YEAR 2057 — March 14
It all started with a beam of sunlight.
Just one annoying ray sneaking across my desk, right where I was trying to finalize the quarterly budget projections. Ugh—it was Tuesday, which meant another eight hours of meetings, paperwork, and dealing with incompetent council members who couldn't organize a sandwich order, let alone an institute-wide cultural festival.
So, yeah, I'm Seraphina Valerius, the oh-so-important Student Council President of Yamashiro Institute. Being me isn't exactly a walk in the park. I spend my days drowning in budgets, juggling projects, and making sure everyone's following the rules. My classmates think I'm a cold-hearted "Ice Maiden," but that's just how I handle business. Not that I care what they call me.
Most of the time I just brush off the gossip; it's like ants running around—totally not worth my time.
My silvery hair usually cascades down my back; today it's in a neat bun—I can't afford distractions with three committee meetings back to back. I caught myself in the datapad's dull screen: sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and golden eyes—all perfectly in place, of course.
The Yamashiro uniform, white and gold, fits like it was made for me—because it kind of was. Crisp, disciplined, showing exactly the kind of order I stand for. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone… or anything.
"Councilor Tanaka," I said, my cool tone masking irritation, watching him squirm. New councilors always melt into place; even veterans bend under my presence like obedient little puppies. It's kind of pathetic, really. "The proposal for the budget concerning 'swift snack delivery' lacks substantive academic value. We're not funding a convenience service."
He stammered, looking painfully small in that too-big chair. "But the students have requested—"
"The students request a lot of things," I cut in, tapping my stylus against the datapad. "They request later curfews, less homework, and a swimming pool on the roof. That doesn't mean we accommodate every whim. This institute's reputation rests on academic excellence, not snack accessibility."
I couldn't help but chuckle as he flushed red. He probably felt intimidated just being in the room with me. It's not my fault I take my position seriously. Someone has to maintain standards around here.
Ugh—why is it so impossible to find a guy who isn't completely useless? I sighed inwardly; cowards everywhere, as always.
Outside, the city glittered with energy. The sky was a perfect ocean-blue. Sky-lanes shimmered with vehicles, and holographic newsfeeds flickered across buildings. Reports of expanding Martian colonies scrolled by alongside the latest fashion trends and market alerts. The future seemed full of promise.
Sure, there were whispers about solar flares, end-of-the-world hysteria, or some flu spreading like wildfire, but I brushed them off. Humans are problem solvers; logic and reason win out in the end. That's what they taught us here at Yamashiro Institute—prepare for the future, but don't get distracted by baseless fears.
I tapped my stylus, steering the conversation back. "Now, regarding the costs for the trophy design—"
Outside the Institute's enormous windows, the afternoon sun suddenly took on an unsettling brightness, bathing the skyline in an eerie golden hue. I glanced up from my datapad; the light was too sharp, too intense—like the sun was screaming behind a curtain.
"Is that normal?" asked Tanaka, his voice trembling slightly.
"Of course it's normal," I snapped, though I wasn't entirely convinced. "Just atmospheric conditions. Now, if we could return to the—"
My datapad buzzed violently.
Static streaked across the screen and a high-pitched screech sliced the air. The interface glitched and the system crashed into a hard reboot.
"What in the world?" I muttered, tapping the screen frantically. This was top-tier technology—it shouldn't just fail like that.
A low, mechanical voice crackled through the speaker.
[EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM]
"This is an emergency alert. A Class X solar flare—later designated as the 'Sunflare Scorch'—has been detected. Estimated impact in T-minus five minutes. All unshielded electronics will fail. Seek underground shelter immediately. Repeat: this is not a drill."
A cold knot formed in my chest. Solar flares weren't unheard of, but a Class X? Those were theoretical—something discussed in advanced astrophysics classes, not something we'd actually experience in our lifetime.
Outside the window, the sky darkened around the edges. Auroral flickers danced where there should be none. It was beautiful in a terrifying way.
The datapad stuttered again.
[EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM]
"Warning: radiation levels will spike beyond safe thresholds. Surface exposure is lethal."
My heart thudded against my ribs.
Every speaker across the city—street poles, public terminals, classroom intercoms—crackled on at once. The Civil Defense System overrode all frequencies.
> "ALL CITIZENS: EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR NEAREST NUCLEAR VAULTS."
A pause. Then louder, and more urgent.
> "I REPEAT — ALL CITIZENS: EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR NEAREST NUCLEAR VAULTS."
> "THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT — THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
The air shifted. A creepy golden glare pulsed on the glass—then vanished. The sudden darkness was jarring, like someone had flipped a switch.
I stepped out; Tanaka bolted like a coward—didn't even close the door. Typical.
Students screamed through the halls. Shoes pounded the marble so hard it felt like the Institute might fall apart. It was total chaos. This wasn't the orderly evacuation we practiced during drills. People were panicking in its purest form.
I stood frozen for a beat, but my student-president instincts kicked in.
"Form orderly lines!" I yelled, my voice cutting through the din. "Head to the emergency exits, now! Follow the evacuation procedures we practiced!"
My voice got swallowed by sirens and panic. No one was listening. They were too scared, too focused on their own survival to follow any instructions.
The academy's advanced communications were toast. Electronics fried—gone with no hope of rebooting. Everything I'd planned—my five-year roadmap, debate strategies—suddenly felt pointless. All those late nights: for what future, now?
For the first time, a cold panic tried to pry my composure loose—and I bit it back. I was still President. I had responsibilities. Panic wouldn't fix anything.
Outside, the chaos blurred into a wash of shouting and running feet. My heart hammered so loud it drowned the rest of the noise. I'd never felt so out of control, so... small.
Then I saw Professor Nakamura clutching an old radio pulled from a backup cabinet. A bunch of us huddled around it like it was a lifeline, our faces illuminated by its weak glow.
"Come on, come on," the professor muttered, fiddling with the dials. "Work, you ancient piece of—"
The voice that came through was ragged and muffled by interference.
[EMERGENCY CIVIL DEFENSE BROADCAST — STANDBY OVERRIDE]
> "...This is the Emergency Civil Defense Network. Repeat: this is not a test."
Our blood ran cold. The solar flare was bad enough, but this? This sounded worse.
> "A pathogen—previously studied in government labs and unofficially dubbed the 'Crawler Plague'—is spreading across multiple sectors; the solar flare appears to have aggravated its spread. The scientific designation is VHNDS (Viral Neuro-Degenerative Syndrome)."
> "Observed symptoms begin within hours: fever, convulsions, extreme joint dislocation… followed by severe neurological distortion. Infected individuals become highly aggressive and exhibit unnatural locomotion—crawling or twisting toward uninfected targets."
Somebody gasped. A teacher went pale and began muttering a prayer. I felt my own face drain of color. This wasn't just a natural disaster anymore. This was something else entirely.
> "Do not attempt to aid or restrain infected persons. Avoid all contact. They are no longer human."
The broadcast crackled violently; words blurred into static.
Students froze. Heads turned slowly to the windows, as if expecting to see monsters lurking beyond the glass.
A sudden, unnatural shriek ripped through the air—inhuman, guttural, and terrifyingly close.
[STATIC INTENSIFIES. A LOW GROWL OR DISTANT SCREAM CAN BE FAINTLY HEARD.]
> "...If you are receiving this message, shelter in a safe place. Barricade all entrances. Destroy bridges or tunnels if possible to cut exposure routes. We repeat—containment has failed. This is a full biological threat classification: Omega."
> "...May God help us all."
The transmission cut to static.
Silence fell over our group, thick and suffocating. I looked at the faces around me—students I'd known for years, teachers I'd respected—and saw the same realization dawning in each of them.
This was it. The end of everything we knew.
I took a deep breath, forcing my student council president persona back into place. "Alright, everyone listen up," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "We need to get to the vaults. The Institute has emergency protocols for this exact situation. Follow me, and don't—under any circumstances—separate from the group."
As I spoke, I noticed a quiet kid from the advanced combat classes standing at the edge of the crowd—tall, tight-jawed. I never bother remembering every student's name. He was watching me with an intensity that made my cheeks feel warm.
Not that I cared what he thought. Obviously.
"Valerius is right," he said, his voice cutting through the panic. "We need to move now. The vaults won't wait forever."
I nodded, grateful for the support even if I'd never admit it. "You heard him. Let's move!"
As we began our descent to the vaults deep beneath the Institute, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the last time I would ever see the sun. The last time I would walk these halls as Student Council President. The last time I would be... normal.
And the most terrifying part? I had no idea what waited for us in the darkness ahead.