They were led from the military hangar through a series of pressurised, white-walled tunnels to a separate, equally sleek terminal. It was a train station, but unlike any Runne could have imagined. A single, needle-nosed train rested silently on a track that seemed to float an inch above the ground, held in place by a shimmering magnetic field.
"All aboard the paradise express," Harlow muttered to Runne as they stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind them with a silent, perfect seal.
The interior of the train was minimalist and clean, with wide panoramic windows. With no sound and no sensation of movement other than the world outside beginning to blur, the Mag-Lev train accelerated to an incredible speed. It moved in an unnerving, perfect silence.
"This is real civilisation, Veyne," Damien said, a smug tone in his voice as he gestured to the window. "Order. Progress. Not the rust and rubble you're used to in the South."
"Easy to have clean floors when someone else is digging the mines," Harlow retorted, cleaning her knife again as if it were a nervous habit.
Through the window, Runne saw what she meant. The landscape here was meticulously planned. He saw massive, automated agricultural towers stretching towards the sky, their inner lights glowing green. He saw glowing blue conduits running alongside the tracks, pulsing with a steady flow of what he could only assume was pure Resonant Energy. This was a world powered by the very force he couldn't touch, a world of effortless power he could only dream of.
The train crested a long, gentle rise, and Runne's breath caught in his throat.
There it was. Paradisia.
It was less a city and more a miracle. A forest of crystalline spires and graceful, arching towers rose from the centre of a vast, man-made valley, all of it contained beneath a shimmering, semi-transparent energy shield that rippled faintly against the sky. It was beautiful, awe-inspiring, and the most intimidating thing he had ever seen. It was the "Brain," the "Hearth," the protected heart of humanity, and he was a piece of slum-rot being dragged into its centre against his will.
The train didn't slow; it plunged into a tunnel carved into the city's outer wall, the world outside vanishing into darkness. A moment later, light returned as the train glided silently into a pristine, subterranean station carved from white marble. The doors hissed open.
Waiting on the platform was a man in a sharp, tailored suit, his face impassive. It was the same aide from Diaval's office who had been present at Hangar One.
"Sergeant Miller, Corporal Kross," the aide said, his voice polite but firm, his eyes flicking briefly towards Runne before dismissing him. "Commander Blackwood is waiting. He requests you bring the asset directly to the Archives for his preliminary briefing."
The aide in the tailored suit led them from the subterranean train station into the heart of Paradisia. The sheer scale of the city was breathtaking; a metropolis of impossible, gleaming spires that seemed to pierce the clouds. They were escorted through a grand plaza paved with polished marble towards a building that dwarfed all others. It was a monolith of black, unadorned stone, its entrance a single, massive gateway. The Central Archives of the Fracture.
"Wait here," Diaval ordered Harlow and Damien, dismissing them before they reached the entrance. He then guided Runne forward, his hand a light but firm presence on Runne's shoulder.
As they stepped across the threshold, the sounds of the city vanished, replaced by a profound, reverent silence. They were in a cavernous hall, the ceiling lost in darkness above them, the air cool and still.
Diaval glanced at Runne's stony, silent expression. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "Silence is a valuable commodity, Private," he said, his voice a low murmur in the vast space. "It implies strength. Control. Let them wonder what you are thinking. It makes you powerful."
'I'm not thinking,' Runne thought, his jaw tight. 'I'm remembering.'
As they reached the centre of the hall, the darkness around them bloomed into light. A massive, floor-to-ceiling holographic diorama shimmered into existence, depicting a vibrant, thriving Earth.
A calm, authoritative narrator's voice echoed through the hall.
"For millennia, humanity flourished, united by a growing understanding of the world's lifeblood: Resonant Energy, a benign force that promised a golden age for all."
The beautiful cities in the hologram burned. Monstrous, shadowy shapes moved through the ruins.
"But our planet is part of a cycle," the narrator continued, its tone growing solemn. "After decades of peace during the Long Respite, the cycle turned. The Fracture began—a sudden, inexplicable cataclysm that tore through reality, corrupting the planet's energy and unleashing horrors from the rifts it created."
A date blazed across the holographic display in stark, silver letters, illuminating the hall. JULY 15, 2032. The day the world ended.
Runne's breath hitched. His carefully constructed wall of impassiveness cracked for a fraction of a second.
'The same day,' the thought screamed in his mind, a cold, dizzying realisation. 'The day I was born.'
The exhibit continued, unaware of the turmoil it had just caused in its audience of one. The display shifted to focus on key tragedies within the wider Fracture. "In our darkest hour," the narrator declared, as the hologram showed soldiers guiding civilians onto massive transport ships, "humanity's unified military enacted the Great Evacuation, shepherding the last remnants of our species to our final bastion: Antarctica."
The final display lit up. It was a memorial showing a blurred image of a monstrous beast at the entrance to an airport terminal. Fortuna's Gambit.
"The Terminal Massacre became a symbol of our sacrifice," the narrator concluded, its voice filled with engineered pathos. "A tragic but necessary price for the peace we enjoy today. We will never forget."
Runne stared at the sanitised image of the place where his family had been torn apart, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The cosmic horror of his birthday now had a face and it was a cheap, sanitised lie.
"A stirring tribute, is it not?" Diaval said quietly, watching Runne's impassive face, mistaking the rigid control for stoicism. "It reminds us why your survival, Private, is so important. You are living proof that humanity can endure anything."
Before Runne could even process the manipulative genius of the statement, the aide in the suit reappeared at their side, his footsteps silent on the marble floor.
"Commander," the aide whispered. "The General Assembly is ready for you."
Diaval placed a hand on Runne's shoulder, a gesture that felt less like support and more like possession.
"Come, Private Veyne. It's time to play your part."