It starts with a tremor. Not physical—no quake, no impact—but a shift in the air. A pressure change. Like the station itself is bracing for something.
I’m reviewing the latest scan reports when a tight-band signal pings directly into my helmet. Synthea’s voice, calm but edged with urgency.
“Master. Incoming anomaly.”
I look up at the tactical display. No ships. No transponders. Just a distortion—space folding inward like a collapsing lung. A ripple of unreality.
And then they’re here.
They don’t dock. They manifest.
A corridor that was empty seconds ago now holds a formation of armored figures—tall, angular, flickering between dimensions. Their armor shifts colors and textures as if reality can’t decide what they should look like. Their insignia is unreadable, constantly rewriting itself.
Riftwalkers.
Extradimensional enforcers. The kind that show up when the universe itself files a complaint.
The moment they appear, their scanners activate—lances of shifting light sweeping the corridor.
And instantly, every one of their instruments screams.
A cascade of alarms erupts from their armor, their weapons, their sensor packs. Their visors flare with warning glyphs. Several of them snap into combat stances, weapons raised—not at the station, not at the lab equipment, but at me.
Because of course they do.
My armor, my rifle, my pistol, my sword—every piece of gear I carry contains extradimensional storage matrices. But that’s not what’s setting them off.
It’s the signature.
The unmistakable, impossible-to-forge imprint of the one who forged them.
Synthea’s voice hits my comms again, sharp and immediate.
“Master—your equipment is broadcasting a high-tier dimensional imprint. They recognize the origin.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to.
The Riftwalkers already know.
Their formation wavers—just slightly, but enough to betray something I’ve never seen from them before.
Hesitation.
The lead Riftwalker steps forward, visor flickering violently as it tries to reconcile my presence.
“High Justiciar,” he says, voice layered and distorted. “You carry… artifacts.”
His tone shifts. Not hostile. Not accusatory.
Careful.
I keep my voice level. “Standard issue for my rank.”
“That is not standard,” he replies. “Those items bear the mark of—”
He stops.
The entire squad freezes.
No one says the name.
No one dares.
Even speaking it aloud in this reality could cause panic, or worse—draw attention.
Synthea steps forward, her voice now audible. “His equipment is stable. Controlled. And none of it is connected to the station’s breach.”
The Riftwalker’s visor pulses. “We will verify.”
“You’ll do it without pointing weapons at me,” I say.
A tense moment passes. Then, slowly, their weapons lower—but their scanners remain locked on me, tracking every micro‑shift in my dimensional signature.
Then one of their techs—if you can call something with three overlapping silhouettes a “tech”—speaks from a terminal.
“Resonance spike detected. Sector seven.”
The lead Riftwalker turns to me. “What is in sector seven?”
Synthea’s voice hits my comms instantly.
“Master—frequency modulator array. The gateway.”
I answer aloud. “That’s where they housed the dimensional modulator.”
The Riftwalker’s armor ripples. “Then the breach is active.”
I exhale slowly. “And it’s waking up.” |
! 3D Art !
Original Characters
2025/12/22 11:46
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