Agent Emma
I ran through the narrow passageways of the megastructure, breath ragged, boots echoing against the cold metal floor. The halls twisted like veins—vast, unfamiliar, and terrifyingly empty. Every face I passed was strange. Not a single soul from our operation. Not even an auto.
They were all gone.
Scattered. Dispersed. Disarmed.
It was chaotic.
I tried reaching Richard. Then Wilson. Both through my Neuro-Chip. Nothing. Just static—until an error code flashed across my HUD.
[Connection Lost – Interference Detected]
I clenched my jaw. "Bugged chips... The Hollow must've planted jammers."
My voice bounced through the vast metallic chamber. Alone. Alone enough for it to echo.
Before I could push forward, a low mechanical thrum pulled my eyes toward the corridor ahead.
Marching.
A full battalion of autos—weaponized, armored, all coming straight toward me. But something was... off. Their movements were too synchronized. No variance. No individual pathing.
That's when it hit me.
They were hacked.
Fully puppeted.
I dove behind a pillar, the harsh screech of boots and gears growing louder. My palm landed on a tangled mess of exposed wiring—live. Still pulsing. My gaze followed it instinctively, searching for a leverage point, but there wasn't time.
"Agent Emma! Agent Wilson is looking for you. Come with us!"
Their voices overlapped in a broken chorus, distorted—glitched.
The tone so synthetic it scraped the insides of my skull.
This is a trap.
I thought it, nearly whispered it.
I drew my sidearm, fingers tightening around the grip.
With a flick of my wrist, I activated my kinetic shield—a shimmer of light tracing my silhouette.
Ten rounds, maybe. That's all it could take before collapsing under SMG fire.
I gave a sharp breath through my nose and cracked a grin.
"Good. That's more than enough."
And with that, I leapt out from cover—gun blazing, shield humming, determination burning through my veins.
Agent Wilson
[ConnectionLost–InterferenceDetected]
Richard. Emma. Klara.
All gone silent. The jammers were working overtime.
It all spiraled after the power outage on this floor. One flicker, then another. Lights danced above me like ghosts trying to speak in Morse. The hallway was barren, drained of any trace of life. This place was supposed to be Titan V's heart, but right now, it felt like a tomb.
I'd sent Agent Klara to the security wing—told her to check the feeds, sweep for anomalies. Probably useless. We're dealing with him this time. The Hollow doesn't play by rules.
"Damn it," I muttered, jaw clenched.
I turned the corner—and there he was. Richard.
He was crouched near the edge of the corridor, gun ready, senses sharp. It looked like he'd been there a while.
I slipped in beside him, voice low. "What's going on? Why are you posted here?"
He didn't flinch. "Guarding the Reserve Vault. Something's wrong. Security here is... non-existent."
I raised an eyebrow. "So, what, we're waiting for Hollow to just show up?"
Richard's voice was flat. "Yes, Willy. That's exactly why we're here. You think he came all this way for a scenic tour? He's after the Dark Energy reserves."
I hesitated. "But why? What's he even going to do with it? You can't just toss dark energy in a truck and sell it on the black market. Who'd buy it?"
Richard didn't blink. "The Americans. Word is he's in bed with them. You've heard of B.R.A.I.N., right?"
"The propagandist—"
A sound. Faint. Slow.
Footsteps.
I stopped speaking.
Richard was still. Unnaturally still.
The lights above us flickered violently now—stuttering like a dying signal. I could hear my own heartbeat. Mechanical. Hollow. A dull thud that didn't belong to blood or warmth.
Then the sound of the vault door groaning open.
Heavy.
Metallic.
It echoed like a funeral bell.
We followed the lone figure that entered—slowly, silently. He moved with the confidence of someone who owned the place.
Crouched behind the vault gate, Richard gave me a look and a single nod. He went in. I followed.
And there—bathed in the scarlet shimmer of emergency lights—stood the one figure we feared most.
Markov.
His face turned halfway, red light dancing on his features like war paint. The corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk—one that knew too much.
"I've been waiting for this moment," he said.
His voice didn't echo. It vibrated.
Agent Klara
The lights had been flickering a moment ago—teasing in and out of life—and now they were gone entirely. Darkness swallowed me whole.
I stood alone in the main admin panel room of the spacecraft, Titan V's nerve center. The silence was unnerving. The kind that stretches and breathes.
Then, with a stutter and a distant hum, the lights snapped back on—faint and yellow, a sickly hue that confirmed one thing: we were now running on backup generators.
I wasn't in the mood to complain. But the glow felt ghostly, like the ship itself had become something undead. I turned back to the panel—a sprawling mess of analog switches and worn-out buttons. The system was ancient. Outdated interface. No biometric scan. No neural response grid. Had someone forgotten to update this entire sector?
Or… had someone intended for it to be this way?
The thought froze me.
Then I saw it.
A hovering monitor lit up in front of me.
It played a documentary—elegantly produced, disturbingly deliberate. Background music trickled in: old country music, cheerful and hollow.
But the images... were war.
Explosions. Marching soldiers. Burning cities.
The kind of footage that doesn't belong in a documentary. The kind that belongs in warnings.
I leaned forward, eyes widening before I realized it.
"BRAIN…" I breathed, the name slipping out like a curse.
The narration began, calm and charismatic:
"We are the keepers of peace."
The footage cut to a nuclear warhead being launched, then bursting over a city skyline.
"We have survived every major war in modern history. For us, it is a necessity—to prevail."
I stepped back slowly.
The transitions were seamless, elegant. A montage of global devastation followed. Nations scorched. Borders redrawn with ash. Propaganda dressed as history.
Then the voice resumed:
"A simple disagreement."
A cut to the American flag waving over a battlefield.
"America, ever since its independence, has worked to ensure freedom for other nations."
The desert scene came next. The sky bled crimson, the sand charred.
"A remnant from the past. A country once upon a time."
Then the narrator's tone deepened.
"This is the result of your freedom," it said.
A glitch rippled through the screen. Static.
And then he appeared.
A man in an expensive suit and a party mask.
Robert V.
"We are the keepers of peace," he declared.
"It is in our essence to prevail. Always."
His voice crackled through the failing speaker.
"Lend us your hand, soldier of humanity. Help us bring glory to mankind once aga—"
THUMP.
The sound rang like a hammer against steel, somewhere close.
I screamed—but no one heard.
The floor trembled. I lost my footing and hit the ground hard.
The monitor went dark. Just silence. My breath ragged.
I stared up at the screen. And in its black reflection, I saw myself.
My long black hair, tangled and wild. My eyes, wide with dread.
Markov, the Hollow
I stood before my bewildered peers, both holding me at gunpoint. No hesitation in their posture—just enough resolve to shoot me if I twitched wrong.
But they didn't.
Because fear lingers longer than bullets.
Their anxiety was palpable—sweat trailing the edge of Wilson's brow, Richard's jaw clenched too tightly to speak. I could almost hear their thoughts tripping over each other.
"Slavoj…" I began, my voice barely above a whisper.
Yet it echoed like a sermon in a tomb.
"…He wouldn't have wanted me killed, would he?"
Neither Richard nor Wilson flinched. They simply inched forward, fingers on their triggers.
So I stepped back—slow, calm, hands in the air.
"Still no cooperation, huh? Guess I'm more busted than I thought," I muttered with a crooked grin.
Then I turned to Wilson, who still hadn't figured out the setup.
"Tell me, Wilson... have you taken a moment to wonder—how Richard knew I'd come here?"
His eyes twitched.
"Exactly. You have no idea how badly you've screwed this up."
"What—"
He didn't finish.
Because I was done stalling.
The lid beneath me—a concealed ventilation hatch—let out a high-pitched hiss and opened just as I pivoted and jumped backward. Their shocked expressions flashed for a brief second before I disappeared into the void.
A transparent electro-barrier sealed the hatch above me—an elegant door slammed in the face of their regrets.
As I descended, the sensation wasn't a fall. It was a drift. The artificial gravity in this pit made it feel like I was swimming through shadow. Each stroke through the dark felt smooth—almost therapeutic.
"The Dark Energy Reserves…" I murmured mid-glide, "…should be in the Third Incubator."
I didn't realize how deeply I'd slipped into analysis until I saw light blooming ahead.
I surfaced into a narrow passage, exhaling as I closed the exit lid behind me.
"Robert…" I muttered, brushing dust from my coat. "You almost had me. Too bad your agents are too afraid to pull the trigger."
Then a voice—cold, synthetic, too close for comfort—cut through the moment.
"Too bad you're at the end of your game, Hollow."
A chill traced down my spine.
I turned to find a weaponized auto looming before me, gun drawn, its metal feet clinking softly against the floor.
"Make a move, and I'll blow your brains out."
I didn't flinch. I just gritted my teeth.
Defeat? Not today.
Then the auto—slowly—bowed. One mechanical arm sweeping the ground in mock reverence.
I sighed and facepalmed. "Really?"
I recognized the signature immediately.
"Anna…" I said dryly. "Does the old man know you've been fighting on the front lines?"
The auto's voice shifted—warped into something softer, something human. An anxious girl's voice leaked through the mechanical frame.
"M-Markov! Don't you dare snitch on me! I'll join the IA just to snitch on you if I have to!"
I chuckled, brushing off my sleeves.
"Status," I asked.
She straightened up, mechanical form still radiating adolescent sass.
"BRAIN took the bait—clean as predicted. I've already cracked the incubator's main vault. No sweat. But…"
Her voice grew more serious.
"…it's strange. Too strange. Slavoj's agents went down too easily. It doesn't feel like ignorance. It feels like... orchestration."
I nodded slightly. The pieces were aligning into something darker.
"You know you can't ignore him, right?" she added. "Slavoj... He's not like the rest. He's the strongest foe we've faced so far."
I turned my gaze downward for a moment.
"Strongest…" I echoed, almost to myself.
Then I looked ahead, eyes sharp, jaw tight.
"We'll see."