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LOCATION: VOSS TOWER, 10TH FLOOR
CITY: SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
DATE: OCTOBER 2, 2025 | TIME: 2:40 AM
Elise stirred first.
Not with a jolt, but with a gentle exhale—like someone returning from a place too deep for dreams. Her eyelids fluttered open, lashes clinging for half a second before her gaze sharpened. She blinked twice: once at the sterile ceiling, and again at the unfamiliar clarity in her own mind.
A monitor beeped softly beside her. Two overnight nurses sat upright, eyes widening. Then a third screen lit up. And a fourth.
All around the room, the Round Table began to stir.
Elise sat up slowly, brushing her hair back with a hand—and paused. Her skin felt... alive. That was the only word for it. Smooth, vital, humming with energy she hadn’t felt since her twenties. But it was more than youth. She felt whole. Cohesive. As if every cell in her body had finally tuned itself to a single, resonant harmony.
On the next bed over, Grim’s eyes snapped open with the precision of a soldier roused in hostile territory. He sat up, inhaled deeply—and smiled.
“Oh, I feel great,” he muttered, stretching his arms overhead. “Fucking amazing, in fact.”
One by one, the others woke. Some blinked in stunned silence. Others touched their faces, flexed their fingers, or stretched with the loose elegance of dancers testing the edges of a new body. The hum of machines gave way to murmurs, laughter, and the rustle of bedsheets as eighteen people returned to themselves—and found something more. Something better.
Elise and her medical team moved quickly, helping detach EKG leads and IVs. Within minutes, everyone was on their feet, stretching like they'd just awoken from a long nap. Because they quite literally had.
Elise couldn’t stop thinking about Axis Harmonia—her staff. Then she remembered it wasn’t here. Not in the waking world.
Vanessa reached instinctively for Wraithwood, missing the weight of it. Missing her. Nyssara's absence was a quiet ache. Others felt it too. After nearly a week spent armored and armed, their weapons had become extensions of their identity. Now, they were naked in a world that hadn’t yet caught up.
Mallory gathered everyone near the center of the room.
“Alright. It’s been a long week, and I think we’re all feeling the same—charged up and ready to go. But get some rest. Sleep, meditate, whatever works for you. Let’s reconvene in Mr. Voss’s—my new office—at nine A.M. sharp.”
Graham nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got work to do. Big work. No time to waste. Get some rest, everyone. Oh, and Brick? Don’t forget to shower bro, we can all smell you from here. See you in the morning.”
Everyone snorted, knowing that none of them actually smelled at all.
Elise offered to help the nurses straighten up, but Mallory waved her off.
“Head home. That’s an order. And be back at nine.”
Then, turning to the nurses, she said warmly, “There’s no rush on cleanup. If the morning crew wants to handle it, that’s fine. Thank you all for watching over us. You've done a fantastic job. Bonuses will be in your accounts by this time tomorrow.”
And with that, eighteen people who had just taken the first true step toward humanity’s ascension departed Voss Tower—returning to hotels and homes scattered across the city. Some would sleep. Others would meditate.
But all of them knew the same thing:
The real work was only just beginning.
Vanessa and Mallory
As the group filtered out of the room, Vanessa and Mallory exchanged a long look. No words—just a shared understanding.
Vanessa returned to her hotel only briefly, changing into something soft and warm, and grabbing a set of work clothes for the next day. Then she made her way to Mallory’s apartment, arriving just twenty minutes behind her.
They sat on the couch together, close enough to feel each other’s presence without pressure. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was layered with meaning. With memory. With change.
Vanessa broke it first.
“On Mr. Voss’s last day, you were the one who didn’t want to be alone. Tonight… it’s me.” She hesitated. Her voice was quieter now. “I’ll tell you everything about Nyssara later. But right now? I just miss her. She was always there—ready with a word of encouragement or a snide little joke to make me laugh. I never felt alone when I had Wraithwood on my hip.”
She turned, met Mallory’s eyes.
“And right now… I don’t feel alone either. Because you’re here.”
Mallory slid her arm behind Vanessa’s shoulders, palm brushing against her back. They leaned in together—no hesitation. Their lips met, warm and firm. A kiss that wasn’t hungry, but necessary. A quiet release of pressure that had built for weeks, maybe months.
They stayed like that for long seconds—hands at each other’s waist and neck, lips brushing, breath mingling. It wasn’t quite lust. It was affirmation. Shared gravity. A moment held between heartbeats.
Eventually, they melted into each other’s arms with a quiet laugh and a few deeper kisses. Words returned in whispers, light touches and teasing brushes of fingers over fabric.
Later, they showered. Together.
And later still, they fell asleep entangled in each other, safe and warm, and content.
Graham and Aria
Across town, another glance—this one laced with a little more fire.
Aria grabbed her duffel from the next room. She hadn’t even checked into a hotel when she arrived in San Francisco, having arrived just before induction. She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside Graham without a word.
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He drove them through the quiet city to his home: a corner penthouse in an old building near Telegraph Hill. Six floors up, in a structure built in the 1930s—brick, steel, and timber—the place was all sharp edges and solid bones.
As soon as they stepped inside, Aria inhaled. The scent of wood, whiskey, and old leather greeted her like a memory. She exhaled and dropped her bag on the floor where she stood with a thud.
Then she turned, predatory.
“I don’t know about you,” she said, walking forward as she stripped off her jacket, “but I feel like I could take down a god right now.”
Graham’s smirk was low and dangerous.
“Good. Because I’ve got a hell of a lot of Stamina to burn.”
She grinned. “Shower first. Then bed. I want to test every stat.”
The fastest shower in history followed.
Then came the kind of reunion only two people who have faced mortality, transcendence, and war together can earn. For three hours, the world outside didn’t exist. Only limbs, sweat, laughter, and gasping whispers. Flesh rediscovering flesh.
Eventually, they collapsed onto the sheets, breathless and tangled.
Graham set the alarm for 7:00 AM.
Aria curled against him, one arm across his chest, her legs twined with his.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” she murmured, drowsy but stubborn.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I want to remember this.”
She suddenly held up her cell phone in selfie mode, and clicked the button. Memory saved.
Darian
Darian stepped into the hush of his North Berkeley home—an aging craftsman tucked into the hillside beneath redwoods and tangled wisteria. The scent of sandalwood and old paper drifted toward him like a welcome.
The interior felt like a scholar’s sanctum: books stacked two-deep across the shelves, half-read papers spread across a side desk. A bronze jaguar from Teotihuacan crouched beside a rusted sextant from Lisbon. A Oaxacan mask grinned down at him from above the fireplace.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
He crossed the room to his old record player and dropped the needle on Ascension. Coltrane’s horns swelled in the air, and Darian lowered himself into a deep, velvet lounge chair.
For once, he wasn’t just studying the future.
He was the future.
Ever since he had received his Precursor class, he had been experiencing strange dreams. They felt more like portents of the future. Or potential futures, perhaps? One kept coming back to him, and he was on the very edge of understanding it.
Sleep found him quickly.
And then… the dream returned.
Two girls played in a sunlit living room high above the Bay. One was half-Asian, the other more fair-skinned. Sisters. They called each other Kaela and Elena. They were around five, maybe six—laughing, chasing each other in circles, playing with toys. Getting along well.
And watching them—off to the side—were two women. They stood close together, whispering words he could never hear.
Darian could never quite see their faces.
He tried. Every time. Tried to focus his Precursor gift on their features. But each time he got closer, the dream slid sideways. Like staring at stars in your periphery that vanish when you look straight at them.
Tonight was no different.
But it lingered. Longer than usual.
He woke to his alarm at 7:00 AM, the sky just starting to lighten behind the trees.
He rubbed his temples, the vision still strong behind his eyes.
Ronan
Ronan stepped out of his car in the underground garage and keyed the elevator for the eighteenth floor. A few quiet minutes later, he was unlocking the smoked glass door to his condominium and stepping inside.
The space was clean and modern—whites and cool grays forming the backdrop, accented by splashes of color from framed art, indie game posters, and a curated shelf of figurines and gaming memorabilia. Soft backlighting lit the displays with understated pride.
He slipped off his shoes and crossed the heated bamboo flooring. In the far corner of the living room, by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a velvet chair sat like a throne—absurdly luxurious, and clearly claimed. Curled atop it, Operator, his black Maine Coon, lifted his head, blinked once, and yawned as if bored with the idea of time.
“I’m back, Operator,” Ronan said softly, brushing a hand through the cat’s thick fur. “Sorry I was gone so long.”
The cat stretched, his spine arching like a question mark, and then hopped down to rub affectionately against Ronan’s leg.
“How about a treat, for being so patient?”
Ronan moved to the kitchen. Operator followed, tail swishing with casual entitlement. From the fridge, Ronan retrieved a tin of tuna paté—Operator’s favorite—and scooped a generous portion into a ceramic bowl beside the always-full water and dry food dishes.
The cat devoured it in seconds.
“Easy there, buddy. Eat like that and I’ll be cleaning it up in twenty minutes. I just got home.”
Operator let out a satisfied grumble and returned to his perch, loafing neatly into place like he hadn’t just vacuumed down a week’s worth of protein.
Ronan showered, savoring the water pressure and the silence. When he emerged, he padded barefoot to the bedroom, set his alarm for 7:00 A.M., and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow would bring mountains of data, decisions, meetings, software patches, and a thousand questions only he and a few others could answer. But for now—for a few precious hours—he had the quiet, the dark, and the distant lights of Nob Hill winking through the glass.
He let out a breath.
Then he closed his eyes and slept.
Operator’s Side Mission
On the night of September 25th, Ronan had topped off the automatic food and water bowls, filled the litter box with pristine crystals, and double-checked the climate control. Everything was ready for the weeklong absence. The Tall One knelt and gave Operator a final scruff behind the ears, placing a fresh dollop of tuna paté on a plate beside the kibble mound—a parting gift, a sacred offering.
“I’ll be gone for several days, Operator,” he said solemnly. “I entrust the security of the Homefront to your capable hands.”
Operator narrowed his eyes in acknowledgment. The transfer of command was complete.
With a mock salute, Ronan stepped through the smoked-glass door. It hissed closed behind him. The lock clicked. The world was now Operator’s.
He sat motionless for several seconds, solemn as a sphinx, staring at the door.
Then he remembered the paté.
Dignity abandoned, he bolted toward the kitchen at full tilt, paws scrabbling like a feline thunderstorm. Operational security could wait. The Sacred Paté would not.
---
Day 1
The next morning, the feeder dispensed its rations with a mechanical clatter.
“Ah yes,” Operator mused. Field rations. Enduring hardship is part of the job. He devoured the kibble like it was enemy troops.
Midmorning brought movement in the Hallway of Mirrors. The Opponent had returned. That insufferable, mirage-perfect imposter who mimicked his every move.
Tail arched, whiskers flared, he initiated the Intimidation Protocol. Head tilt. Low growl. Tail flick. The other cat copied him exactly. Again.
The standoff ended in mutual withdrawal—neither victor nor vanquished, but deeply respected combatants. For now.
---
Day 3
At sunset, the Accursed Bird of Hell dared breach protected airspace. A pigeon, bloated with insolence, landed on the edge of the balcony railing.
Operator dropped into stealth mode.
Low… lower… Now!
He launched himself at the window, slamming into the glass with maximum force, paws spread like righteous vengeance incarnate.
The bird screeched and fled.
Mission accomplished. Air superiority reestablished.
---
Day 4
Operator spotted a shadow creeping along the baseboards. Suspicious. Too erratic. It moved like a thief in the night.
He pounced—paws extended, murder in his heart—and landed squarely on top of it. The enemy shimmered, slipped away, and vanished.
A cunning adversary. But next time, it wouldn’t be so lucky.
---
Day 6
Operator ran a full circuit patrol of the perimeter: living room, bedroom, bathroom, under-bed recon, behind-couch sweep.
He paused at the kitchen. The kibble bowl was dangerously low. Sabotage? No—just rationing taking its toll. Courage, soldier. The Tall One will return soon.
He climbed atop the velvet observation throne and resumed surveillance.
Outside, the city glittered.
Inside, he yawned, blinked, and loafed.
---
Day 7 — Return of the Tall One
At 3:40 AM on October 2nd, the lock clicked. The door whispered open.
Operator raised his head from the velvet chair, ears twitching. He did not run to greet the Tall One. No. That was not protocol. He waited until Ronan approached, knelt, and whispered:
“I’m back, Operator. Sorry I was gone for so long.”
Only then did he rise, stretch with an exaggerated spinal ripple, and rub against Ronan’s calf with the pride of a victorious war hero.
In the kitchen, his reward was served: a towering scoop of tuna paté atop a crystal dish.
He devoured it with abandon.
He could be graceful and forgive The Tall One. This time. The Homefront was secure. The war was once again at a standstill. For now.