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By: OrderNerd
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New Dawn - [ Six Hours Before the Rupture ] -
Neo Dawn gleamed like a beacon on the horizon, a city that never slept. Towers of glass and steel rose like spears against the firmament, wrapped in flashing holographic ads that danced in garish colors—selling everything from state-of-the-art weapons to cosmetics promising eternal youth.
On suspended highways, hover-vehicles streamed in endless lines, guided by automated systems humming with mathematical precision. Far below, in the congested streets, crowds shoved past one another between food stalls, holographic gambling screens, and corporate police in gray armor patrolling every corner.
It was a city of brutal contrasts: above the artificial clouds, the elevated districts housed hanging gardens, glass domes, and mansions that scraped the skies; while in the underlevels, where sunlight never reached, alleys reeked of rust, toxic fumes, and forgotten corpses.
Corporations controlled every aspect of life. Bank accounts, medicine, transport, security—everything had a price, and each contract was an invisible shackle. Those born at the top breathed the luxury of the towers; those born in the slums fought not to be swallowed by the poisoned asphalt.
At the heart of Neo Dawn stood the Pandora Corporation, a fortress of black steel and reflective glass that stretched like an obelisk into the artificial clouds. It was more than a building—it was the city's war engine, where military innovations were born, fleets were forged, and contracts capable of shaping entire continents were signed.
It was there that Mark Ravener had built his life.
Born in the underlevels, in streets where the sun never shone, he grew up surrounded by rust and scrap. What others saw as junk, he saw as opportunity. Since childhood, he dismantled and rebuilt broken machines, creating something new out of almost nothing. This instinct, coupled with a sharp mind, carried him from obscurity to the chair of chief engineer in one of the most respected military departments on the megacontinent.
Mark had achieved what many deemed impossible.
Yet to the elite, he remained an intruder in the world of glass towers. His talent was undeniable, but his origins—unforgivable.
It was in the middle of reports and prototypes that the message came.
A simple notification on his communicator:
"We need to talk. Meet me at Solaris Café, 9 Pm. "
Signed: Ellani Iro.
Mark stared at the screen for a long moment, as if the words carried more weight than they should. With a heavy sigh, he shut the device off and adjusted his coat.
That night, beneath the neon-stained rain of the great city, something didn't feel righ.
(...)
The Solaris Café was located in Neo Dawn's central quadrant, one of the most glamorous areas of the city. Among façades adorned with holographic lights and showcases displaying suspended cars like jewels, Solaris stood as a discreet refuge of luxury.
Mark stepped through the entrance, his coat still damp from the fine drizzle falling over the city. The aroma of synthetic coffee mixed with artificial spices embraced him, and for a moment, he felt out of place. Black marble tables and patrons dressed in flawless suits were a cruel reminder that this wasn't his world—no matter how much he had achieved.
But she was there.
Ellani Iro, elegant as always, her silver hair reflecting the café's amber glow. Her violet eyes lifted as they found him—but there was no warmth in them. Only a rehearsed coldness, too deliberate to be casual.
"Mark…" her voice came low, carrying something he recognized instantly.
He approached slowly, pulled out the chair, and sat across from her. A suffocating silence hung between them until Ellani drew a breath and said:
"I can't continue with you."
The words fell like blades. Mark remained motionless, but inside, his chest tightened. Ellani averted her gaze, as if seeking courage anywhere but in his eyes.
"There's someone else…" she continued, her voice faltering for just a second. "Someone who can give me the future I deserve."
Mark's fists clenched against the table, his jaw tight. Before he could answer, a shadow fell beside her.
A tall man, his blond hair perfectly combed, wearing a tailored suit and a smug smile. The heir of the pharmaceutical conglomerate.
"I hope you're not bothering my fiancée, Ravener," he said, his tone dripping with disdain.
Mark's golden eyes glared at him, but he kept silent.
The heir leaned closer, whispering just for him to hear:
"You know what the problem with rats from the slums is? You may climb all the way up, but the stench of rust never leaves your skin."
Mark drew a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore it.
But then came the final blow.
"Your mother… at least she must be proud you crawled out of the hole you were born in, huh?"
The crack rang before Mark even realized it.
His fist tore through the air and crashed into the man's face with brutal force, sending him sprawling to the floor amid gasps of shock.
For a heartbeat, Solaris Café froze.
Glasses stopped midair, every head turned, and the buzz of elegant conversations was devoured by heavy silence. Wealthy patrons stared with judging eyes—some muttering under their breath, others wearing only expressions of disdain. To them, the reason didn't matter: Mark had just confirmed the stigma that haunted him.
Ellani rushed to the fallen man's side, panic etched on her face.
Mark rose, chest heaving, and looked at her one last time.
"You disgust me."
He turned and walked away, his heavy steps echoing against the marble floor.
Behind him, the heir's voice cut through the silence, hoarse and dripping with venom:
"I'll destroy you, Ravener! You'll never know peace in this city again!"
(...)
The rain fell fine over Neo Dawn as Mark stepped into his car. Neon lights shimmered on the windshield, distorted by the water, as if the entire city mocked him. He started the engine, pressed the accelerator, and left Solaris Café behind without looking back.
The drive back to Pandora Corporation passed in silence. On the streets, exhausted workers were dismissed from endless shifts; some recognized him and nodded in gratitude for the early release. He only returned the gesture with a faint motion of his head, saying nothing.
Soon, he was inside the colossal building, climbing up to his office. He tossed his coat onto the chair, pulled a beer can from the small freezer, and dropped into the seat. One sip. The bitterness wasn't only from the drink—it was the burn of anger still gnawing inside him.
Unable to calm down, he left the can half-empty and descended to the South Warehouse.
It wasn't part of Pandora's gleaming corridors of glass and steel. The South Warehouse defied the immaculate corporate image—an isolated sector, almost forgotten, meant for discarded prototypes, discontinued parts, and projects frozen mid-development. The air reeked of burned oil and cold metal, lit only by failing yellow lamps that flickered in uneven rhythm.
Mark had access to the place because of the weight his position carried. It hadn't been easy: he had paid dearly to acquire rights to one condemned project. In return, he was allowed to keep the prototype here—restricted to this forgotten depot, far from Pandora's official reports.
To the executives, it was just expensive junk.
To Mark, it was an unfinished dream.
At the center of the warehouse rested the Titan Rover.
A colossal vehicle, its reinforced chassis forged from experimental alloys, supported by six independent wheels—each equipped with hydraulic suspension designed for extreme terrains. Its structure allowed it to function both as a reconnaissance truck on hostile planets and as a modular locomotive, capable of attaching carriages to transport supplies on a massive scale.
The Titan Rover had been conceived for long-range planetary exploration, a versatile replacement for ground convoys. Its interior was fitted with sealed compartments, air-recycling systems, even space for a reduced crew. In theory, it could cross silicon deserts, frozen seas, or lunar craters with the same efficiency.
But the project never left the paper.
Not because of the design—but the energy. For the Rover to reach its full potential, each unit required a portable thermonuclear reactor—the same technology used to power starships and war mechs. The corporation deemed it unfeasible to waste such valuable energy sources on terrestrial vehicles.
And so, the Titan Rover was shelved.
Another dream suffocated under the weight of profit margins.
But Mark could never abandon it. He bought the prototype and kept it here, returning to it whenever he needed to lose himself in something greater than himself. He adjusted circuits, reinforced panels, imagined alternative energy solutions. To him, it was more than a machine—it was a metaphor for his life. A proof that even rejected projects could rise again, if someone had the courage to keep going.
That night, the engineer let his fingers run along the Rover's metallic side, feeling the cold steel.
He rolled up his sleeves, pulled a toolbox close, and switched on the auxiliary lights. Cables snaked across the floor, screens lit up with lines of code and diagrams.
"Suspension stability:ninety-two percent… recalibrating hydraulic actuators…" he muttered, typing rapidly. "Flux condensers still below optimal. If only I could stabilize transfer without energy loss…"
He slid under the colossal frame with a torque wrench, tightening bolts, adjusting valves, wiping grease from components. Every movement demanded strength, and his muscles responded as if seeking relief in the repetitive labor.
For many, it was heavy work.
For Mark, it was therapy.
The metallic rhythm of tools drowned out the echoes of memory—the faces, the words that still burned in his mind. Here, alone with the Rover, he could pretend the outside world didn't exist.
Hours passed. Sweat dripped down his forehead, the beer forgotten on the workbench gone flat. Yet the Titan Rover stirred with faint signs of life: test engines rumbled low, interior lights flickered for a heartbeat before dying again. Mark allowed himself a crooked smile.
"You're still breathing, old friend. You just need a new heart." He tapped the metallic hull lightly, as if the machine could hear.
Then the sound changed.
The warehouse lights flickered, and a deafening siren roared through the loudspeakers. A robotic voice echoed coldly across the space:
"Attention. Emergency level red. All personnel must evacuate immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill."
Mark pulled his coat on, his hands still stained with grease, and hurried through the narrow corridors without a second thought.
The ground shook beneath his feet. At every corner, he crossed armed guards sprinting in the opposite direction, rifles in hand, faces tense. Radios crackled with chaotic orders:
"Delta team, contain the perimeter!"
"Report from the east sector, now!"
"Reinforcements at the main entrance, move!"
Mark didn't know what was happening, but the fear in their eyes told him enough.
Overhead, lamps sputtered, strobing light and shadow. Boots thundered against the metal floor, sirens shrieked without pause. He reached a wider hall—the inner lobby of Pandora—where technicians dropped files in panic, drones swarmed overhead in tight formation, projecting red warnings across the walls.
His heartbeat hammered in his chest, but instinct screamed only one thing: get out.
Finally, he reached the main entrance. Towering automatic doors, ten meters high, yawned open to the storm outside. Soldiers scrambled into formation, barking orders drowned by the pounding rain. Military helicopters roared above, their spotlights carving through the dark sky, desperately trying to illuminate what hid beyond the clouds.
Mark looked up.
The clouds churned unnaturally, swirling into black spirals as if some unseen vortex was tearing the heavens apart. Violet lightning cracked across the skyline, reflecting in the glass of skyscrapers, thunder booming like artillery fire.
From the streets below came screams. Civilians pointed skyward, horror carved into their faces. Mark followed their gaze, but all he saw was darkness convulsing in the sky—something forcing its way through.
A chill crawled down his spine.
And then, the world trembled.
First, a hollow shudder, like a blow struck deep within the planet's core. Then a deep roar that made the very air vibrate. The ground lurched under everyone's feet. Panels shattered from the ceiling, support beams groaned like breaking bones.
Mark grabbed the nearest wall, but the entire structure gave way. A fissure ripped through the lobby, concrete splitting like glass under pressure. The floor collapsed beneath him, dragging his body down with shards of steel, screams, and dust.
Light vanished. He was swallowed by the dark.
The fall felt endless. Wind howled in his ears, mingling with the roar of collapsing infrastructure. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch—each shard of concrete, each steel bar plummeting alongside him suspended in a slow-motion whirl.
Then came the impact.
His body crashed through a rusted grate and slammed onto jagged ground. A twisted rod of metal pierced his side, tearing flesh and muscle, lodging deep between his ribs. Pain exploded, hot and searing, ripping a hoarse cry from his throat.
Above, the lobby was gone. Shadows swallowed a subterranean chamber he had never seen in Pandora's schematics. The collapsed ceiling scattered debris across the floor. Among the dust, he glimpsed crushed bodies in white coats—scientists pinned beneath fallen beams, hands still clutching shattered tablets and clipboards, caught mid-analysis.
Mark tried to move, but the steel bar pinned him to the ground. Blood poured hot down his flank, each breath shorter than the last.
That was when he noticed the light.
At the chamber's center, half-buried in rubble, a containment cylinder lay cracked open. Within it floated an object that didn't belong in this world—an artifact, spherical and pulsating, etched with glowing azure inscriptions. Fragments of its broken shell drifted weightlessly around it, as though gravity itself bent in its presence.
Then came the burn.
A wave of heat surged through his veins, searing like acid beneath the skin.
He gasped, staring at his arms.
His flesh writhed on its own. Veins blackened, ink spreading through them, muscles twisting at impossible angles. Claws began to push from his fingertips, tearing skin with rivulets of blood.
"What… what's happening to me?!" His voice cracked between sobs of pain.
His chest swelled too far, bones snapping under the pressure, his own body tearing itself apart from within. Mark screamed, trying to hold himself together, powerless as agony consumed him.
That was when the artifact reacted.
The fractured cylinder hissed, unleashing a shrill resonance. Beams of light swept the chamber, skimming over the crushed scientists. Voices followed—not human, but metallic, layered tones in alien cadence, as though some machine tried to parse an unknowable language.
Then the light fixed on him.
The voice shifted, adjusting, until clarity cut through the noise:
"Potential host identified. Integrity compromised. Genetic anomaly detected. Initiating containment."
The artifact flared, fragments liquefying into a torrent of metallic particles. They swarmed him like a living storm, forcing through his wounds, his pores, his eyes, even his mouth.
Mark shrieked as the swarm invaded, his mind splitting between panic and delirium. Amid the chaos of voices and pain, something else took form—another presence, directly inside his mind.
Before the darkness finally claimed him, he heard the words:
"Initializing Protocol: CORTANA."
And then, oblivion.
(Continue..)
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