, momentarily obscuring the scene. Claire's heart skipped a beat—was Roger safe?

As the dust settled and the outlines of figures became clear again, Claire saw Roger emerging from the melee, pushing through with a fierce determination that matched her own. Opposite him, the enigmatic figure of Dr. Márquez appeared, her presence commanding even in disarray—both locked in a blurring confrontation.

The resolution was imminent, and Claire could see Roger needed help.

"Commander, we need to get to Roger's position. Now!" she declared.