"Yay, we're back home!" Nefri's delighted voice rang out as the door to the apartment hissed open. The smart lock recognized their biometrics with a soft chime, and the lights flickered on automatically. Compared to the cramped, utilitarian boxes most families were forced to live in during this era, their home was spacious—a rare luxury of wide windows and open floor space. Warm light from the hallway spilled across polished composite floors, gleaming faintly like moonlit water.
"Go change your clothes," Pash said, his own voice calm and slightly weary after a long day. "I'll whip up something for you to eat."
The sensors in the ceiling brightened as they detected the pair's heat signatures, casting a warm golden glow over the modern furniture.
"Okay! La la la laaa…" Nefri sang, skipping toward her room with a rhythm only a child could maintain after a full day out.
"Ha… what a stressful day," pash muttered from behind them as he closed the door. His shoulders sagged beneath his schoolbag. "Mr. Whitaker is taking this way too seriously. Is it a sin for my grades to drop a little?"
He rubbed his temples and sighed, sinking into the futon in the living room. "I'll just… try to improve them. At least so he doesn't tell Mom. I wouldn't want her to worry too much."
The cushions accepted his weight with a soft sigh. He leaned back and glanced at the wall screen. "Fin, turn on the TV."
His personal AI answered in a neutral, melodious tone. "Yes, pash."
In this age, nearly everyone had a personal AI. Advanced enough to anticipate needs yet bonded to a single user's biometrics, these AIs were like invisible companions, always present as long as a power source and scanner were within range.
The television came alive with a quiet hum, casting shifting blues across the room. A polished news set appeared, presenters framed in the cold gleam of studio lights.
"Welcome to the News Broadcasting Channel—NBC," said a woman in a sharp, slate-gray suit. Her voice carried the clipped authority of someone used to commanding attention. "We bring you the week's latest updates."
Her expression hardened as the screen behind her flashed urgent red. "The Kaijus have struck yet again, reducing an entire city to ruins. The attack occurred earlier today; victims had no warning before devastation swept through. The death toll is already estimated in the thousands. Sources indicate the perpetrator may be the same entity responsible for last year's New-Tokyo incident."
The camera panned to her co-anchor, a broad-shouldered man with a grave expression. "Mike, what is your take on the military's inability to contain these creatures? These incidents are becoming alarmingly common."
"Thanks, Salami," he said, voice low and measured. "The military is facing an unprecedented challenge. Fighting on two fronts is no easy feat…" His words trailed into analysis of strategy and resource shortages, but the tension in his eyes spoke louder than anything he said.
"Brother Bast?" A small, sweet voice snapped Pash's attention from the screen.
"Huh?" He turned toward the doorway.
"I want to watch Rico Animations," Nefri said, her eyes bright with expectation. The cartoon was her favorite.
Pash chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Right, right. I forgot I promised you a snack too."
She giggled as his hand tousled her dark curls. Her laughter lingered in the air like a tiny bell.
In the kitchen, Pash queued one of his favorite post-century tracks—"Just Friends" by Hayden James and Matthew. The pulsing beat filled the space, a soft but insistent rhythm that echoed through the smart speakers. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he reached for ingredients.
"I've got a few hours before Mom and Dad get back," he murmured, setting out vegetables and spices. The familiar routine of cooking soothed him, each movement deliberate: the whisper of a knife through greens, the hiss of oil warming in the pan. Outside the window, neon city lights flickered like distant stars.
---
Three Hours Later
The Galal family gathered around a moderately sized dining table, the warm aroma of Pash's cooking filling the room. Conversation hummed like a gentle current.
"Nefri, how was your class presentation?" their father asked, his voice carrying both authority and quiet affection. His neatly trimmed beard was touched with silver, faint wrinkles etching the corners of his eyes—marks of both age and the endless stress of his work.
"It was good, Dad," Nefri said proudly. "I did it just how you showed me. My teacher said mine was the best!" She lifted her glass with a triumphant grin, sipping water as though it were a victory toast.
"And you, Pash?" their father turned, peering at him over slim spectacles like a professor questioning a student.
"Nothing new. Same old, same old," Pash replied, focusing on his food as though it held all the world's secrets.
Their mother, elegant yet approachable, savored a bite. "Pash, honey, your cooking is marvelous," she said, a little sigh of delight escaping as she reached for another forkful.
"So, young man," his father continued, scrolling through glowing messages projected on the dining table's glass surface, "have you decided who you'll invite to your eighteenth birthday party?"
Pash groaned inwardly. "I don't know. It's not that big of a deal. We don't have to celebrate, you know."
"You know why we're doing this," his mother interjected gently. "You've never had a real birthday before. We want you to have one."
He exhaled, defeated. "Ha. I know."
"Make sure to invite Sister Caoimhe!" Nefri chimed in, swinging her legs beneath the table.
"Speaking of Caoimhe," their father said, looking up, "how is she? I spoke to her father at work today."
Both parents were military engineers, architects of the aircraft and flying vehicles that kept humanity's defenses alive. Their positions allowed the Galals to live comfortably in Foxtrot City—a mid-tier settlement that wasn't the best, but at least was safe. For now.
---
Far Beyond Earth
Across the void, the Scryvian homeworld glimmered like a dark jewel, its cities piercing the heavens with spires of unimaginable technology. No human eyes had ever witnessed its marvels.
Inside the tallest tower, a chamber stretched toward infinity. A Scryvian knelt on cold obsidian, head bowed low. Before him sat a figure larger than the others, his presence shrouded in shadow so deep it seemed to swallow the light itself.
"My lord, it is time," the subordinate said in a language alien to any spoken on Earth. His voice quivered despite his effort to remain composed. "The coordinates are set. We await your order."
The being on the throne stirred. For the first time since the audience began, he opened his eyes—twin coals of icy brilliance. Silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until the air itself seemed to vibrate.
Then he spoke.
BOOOOM.
The sound was not mere noise but a force, a wave of raw energy that rippled outward. The kneeling Scryvian felt his skin prickle and his bones tremble.
"Proceed as planned," the figure intoned, each word carrying the weight of galaxies.
"Yes, my lord." The subordinate rose, bowing once more before retreating.
Alone, the dark figure tilted his head, a thin smile breaking the shadow. "Finally," he whispered, a voice like steel dragged across stone. "After so long… the Earth shall bleed red." His pupils flared cyan, a mark of the most formidable among their kind.
---
Destination: Earth
Location: Classified
Deep beneath layers of reinforced alloy and protective fields, in one of the most secure facilities on the planet, an old woman painted in quiet concentration. Her strokes were deliberate, her brush gliding across a massive canvas. Though her hand trembled with age, each motion was filled with purpose.
The heavy door groaned open. A man entered, his silhouette sharp against the sterile glow.
"You are right on time," the woman said without turning. Her voice carried a knowing warmth, as if she had expected him all along. "I thought you'd miss this masterpiece."
"I don't want your tricks or riddles," the man said, tension coiling in his words. "Just tell me where the boy is, Celine."
The woman clicked her tongue. "Children these days no longer pay respect to their elders."
"I didn't come here for a lecture. You, of all people, know the stakes. The fate of the world depends on our actions. We don't know when they will strike again." His jaw tightened, frustration radiating off him.
"Calm your horses, boy," Celine said softly, still painting. "We must tread carefully. The past, the present, and the future are all bound in a delicate balance."
"…"
She suddenly stopped. A slow smile curved her lips. "It seems the future is upon us, as I said before, Charlie."
She turned at last, revealing the nearly finished painting.
"If we would preserve what we hold dear, we must entrust it to the very forces from which we would defend it. Fate alone will tell which survives."
Her canvas came alive: six figures clad in godly armor, their stances defiant. One among them stood out, more beast than man, yet undeniably central.
Charlie's eyes widened, drawn into the vision.
Celine stepped back into the shadows of her chamber, her robes whispering against the stone floor. Just before she disappeared from sight, her voice floated back, a final enigma:
"The boy is not lost, nor longing to be found; in the coming days, his voice will resound."
********