D3V-7 clawed its way into the copilot’s chair, its battered chassis sparking. "Let’s review our options: A) We die via Syndicate plasma cannons. B) We die from your clearly malfunctioning cybernetics. Or C)—"
"Just give me damage reports," Elias snapped.
"Ah, right. The classic ‘ignore the killer robot arm’ strategy." The droid’s optic lens flickered as data scrolled across its display. *"Port thruster at 18%. Life support failing in… twelve minutes. And—oh, this is cute—the nav-computer just rebooted itself in what appears to be* ancient Aetherial script."
Elias’s stomach dropped. He didn’t need to glance at his right arm to know the runes along its plating were glowing brighter. They’d pulsed in time with his heartbeat ever since they’d fled the station, as if counting down to something.
A proximity alert blared.
"And there’s our Syndicate friends," D3V said cheerfully. "Should I prepare the ‘we surrender’ signal? Or just start composing our epitaphs?"
The Reaper-class interceptor filled the viewscreen, its jagged hull still smoking from their last encounter. But something was wrong.
No plasma volleys. No boarding parties.
Just a single, unencrypted transmission.
Kess’s face appeared on-screen—or what was left of it. Her cybernetic eye had fractured, veins of Aetherial blue cracking through the red optics. Behind her, Syndicate crewmen twitched at their stations, their movements synchronized like marionettes.
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"You shouldn’t have run." Her voice echoed, layered with something older. "The Architect remembers its children."
Static swallowed the screen.
D3V let out a mechanical cough. "So. Possessed cyborgs. That’s new."
Elias’s arm chose that moment to convulse, the plating along his forearm splitting open to reveal bioluminescent tendons beneath. A hologram erupted from his palm—unfamiliar star charts, a Dyson Sphere, a hexagonal door sliding open—
Then the pain hit.
White-hot agony lanced through his skull as his vision dissolved into fragments:
—A Concord lab, surgeons in Aetherial robes leaning over him, their scalpels glowing
—A whisper: "The Key must survive"
—The black box, pulsing in time with his heartbeat
He woke with his face pressed against the console, black oil dripping from his nose. The med-scanner chirped:
*"Neurological corruption detected. Source: Cybernetic implant C-1174. Estimated survival: 67 hours, 3 minutes."*
D3V wiped the blood away with a manipulator claw. "On the bright side, you’re dying faster than our oxygen reserves."
The Syndicate ship fired—not at them, but past them. The plasma burst ignited a debris field ahead, revealing a shimmering distortion in space.
"That’s not on any charts," Elias muttered.
His arm burned hotter, the hologram adjusting to match the anomaly’s coordinates exactly.
D3V’s lens zoomed in. "Jump point. Unstable. And if my scans are right—" A pause. "It’s artificial. Someone built this."
Another plasma burst rocked the ship. Warning lights flared—engine failure, hull breaches, the works.
Elias made his decision.
"Plot a course through that jump point."
"That’s suicide!"
"Staying here is execution." He slammed the throttle forward. "Do it."
As the Event Horizon lurched toward the anomaly, three things happened at once:
-
The comms crackled with Kess’s unfiltered voice—raw with something almost like grief: "You were always its favorite."
-
The black box screamed, its casing splitting to reveal a miniature Dyson Sphere projection.
-
Elias’s arm spoke, not through speakers, but directly into his bones:
"Welcome home, Keybearer."
Then reality tore open.
The Architect's playing puppet master... but what's waiting on the other side of that jump point?
Elias should trust the visions
?? He should rip the arm off
?? "D3V should take the wheel"
Comment your choice—top response influences Chapter 3!