Somewhere in Milky way Galaxy
In the silent stretch of the cosmos, where darkness seemed endless and stars were scattered like sparks fleeing a forge—restless, fragile—a lone presence drifted. From time to time, the void lit up with a dying star's final blaze or the swift streak of a meteor, yet most of space remained a quiet abyss.
Amid this emptiness floated a strange object: a perfect cube, ancient and unyielding. Its surface glimmered faintly—small flashes of light flickered across its facets, like secret messages whispered into the dark. This was no ordinary relic. Known as the Omni-Cube, it was said to be born from the Origin—the Omni-Universe itself—when nothing else yet existed. Before galaxies, before planets, before time could even be measured, the Cube had already been.
There were only four such artifacts across all of existence. No forge, no god, no mortal hand could ever create another. Possession of even a fragment of its essence could spark wars that spanned countless universes, pulling both deities and mortals into chaos. For even a speck of its energy, when merely observed, granted knowledge and power so vast that gods themselves trembled with hunger for it.
Yet, despite its incomprehensible might, the Cube drifted here—stranded in a universe devoid of energy. Perhaps it had lingered for billions, or even trillions of years. For all its power to shatter worlds and unravel universes, it bore a curse tied to its origin: it could never truly act on its own. To awaken its full will, it needed a master. Until then, it remained in a half-sentient state, driven only by instinct, its strength always bound to the one it chose.
And then—something stirred.
The Cube sensed a distortion close by: a wormhole, forming and trembling in the void. From it radiated an energy unlike anything it had felt in ages. Instinctively, it began to drink from that current, pulling the strange force into itself. A pulse echoed through the Cube—it was awakening.
The wormhole quivered, unstable, threatening to collapse at any moment. For the first time in eons, the Cube felt something close to a decision. It gathered the energy it had absorbed and, with a quiet surge, propelled itself forward. Toward the wormhole. Toward whatever awaited beyond.
Perhaps the time had finally come—
for the Omni-Cube to choose its master, and begin an adventure of its own.
Sometime Ago
Year 2050, Earth
Today was the day. The big one.
For two decades, Aden had lived and breathed a single dream: to finish the final experiment his parents had started before they died. Next week he would turn forty — a detail that felt almost poetic, as though fate had scheduled his milestone to coincide with the edge of their legacy.
He left his apartment early, keys chiming as he locked the government-issued flat he'd occupied for five years. It needed a renovation, of course, but Aden always promised himself life could wait—after the experiment. Maybe then he'd rebuild the place into a home, maybe find someone to share it with. Maybe even start a family. The thought unsettled him; a home meant permanence, meant a life beyond the experiment—something he had never dared allow himself. Small futures stacked behind a single, enormous present.
It had been twenty years since the accident that took his parents. That grief pushed him inward; equations and machinery were easier company than the empty spaces they left. Yet it wasn't only avoidance. He loved the work — and it was theirs. Their theory, their stubborn brilliance. Completing it felt less like finishing a job and more like answering a long, patient call.
If they succeeded today, the world might call it the next great leap after AI or nuclear fusion. His parents had uncovered something extraordinary: during certain nuclear fusion experiments, gravity spiked in strange, uneven bursts — subtle but undeniable distortions. They suggested the possibility of tearing open space-time itself. A wormhole. Aden's mission had been to tame that chaos, to stabilize the rift, to command when it opened and where it led. Today, the lab would decide whether that dream was science… or madness.
In the parking lot, his pride waited: the Mercedes Benz-G 2046. A machine that looked less like a car and more like a sculpted vision of speed. Its body was forged from adaptive graphene alloy, shifting hues under the morning light, half cyberpunk armor, half flowing elegance. Its angular frame echoed Tesla's old Cybertruck, but with the refinement of a classic Benz-Z silhouette. The wheels weren't wheels at all — carbon-net gyroscopic rings that hovered millimeters off the ground, adjusting seamlessly to terrain. Five years of savings and relentless stubbornness had earned him this machine, and every time Aden saw it, he felt he was already driving into the future.
As he neared, the car chimed, "Face Scan Successful," and the door slid open. He settled into the driver's seat; most of the time the notion of "driving" was ceremonial anyway.
"Good morning, Aden," the car's AI, Aqua, said. "You're early. Heading to the lab—or somewhere else today?"
He gave a faint smile. "Still the lab. Today's the day. We finally test the experiment."
"That's wonderful news. Best of luck."
"Thanks, Aqua. I'll drive myself today. Switch to manual — road mode. Give me the wheel."
"As you wish."
The car's suspended chassis shifted smoothly from auto-navigation into full driver control. From the seamless dashboard, a steering column extended outward, reshaping itself into a wheel that locked into place with a soft click. Aden wrapped his hands around it, feeling a rare satisfaction in control.
He guided the machine onto the highway, the graphene alloy body humming as the carbon-net gyroscopic wheels adjusted to the road beneath. For thirty uninterrupted minutes, he drove in silence — the horizon stretching endlessly ahead, the hum of power beneath him steady as a heartbeat.
At last, the government's secure zone came into view: a barren stretch too dangerous for the public and too secret for spies. Drones stitched the sky above, their scanners sharp enough to erase intruders in seconds. Had his clearance failed, Aden knew he would already be ash on the wind.
The gate recognized his credentials and sighed open. He drove into the bunker disguised as a single-story building; in truth, it plunged five levels under ground.
At the entrance a humanoid robot — ZX-90 — stood at attention.
"Good morning, Aden," it intoned. "Preparations are complete per your protocols. However — there is a complication. Rosy has arrived at the lab."
The name stopped him. His heartbeat stuttered.
ZX-90 continued, "As your assistant scientist, she holds higher access privileges. I could not prevent her entry. Only you can decide how to proceed."
Rosy. Of all people.
He'd sworn he didn't need family or friends, and then Rosy had been everywhere. The daughter of his parents' closest friends, she'd been with him since childhood. Over the years their bond had quietly shifted into something more — unsaid, evident. He knew she loved him, and he'd kept putting the experiment between them. Maybe if the experiment worked, he told himself, he could stop avoiding the rest of life.
"Hey Aden, everything okay?" ZX-90 asked, pulling him back to the present.
"Nothing," he said too quickly. "Finish preparations. We can't risk a last-minute hitch. I'll handle Rosy myself."
He stepped into the lift toward the underflow — the deepest level where the machine waited, and where Rosy might be hiding. The doors closed; he pressed -5. The descent was swift and unsettling. When the lift stopped, a sequence of sealed doors opened, each thicker than the last, until at last the main laboratory hall yawned before him.
The lab was colossal — nearly a thousand square meters — with a central apparatus that looked less like a machine and more like a metal titan: a structure almost a hundred meters wide and twenty high, its veins threaded with thick cables that pulsed faintly. Hundreds of robots scurried, their arms clanging, welding, adjusting.
He scanned the bustle and found her.
Rosy — brown hair glinting under lab lights, sharp blue eyes focused, cheekbones lit in the sterile glow. She wore a crisp white coat, but her attention was locked on a robot crouched before her. Unlike the others, this one bore no serial number, no government seal. Its surface plating looked older, patched together, and its circuits pulsed with an odd, irregular rhythm.
Rosy's fingers danced rapidly across her handheld controller, adjusting and recalibrating as though she had just uncovered something that didn't belong. A faint frown tugged at her lips, the kind she wore when solving a puzzle that smelled of danger.
"Rosy!" Aden called, his voice sharp. "Can we talk — privately?"
She gave the machine one last, almost reluctant glance, then patted its cold metal casing. "We'll continue later," she murmured to it—not to him—before turning. Her smile flickered, fragile as sunrise breaking through storm clouds—a light that could vanish at any moment.
"Good morning, Aden. You're looking good today. What's up? Anything wrong?"
"Don't 'what's up' me like this is normal," he snapped. "You know today no other humans are allowed in the lab except me. It's too risky. You should leave."
Her smile slid away. "Why shouldn't I be here? If it's dangerous for me, it's dangerous for you. Why do you get to stay?"
"You know why. I need to see this myself. To finish what my parents started."
"Then so do I," she said simply. "I'll stay until the end."
He knew arguing was pointless. Before he could say more, a thunderous boom rolled through the chamber — machines waking as one. The floor thrummed beneath them. Overhead speakers cut in, urgent and clipped:
"Professor Aden, initial procedures are complete. We require your immediate attention. Repeat—your immediate attention is required."
He turned to Rosy. "Fine. You'll stay. But when the experiment begins you'll be in the observation room. From there you can evacuate if anything goes wrong."
She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but he strode to the central control panel instead, its lights already blinking as if impatient for the answer.