UNKNOWN FRACTURE REALITY
Time: Unmeasurable
Status: Hostile
The sky was wrong.
Not dark.
Not stormy.
Alive.
Red lightning crawled across the clouds like veins beneath torn flesh, illuminating a land that looked half-burned, half-forgotten. The ground beneath Ghost was cracked obsidian, glowing faintly between the fractures as if heat still bled from beneath the surface. Every breath tasted metallic. Every sound echoed twice—once in the air, once inside his skull.
Ghost pushed himself onto one knee.
Pain screamed through his body in waves, sharp and disorienting. His suit was scorched, plating warped, HUD flickering with corrupted data streams that meant nothing here. Gravity felt heavier, like the world itself was pressing him down, testing whether he deserved to stand.
He forced himself upright.
The wind howled across the plains, carrying whispers that weren't quite voices—but weren't silence either.
He had felt this before.
Not this place.
But this feeling.
The moment after the fire.
The moment he crawled out alone.
Ghost checked his weapons.
Rifle: damaged but functional.
Blade: intact.
Ammo: limited.
Comms: dead.
No squad.
No extraction.
No sky he recognized.
Just him.
And the red world.
He turned slowly, scanning the horizon.
Ruins stretched endlessly—twisted metal skeletons of structures that looked half-military, half-organic. Towers leaned at impossible angles, fused into the terrain as if the land itself had grown around them. In the distance, massive silhouettes loomed, unmoving, watching.
Ghost's instincts screamed danger.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not rushed.
Not careless.
Measured.
Ghost pivoted, blade coming up instinctively.
Rook emerged from the red fog.
He looked… changed.
His armor was cracked and scorched like Ghost's, but where Ghost's suit was damaged, Rook's seemed integrated—as if the fractures were part of it now. His visor glowed faintly crimson, not reflecting light but emitting it.
He walked like this place belonged to him.
"You're alive," Ghost said, voice rough.
Rook tilted his head. "Disappointed?"
Ghost didn't answer.
Rook gestured around them. "Welcome to the fracture, Simon. The place between what was and what should've been."
Ghost's grip tightened on his blade. "This place isn't real."
Rook smiled.
"That's what Dominion said too."
The ground trembled faintly, like something massive shifting beneath the surface.
Ghost glanced toward the distant ruins. "You brought us here."
Rook nodded. "You opened the door. I just stepped through."
Ghost stepped closer. "Send us back."
Rook's smile faded.
"There is no back," he said quietly. "Not the way you want it."
The air grew heavier. The whispers in the wind sharpened, forming fragments of sound—broken radio chatter, screams cut short, orders half-finished.
Ghost froze.
He recognized those voices.
Rook watched him closely. "You hear them too."
Ghost didn't deny it.
The fog ahead thickened, rolling low across the cracked ground. Shapes moved within it—tall, distorted silhouettes that twitched unnaturally as they approached.
Five figures emerged.
Five shadows.
Each one wore the ruined outline of familiar armor.
Each one moved with the same trained precision Ghost had drilled into them years ago.
His chest tightened.
"No," Ghost whispered.
The first figure stepped forward.
Its helmet was melted, visor shattered—but Ghost knew the stance instantly.
Corporal Hayes.
Dead in the fire.
Another stepped beside him, limping, one arm hanging wrong.
Sergeant Malkov.
Another.
Two more.
His unit.
The ones he buried.
The ones he never went back for.
The ones who screamed through the smoke while he dragged himself into the night.
They stopped ten meters away.
They didn't raise weapons.
They just stood there.
Watching.
Ghost's hands trembled—not with fear, but with something worse.
Recognition.
Rook's voice was calm, almost gentle. "Dominion didn't just kill them, Simon. They archived them. Copied neural patterns. Pain. Memory. Loyalty."
"They're not real," Ghost growled.
Rook nodded. "They are enough."
The first shadow spoke.
Its voice crackled like a burned radio.
"Why didn't you come back?"
Ghost staggered.
Another voice joined in—overlapping, distorted.
"We waited."
"We called."
"We burned."
Ghost dropped to one knee, blade scraping against the stone.
"I tried," he said through clenched teeth. "I tried to go back."
Rook stepped closer. "But you didn't."
The figures advanced one step.
Ghost rose slowly.
"I didn't know where you were," he said. "The fire spread too fast. The ceiling—"
"It doesn't matter," one of them interrupted.
Their voices overlapped now, a chorus of accusation.
"You lived."
"You left."
"You became Ghost."
The wind howled louder. Red lightning split the sky overhead, striking the ruins behind them and sending shockwaves through the ground.
Rook watched, silent.
Testing.
Ghost raised his blade—but hesitated.
These weren't enemies.
They were wounds.
The first shadow moved suddenly.
Fast.
Too fast.
Ghost barely blocked the strike, metal screeching as blade met blade. The impact sent him skidding backward across the obsidian ground. The others surged forward, coordinated, relentless.
Ghost fought on instinct—parry, counter, roll—but every movement felt heavier, slower, like the world itself resisted him.
He took a hit to the ribs. Another to the shoulder.
Pain flared white-hot.
"Fight back!" one of them snarled.
Ghost roared, slashing wide and forcing distance.
"I won't kill you," he shouted.
Rook's voice cut in sharply. "Then this world will."
The shadows attacked again.
This time Ghost didn't just defend.
He ran.
He sprinted across the fractured plains, dodging debris as the ground shifted beneath him. The ruins ahead collapsed inward, forming narrow passages and broken cover. He vaulted over fallen structures, sliding through gaps barely wide enough to pass.
The whispers followed.
Always behind him.
Always close.
Finally, he dove into the shell of a collapsed structure and pressed his back against the wall, breathing hard.
Silence fell.
For three seconds.
Then a new presence filled the air.
Not the shadows.
Something older.
He felt it before he saw it.
The ground ahead split open—not violently, but deliberately. Red light poured out as a massive silhouette rose from beneath the surface. It had no clear shape, no face—just towering limbs and shifting mass, watching with interest.
The air vibrated.
Rook appeared beside Ghost again, unfazed.
"They're not the top predators here," Rook said quietly.
Ghost stared at the thing emerging from the ground.
"What is that?"
Rook's voice dropped.
"A watcher."
The entity's presence pressed against Ghost's mind—not hostile, not friendly.
Curious.
It spoke without words.
You do not belong.
Ghost straightened despite the pressure.
"Neither do you," he said.
The watcher paused.
Then the red lightning above intensified, the sky roaring in response.
Rook smiled faintly.
"See?" he said. "Even this place doesn't know what to do with you."
The shadows began to close in again from the fog.
Ghost tightened his grip on his blade.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was a trial.
And he was still standing.