Archive Entry: 2119-A.E.
Subject World: Veyrion
Location: Andromeda
Dr. Adrian sat alone in the records room, the lights dimmed to archival levels. The diary lay open in front of him, its pages digitized long ago but preserved in their original format. He wasn't reading it for the first time. He was reading it again—slowly, carefully.
Year 2102.
First recorded appearance of a spatial fracture above Veyrion.
No associated energy surge detected.
No entities observed.
Fracture remained stable.
Adrian scrolled down.
Year 2103.
Spatial fracture unchanged.
First entity emergence recorded.
Civilian response uncoordinated.
Casualties: 903.
He paused briefly, then continued.
Year 2104.
Second entity emergence.
Early warning protocols partially effective.
Casualties reduced.
Casualties: 229.
The entries that followed were shorter, more procedural.
2105–2109.
Multiple low-tier entity appearances.
Response efficiency increased annually.
Casualties decreased with each incident.
The pattern was clear. Too clear.
Adrian stopped when he reached the next marked section.
Year 2110.
High-risk entity emergence.
Containment failure across three zones.
Military intervention authorized.
Casualties: in excess of several thousand.
Below it, the tone of the record changed.
Emergency resource reallocation.
Threat reclassified as planetary-level.
Long-term countermeasure development approved.
He continued reading.
Development of a spatial seal initiated.
Seal parameters:
— Allows passage of low-level entities only.
— Higher-order entities detected and terminated upon contact.
Lower-level entities captured for study.
Containment facilities established worldwide.
Adrian leaned back slightly. For nearly a decade after that, the entries followed the same controlled rhythm. The fracture remained. Entities appeared. Most were filtered. The rest were studied. The world adapted.
Too well.
"That's some heavy reading for a day like this."
The voice came from behind him.
Adrian turned slightly as Dr. Marcus Hale stepped into the room, a cup of coffee in one hand, expression casual.
"Why go through old disaster records now?" Marcus continued. "Especially today."
Adrian didn't answer immediately. His eyes returned to the diary.
"I'm looking for a pattern," he said finally.
Marcus took a sip. "You think no one else has done that already?"
"Maybe they have," Adrian replied. "Still… I've felt uneasy lately."
Marcus smiled faintly. "You're not uneasy. You're thinking too much."
He moved closer and tapped a control panel. The wall display shifted, showing a live feed from outside.
Crowds filled the streets below. Music, banners, public figures waving from elevated platforms. It was a festival—annual, planned, celebrated. Above the city, the fracture was visible in the sky, suspended and contained within a complex lattice of light. The seal held steady, its structure layered and precise, like an invisible cage wrapped around damaged space.
"Look at that," Marcus said. "Everyone's celebrating. The crack's sealed. It's been stable for years."
He glanced back at Adrian. "Why stay buried in here? Go enjoy the day. Spend time with your family."
Adrian watched the screen silently.
"And even if you do find something," Marcus added, lowering his voice slightly, "what then? We don't make decisions at that level. We're low-ranking officials. Observation, analysis—that's it."
Adrian closed the diary.
"…You're right," he said. "There's nothing we can do."
He stood, casting one last glance at the archived entries.
"Other than wait."
The display continued to show the celebration outside, the sealed fracture hanging quietly above the city as the noise of the crowd rose.
---
The streets were full long before nightfall.
People gathered across open plazas and elevated walkways, many wearing light bands around their wrists that pulsed softly with color. Food stalls lined the streets, steam rising into the air as vendors called out to passing crowds. Music echoed from mounted speakers and floating platforms, rhythmic and steady, familiar enough that no one stopped to listen closely.
It was the same celebration held every year.
Above it all, the fracture in the sky remained visible—contained within the sealed formation. The structure surrounding it glowed a calm blue, its layered geometry steady and unchanged. Most people barely looked at it anymore.
Fireworks began as scheduled.
Bursts of light bloomed high above the city, scattering into complex patterns before fading. The crowd responded with cheers and applause, faces lifted, eyes reflecting color.
Near the edge of one plaza, a woman stood with her son, his small hand wrapped tightly around hers. He leaned forward, eyes wide, following the lights as they spread across the sky.
"It's beautiful," he said. "Better than last year."
She smiled. "You say that every year."
"But this one really is," he insisted, bouncing slightly. "Look how bright it is."
She laughed softly, watching the fireworks. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
The next burst flared brighter than the others.
The child squinted. "Mom… that one looks strange."
She followed his gaze briefly, still relaxed. "Fireworks always look different."
"No," he said, tugging at her hand. "That one. It's red."
She frowned. "Red? It's blue."
He shook his head. "No, look. It's getting brighter. And bigger."
She turned properly this time.
Her smile faded.
The glow wasn't part of the fireworks. It wasn't spreading outward and disappearing. It was concentrating—deepening in color. The sealed formation around the fracture flickered once, almost imperceptibly.
The woman's face drained of color. Sweat formed along her temples as she tightened her grip on her son's hand.
"Don't move," she said quietly.
The noise of the crowd continued, unaware.
High above them, the fracture in the fabric of space brightened. The blue containment field strained as red light spread through the crack, branching and shifting as if something inside was pressing outward. The edges of the fracture rippled, no longer static, no longer passive.
It was moving.
From within the red glow, a point of light formed—small, dense, no larger than a bean. It passed through the sealed formation without resistance, as if the barrier did not exist.
For a moment, it hovered.
Then alarms began to sound.
---
For fifteen years, the crack had existed.
It was not always visible. At times, it appeared as no more than a thin fracture suspended above the planet, barely detectable unless observed directly. The surrounding space showed minor distortions, enough to confirm instability but not enough to trigger an immediate response. During those years, only a limited number of entities had emerged. Few in number, but each incident resulted in large-scale damage. Surviving entities were captured, studied, and placed in long-term containment.
This time, the crack returned **different**.
It did not fluctuate as it had before.
It emitted a constant red glow.
Energy readings spiked as red patterns spread across the fracture, expanding beyond previously recorded limits. The crack widened at a rate faster than any earlier event. Observation stations detected the change seconds before alarms activated across the network.
An entity emerged.
It did not descend or materialize gradually. It forced its way through the fracture, its structure unstable and partially undefined. Visual and sensor data failed to classify it within existing parameters. Before coordinated countermeasures could be deployed, the crack began to close.
Not by collapse.
By restoration.
The red glow faded. The fracture sealed completely, leaving no visible damage. Space returned to its normal state, as if the breach had never existed.
At that point, authorities identified the true anomaly.
Across the planet, containment facilities reported simultaneous irregularities. Previously captured entities—those that had remained dormant and unresponsive for years—began to activate. There was no detectable signal linking them. No shared system or communication method. Despite this, their behavior synchronized.
Containment failures followed.
One by one, entities breached their holding sites and moved toward a single location.
The red entity.
They did not resist it. They merged with it.
Physical structures destabilized and combined. Individual forms lost cohesion as mass and energy consolidated. What formed was no longer a single entity, but a composite structure—large, unstable, and aggressive. Its scale exceeded all prior threat assessments.
Engagement forces were deployed immediately.
Projected response models failed. Casualties increased as restraint-based weapon systems proved ineffective. Tactical adaptation occurred under active combat conditions, at significant cost.
Eventually, the entity was neutralized.
It did not enter a containment state.
Following structural collapse, the composite mass destabilized completely and fell into the ocean. The resulting detonation eliminated all remaining material. No recoverable fragments were found. No residual energy patterns remained stable long enough for analysis.
No capture was possible.
Only the absence of evidence, and a single unresolved question recorded in the final report:
Why this time?
---
Morning light filtered through the tall observation windows as Adrian reviewed the compiled reports. It was 10:00 a.m., and the data stream in front of him was still updating.
Casualty estimates had stabilized overnight.
Multiple coastal cities had suffered extensive damage during the engagement. Infrastructure losses were categorized as severe in three districts and moderate in five others. Power grids had failed temporarily in several urban zones. Emergency evacuation protocols had been enacted too late in some areas to prevent civilian loss.
The numbers were worse than any previous incident.
Adrian cross-checked projections against confirmed figures, his expression unreadable. He recorded his findings carefully, voice steady as he summarized the destruction and the response failures. When he finished, he paused, then added a final note to the entry.
At least the rupture has sealed. No further entities detected. No residual spatial instability. After fifteen years, the phenomenon appears to have concluded.
He leaned back slightly, fingers hovering over the terminal, as if considering whether to add more. In the end, he saved the entry and prepared to close the file.
That was when the door opened abruptly.
His colleague from the monitoring division stumbled inside, breathing heavily, one hand braced against the wall. His face was pale, sweat visible along his temples.
Adrian stood immediately.
"Slow down," he said, moving toward him. "Calm yourself first. Sit. Here—drink this."
He handed over a glass of water. The man took it without hesitation and drank it in one motion, coughing once before finally drawing a steady breath.
"What happened?" Adrian asked. "Explain clearly."
The man swallowed hard. "People… people are dying."
Adrian froze. "What?"
"Near the coastal regions," his colleague continued, voice still strained. "Southern district. We only just received confirmed reports—it's been five days."
"Five days since what?" Adrian demanded.
"Since the ocean incident," he replied. "The entity that collapsed into the water… it didn't end there. The surrounding water sources are contaminated. Whatever dispersed during the detonation—it's spreading. People exposed to it are falling ill. Some don't recover."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Adrian said nothing for several seconds.
"Casualties?" he finally asked.
"We don't have full numbers yet," the man said. "But they're increasing."
Adrian turned back toward the terminal, the earlier report still open on the screen. His final sentence stared back at him.
At least everything has returned to normal.
He did not erase it.
But he no longer believed it.