Country Alpha, Alpine Region
The military headquarters pulsed with urgency. Dozens of screens illuminated the darkened command chamber, their maps splattered with red signals that spread across continents like an unstoppable virus. Each marker meant another city under siege. The air vibrated with alarms, crackling radios, and hurried footsteps pounding against metal floors.
"Sir, sir!" A female soldier sprinted across the operations deck, her voice pitched high with panic. Her uniform clung to her with sweat, and she clutched a tablet as though it were the last piece of order left in the room. She stopped at the central command table, saluting sharply even though her hand trembled. "The Scryvians have broken through Earth's atmosphere. They've already made landfall—there are hits on multiple locations all over the planet!"
For a split second, the room seemed to stop breathing.
"How—how were they able to get through without our notice?" a man on the side muttered, his pale face lit ghostly by the glow of his monitor. The question wasn't meant for an answer; it was the kind of horror whispered into the void when reality broke.
At the head of the chamber stood the man who carried the weight of command like a mantle carved from stone. His presence was heavy, his voice heavier. His goatee was streaked with gray, his shoulders broad beneath his dark uniform, medals glinting faintly on his chest. Age had not softened him—it had sharpened him into a blade.
"Enough," the general's voice cracked through the room like a whip. "Send word. Inform the strike team. Deploy them immediately, pronto."
"Yes, sir!" the operators barked in unison. Fingers flew across keyboards, comms lit up, and the hum of machinery grew frantic.
The general's jaw tightened as he continued, his words like iron. "Reach out to the K.H. forces. Any city within range, they move. We need every soldier, every machine. No hesitation."
He slammed a fist against the table, rattling glasses of water and echoing across the chamber. "I want aid sent immediately!"
Chairs scraped back. Orders cascaded. Maps updated with blinding speed, every new movement displayed like a desperate heartbeat. Yet as the room burned with noise and motion, the general's gaze grew distant, haunted by something beyond tactics and logistics. His voice, when it came again, was quieter but carved deeper into the air.
"It seems… our peaceful days are over."
---
Foxtrot City
Bam! Boom!
The Safe Zone barrier groaned as explosions rippled across its invisible surface, waves of energy distorting the air. The sky beyond was chaos—flashes of violet fire, smoke climbing in columns, and distant silhouettes of Scryvian warforms tearing into the city. The shelter was supposed to be unbreakable, a dome of protection built after the Kaiju wars. But tonight, even its walls trembled under the onslaught.
Inside, civilians crowded into steel-lined corridors. Some cried openly. Others clutched children. The atmosphere smelled of sweat, fear, and recycled air.
In one dimly lit chamber, Fahmy paced like a caged lion. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, his hair damp with sweat. His brow was knotted tight, eyes restless as though sheer worry could will his son into existence.
"Where is that boy?" His voice cracked, raw with agitation. His boots scuffed against the floor as he turned for the hundredth time.
Nouri, his wife, sat close by, her hands folded tightly as though in prayer. She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Don't worry, dear. I know he's fine. He's going to come." Her own voice betrayed her—thin, quivering.
Beside her, little Nefri tugged at her mother's sleeve. The child's eyes were glassy, her cheeks streaked with tears. "Mummy… will brother Bast be all right?" Her small voice broke, barely louder than a whisper.
Nouri smoothed her daughter's hair, swallowing her own dread. "Don't worry, love. Pash is fine."
The door hissed open, and another family rushed inside. A tall man with weary eyes and a thick beard clapped Fahmy's shoulder, relief softening his rugged features. His brown coat was scorched at the edges, his boots caked with soot. Behind him, his wife ushered their two teenage children to safety.
"Mr. Fahmy!" the bearded man said, voice strained but genuine. "I'm glad to see you all in one piece."
"Well…" Fahmy started, but his words faltered.
"Wait—where is Pash?" Caoimhe, one of the teens, asked urgently, her head whipping around the chamber. Her face was pale, her voice sharp with fear.
Fahmy's wife shook her head. "We haven't seen him. When the Scryvians attacked, we tried to find him, but… the streets weren't safe. We had to come back here." Her words trailed off into a heavy silence.
"It's good you came when you did," Caoimhe's father said gravely. He was a broad-shouldered Irishman, his beard thick and unkempt, his heavy brown coat draped across him like armor against despair. "The city's overrun. No one's safe out there."
As his words sank in, a ripple of panic stirred among nearby families who overheard. Mothers clutched children tighter, fathers whispered hurried reassurances.
At that moment, a uniformed soldier hurried past, his boots striking the concrete in quick rhythm. His uniform was rumpled with dust and sweat, his rifle slung across his back.
"Please, soldier—wait," Fahmy called sharply, stepping forward. His voice carried authority even in desperation. The man halted, turning with a stiff posture.
Fahmy pulled a small badge from his jacket pocket, the insignia catching the shelter's dull lights. "I am Major Fahmy, Earth's defense forces."
Recognition flickered across the private's weary face. He straightened immediately and saluted. "Sir!"
"I'm looking for my son," Fahmy said quickly. "He was outside the shelter when the attack began." His words were clipped, but the strain beneath them was unmistakable.
The private hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Sir… the strike force has already deployed into the city. If your boy is hiding, they'll secure the area. If he's caught in the crossfire…" His voice trailed off, but he corrected himself quickly. "The team will do everything they can. If he's alive, he'll be found, sir."
He saluted again, more curtly this time, before jogging away toward his post.
Fahmy exhaled, shoulders sagging with a mixture of hope and dread. His voice dropped into a whisper only his wife could hear.
"Pash… where are you?"
---
7:30 p.m. — Ruins of Foxtrot City
The streets were a graveyard. Rubble lay piled in jagged heaps, glass crunched under every gust of wind, and the acrid scent of smoke mixed with the copper sting of blood. Flames licked at collapsed buildings, painting the night with orange scars. The silence between explosions was worse than the noise—it was the silence of death.
Bimmm… Buzzzz.
A strange vibration hummed through the air, cutting through the chaos. It wasn't mechanical—it was alive, resonant, like the heartbeat of some unseen giant.
Buzz… Buzz…
It came again, steady, calling.
And then, amidst the debris, a body twitched. Torn fabric clung to bloodied flesh. The lower half was gone, seared clean by energy. For a moment, the figure seemed lifeless.
Buzzzz.
His eyes fluttered open. First, they were blank, unfocused. Then, color returned—vision sharpened.
Pash gasped, every breath a knife in his chest. His face was smeared with ash and blood, lips split, one eye nearly swollen shut. Memories crashed back—the blast, the screams, the Scryvian's hand crushing him like a toy, the soldiers firing without hesitation. He should have been dead. He wasn't.
"What… what is that sound?" His voice was hoarse, ragged.
The hum grew stronger, pulling at him. His gaze drifted to the Scryvian vessel nearby—a sleek cube of alien metal, its surface glowing with strange lines. Energy seeped from it in waves that shook his very bones.
Pash tried to move. Pain ripped through him. He glanced down—his legs were gone, burnt to nothing, only one arm left, trembling and raw.
"How… am I still alive?" he croaked, horror dawning.
The vibration grew louder, almost impatient, as if it were calling him.
He clawed at the dirt with his remaining hand. Crawl. Drag. Crawl. Drag. Each movement was agony, leaving a crimson trail behind him. But the closer he got, the calmer the hum became, as though it were guiding him, soothing him.
Minutes stretched like hours. His vision swam. He coughed blood, but he did not stop.
At last, something shifted. From the vessel's side, a metallic object tumbled out. A box—sleek yet ancient, etched with intricate patterns that shimmered with otherworldly light. Its edges glowed, the surface vibrating with a power barely contained. Cracks formed, releasing bursts of orange energy that lit the rubble like firelight.
Pash froze, breath caught in his throat. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Alien.
"Just… a little… bit more…" He dragged himself forward, muscles screaming, skin tearing. His fingertips reached, trembling, stretching—
And then his strength failed. His hand fell short. His body collapsed, head thudding against the ground. His eyes fluttered, breath shallow, as the box pulsed bimmer.
Darkness threatened to swallow him whole.
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