A flash.

  Consciousness doesn’t return—

  it slams into me, like emergency lights straight into my eyes.

  White.

  Cutting.

  Too close.

  I don’t try to jump up.

  First—assessment.

  Where is up. Where is down. Am I breathing.

  The command stand doesn’t arrive, which means the body is operating autonomously. That’s fine. That means it’s intact. Or intact enough.

  Muscles contract.

  Lungs fill with air.

  The heart beats steadily—too steadily for panic.

  Good.

  Panic isn’t in control.

  Click.

  The transparent capsule opens with a hiss, like a massive glass eye blinking open. Warm steam spills out—and I step out with it. Not sharply. Not gracefully. But on my own.

  The world wavers.

  The floor tries to slip away.

  I let it—half a second. Then I regain balance. Not by force. By calculation.

  There’s nausea. No vomiting.

  The body holds discipline.

  I note it.

  I store it.

  Sirens don’t press with sound—they press with meaning. Red waves slice through space, walls, thoughts. Reality screams the same word over and over:

  too late

  too late

  too late

  A face comes close. Too close.

  An old man. Wrinkles like cracks in a damaged screen. His eyes are alive—dangerously alive. He looks at me as if I’ve already made a choice…

  …and now there’s only one thing left to test—whether I’ll endure it.

  “You are Axiom-126,” he says quickly. “You were created to save the entire sentient universe.”

  I register the phrase.

  I delay reaction.

  Stabilization comes first.

  I try to answer. My tongue lags behind. Neural chains are still loading. Acceptable.

  He grabs me under the arms. A strong grip. Practical. He doesn’t let me fall—and he doesn’t let me stop.

  I accept the help.

  Not because I’m weak.

  Because right now it’s more efficient.

  Panic everywhere. People running, screaming, collapsing. They’re stepped over. Sparks rain from the ceiling. The air smells of smoke and metal.

  I don’t take it all in at once.

  I choose a trajectory.

  I move.

  “The Dark Mind, Noxaris, is already here,” he says. “The dome won’t hold for long.”

  The name catches—not in memory, but in reaction.

  Cold under the ribs. The threat is real.

  A flying craft waits ahead. Black. Smooth. Too perfect to be salvation.

  “I’m Doctor Elias Morrenn,” he says more quietly. “Your creator.”

  I register it.

  I don’t evaluate it.

  “The planet will fall. You must carry out the mission.”

  He looks straight into my eyes.

  “My son.”

  And he embraces me.

  Awkwardly. Honestly. His hand is shaking.

  He’s afraid.

  I don’t pull away.

  I memorize the weight of the moment.

  Later, it will become an anchor.

  “What mission?” I ask.

  The voice isn’t mine, but it’s steady.

  That’s enough.

  “My consciousness is imprinted in your mind,” he says. “I will be with you.”

  Accepted.

  Not up for discussion now.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “You are the one hundred and twenty-sixth attempt.”

  I note the number.

  I don’t ask the question. Not yet.

  “Go.”

  A shove to the shoulder—deliberately rough. It breaks the attachment. Correct.

  The doors slam shut.

  Harnesses lock my body in place. Not like a passenger.

  Like an instrument.

  The craft launches. G-forces crush me into the seat. Sirens melt into a single howl.

  I don’t cling to the past.

  I don’t calculate odds.

  I accept the fact:

  I am activated.

  The world falls away behind me.

  Ahead—unknown.

  And somewhere deep, beneath layers of logic,

  I feel a gaze.

  It knows I’m awake.

  And now—

  it’s my move.

  **

  The machine fires.

  It doesn’t roll out.

  It doesn’t take off.

  It fires—like a shell launched from a narrow barrel. For a fraction of a second, I feel the building’s frame tighten around us, as if the structure itself resists. As if the city is clinging to me at the very last moment.

  Then—impact.

  Short.

  Clean.

  And the walls vanish.

  Space.

  Light.

  It strikes straight into my eyes, even through the filters. I don’t flinch. I don’t shut down on instinct. I simply let my eyelids fall a fraction of a second later than I want to.

  I note: visual overload.

  I note: pain within tolerance.

  This is not a lamp.

  Not a spotlight.

  It’s a star.

  A real one.

  The realization arrives unexpectedly—and it’s so out of place that I almost smile. Not with my lips. Somewhere deeper.

  The first time I see starlight.

  Accepted.

  The machine levels out. Pressure stabilizes. The body stops protesting—meaning I can look.

  The city unfolds beneath me.

  Elindra Prime.

  Skyscrapers stretch upward as if trying to escape before anyone else. Glass. Metal. Luminous arteries of streets pulsing with life. Beautiful.

  I don’t linger on the feeling.

  Beauty is a trap right now.

  Evacuation ships tear into the sky. Chaotic. Too fast. Some collide. Some fail to gain altitude.

  I see flashes.

  And I don’t let them turn into images.

  Not now.

  A dome ignites over the city.

  It doesn’t just glow—it trembles. Every strike against it echoes inside me like a skipped heartbeat. The dome is holding.

  For now.

  I can feel it: the countdown isn’t in hours. Not even minutes.

  In the sky—invading ships.

  And they… don’t look like machines. Too large. Too whole. More like shadows cut from emptiness. Not objects—presence.

  They’re visible from here.

  Cold slides across my skin. Not fear. Assessment.

  If they’re visible from the surface—

  they’re already too close.

  Something inside me clicks.

  Not an emotional surge.

  A mode switch.

  The world seems to step back, and in the space it leaves behind, he appears.

  Doctor Elias Morrenn.

  Not an image.

  Not a fantasy.

  Precise. Stable. Too calm.

  “Axiom-126,” he says. “You will now exit the city dome and initiate contact with the enemy.”

  I don’t answer immediately.

  I register the phrasing.

  You will exit.

  You will initiate.

  Simple words. No heroics. Like an instruction manual.

  “We have configured your systems,” he continues. “This time, you will complete the mission.”

  This time.

  The phrase sticks. I don’t press it—I just hold it.

  “And you will save the universe.”

  That’s noise. I filter it out.

  And the previous times? The thought surfaces, but I don’t release it. The answer wouldn’t change anything now.

  Elias falls silent.

  I look forward again.

  The dome is closer. Beyond it—darkness. Ships. Contact.

  The machine shakes.

  Not panic. Panic is loss of structure.

  Here, the structure remains. It’s just heavier now.

  I am an instrument.

  An attempt.

  A number.

  One hundred and twenty-six.

  Fact.

  I’m not ready, I note.

  Not as a complaint. As a parameter.

  “You are ready,” Elias answers more softly. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have woken up together.”

  I accept it not as comfort—

  but as an assumption.

  The dome fills the entire field of view. The machine accelerates. Systems shift into combat mode.

  Somewhere deep inside, I feel a gaze.

  Not hostile.

  Curious.

  Contact begins before the boundary is crossed.

  I take a slow breath.

  Not for courage—for synchronization.

  If what awaits me there is not a battle,

  but a memory—

  I will meet it the same way I meet everything else.

  The dome flares directly in front of the craft.

  And I understand:

  in one second,

  there will be no way back.

  I don’t resist that.

  I choose to go forward.