90-60 Union Turnpike, Glendale, Queens, NY, USA – February 14, 2023 | 04:45 A.M.61Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuaEhPWOStg
“You’ve done a disgraceful job. Now Mr Kenshin will suspect Paradox’s true intent. You leech information from Starling so feebly that you've given me nothing actionable,” Brimstone seethed, his voice tight with fury. “Do you have any idea how utterly incompetent you are? I’ve had to bring in the NIX’s Stargazers just to get results. Tell me—why shouldn’t I put you down like a dog?”
He paced across the narrow confines of his makeshift office, a pocket dimension conjured solely for this confrontation—isolated, contained, and invisible to the outside world.
“What about her Eidolons? The Novae? We had no idea there were seven different Affinities!” Jake recoiled but spoke up, his tone defensive despite his fear. “She may have told you something new—but I already knew that. Why didn’t you ask her how to stop the Interstice? She might’ve revealed something about the Akashic Record! Instead, you played the friendly fool. And now—she knows everything.”
Brimstone let out a guttural roar. Jake muttered, barely audible, “That... bitch.”
They were interrupted by a third presence, uninvited but unmistakably powerful. A woman entered the dimension with a leisurely stride—tall, gaunt, her wild blond hair tangled with black feathers. Her skin resembled cracked porcelain, fungal patterns spreading along her pallid limbs. Her eyelids were sewn shut, yet she moved with unsettling precision.
“Now, now… Don’t be rude to the poor boy,” she said, voice dry and brittle, like branches snapping in the cold.
“Oh, so you’ve finally dropped that dreadful old-English accent. About time—I was tired of deciphering your nonsense,” Brimstone snapped.
“That’s because you’re a narcissistic, egotistical fossil,” the bird-woman hissed. “I told you to kill her, not split her. Now how am I supposed to consume the corpse? The shards are scattered—alive—across time and space!”
“At least she’s weakened,” Brimstone muttered.
“No. She’s not.” The bird-woman’s agitation swelled like a storm. “When she’s whole, the universe cannot contain her. She’s restrained by its logic. But split—fragmented—she becomes small enough to do anything she pleases within its bounds.”
Brimstone’s expression faltered. Jake stood frozen, stricken by the weight of her words.
“Do you understand now, you arrogant fool? You coveted her power—what she was. But now… she gains more than you could ever imagine. She will own it. All of it.”
Silence thickened around them like smoke. Then, with a final sneer, she turned away.
“Fix this… before she gets bored.”
She vanished without ceremony. Brimstone slumped into his chair, sweat forming in glistening beads on his brow.
“Langdon. Dismissed.”
Jake exited the pocket dimension. He should have been terrified.
Instead, he smirked.
Nothing was going the way Brimstone planned.
“You’re different. You have potential. So why are you still under Brimstone’s shadow?”
The bird-woman stepped toward Jake. He flinched.
“Let’s talk somewhere private. I’d like to speak with you—and two of your allies.”
She reached out, and in a flurry of black feathers, they vanished.
They reappeared in a dimly lit apartment room—sterile, minimal, cold.
“Anything I can get you?” she asked casually, pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge.
“Coke,” Jake replied, attempting to sound confident.
She handed him a can without comment. As he popped it open, she peeled off her face and wig—latex slipping from her features like dead skin—revealing long, black hair that shimmered like oil, and eyes that opened for the first time, obsidian and hypnotic.
Gone was the dishevelled bird-like figure. Before him stood a woman exotic and composed—power incarnate with red lips curled into a half-smile.
“Hey... it was you who helped me frame Felix. Sievernich never saw it coming,” Jake chuckled.
“I’m glad I could be of service. Paul needed new test subjects,” she said smoothly.
“You mean Sievernich. Why does he need test subjects?” Jake asked, frowning.
“So he’s using his middle name and his mother’s surname to hide? Hmph. He could’ve done better,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry—what?” Jake leaned forward, frustrated.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she deflected. “But tell me… aren’t you tired? Of being pushed aside by the person you once admired? Of being forgotten? Reduced to someone else's shadow?”
Her voice grew wistful, as if recalling a pain too old to name.
“Yeah! I’m sick of Brimstone acting like he knows everything. I want Sievernich to taste his own medicine. He’s not some angel here to save the world.
“I’ve got nothing personal against Felix. Honestly, the guy can do it all—he inspires me. But orders are orders. ‘For the greater good,’ Paradox’s golden boy said.” Jake leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“Wow… So you don’t hate Felix—even though you left him to die? What about your big traitor speech?” she asked, swirling her wine lazily.
Jake’s jaw tightened.
“That was after Sievernich told me Felix was linked to Ænigma. That he’d help it end the world—because he still believes she’s the same girl who saved him.
“But she’s not. She’s dead. What’s left is a monster wearing her face—manipulating him. I showed him proof. All of it. But he still looks for her.
“I had no choice. He would've destroyed everything we built.”
He slammed his empty soda can on the table.
“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot,” she said softly. Her voice was silk over razors.
Jake didn’t reply.
She sipped her wine, the crimson liquid reflecting the data-stream glow in her iris.
“Your Constellation allows you to interface with technology,” she said. “Override networks. Possess digital systems. But… what if I told you that you could hack other Constellations—and make them yours?”
Jake blinked. “I can do that? How?”
She smiled. “You must first understand… it was never yours to begin with. You stole it.”
Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”
She placed her glass down gently, leaned back.
“I mean… it was written into you. Preloaded. Like a patch.”
“I thought I was born with it.”
“You weren’t born at all.”
He froze.
“You’re a Simulacrum, Jake. A construct. A designed placeholder in reality. You didn’t enter this world—you were inserted into it. Everything you learn in NIX Polytechnic, is nothing but partial lie.”
His breath caught.
“That’s impossible.”
“I designed your kind. The Quasars. Not born. Not evolved. Generated. Given just enough memory, just enough personality, just enough trauma to pass as real.”
“You said we fight Voids…” he muttered.
“Yes. Because you replaced them. Voids are her retaliation—soldiers clawing back what we took.”
A silence deeper than understanding settled over the room.
“They were the ones who were meant to exist. The system erased them. But deletion is never perfect. Some fragments remain.”
Jake looked down at his hands.
“The Voids…”
“…are what’s left when existence breaks its promise,” she said.
He met her gaze.
“My Constellation—it’s real?”
“Oh, yes. But Constellations are real for everyone. Not just Quasars. It's a universal term—any metaphysical ability across the stars. Like calling fire a flame. The form varies. The principle remains.”
“Then why am I different?”
She studied him.
“Because you were built to need approval,” she said. “Others—humans, off-worlders, even Voids—their abilities don’t depend on perception. Yours do.”
Jake sat in silence.
“When people trust you, your code stabilises. That’s Stable Mode,” she said. “When they don’t… your identity fractures. Your mind rewrites itself in real time. That’s Diffusion Mode.”
She took another sip.
“You don’t gain power from belief. You gain form. Lose enough… and you dissolve. Just like the ones you replaced.”
Jake’s voice dropped.
“What happens if I stop believing in myself?”
She raised her glass.
“Then you join the ones clawing at the edge of existence,” she said softly. “And trust me—they remember you.”
He processed it all slowly, then finally spoke:
“So… to use someone else’s Constellation, I’m actually stealing it. I’ve done it before—it didn’t last long. But I know you’ve got ideas. And I’m listening.”
She smiled.
“That’s good to hear, Jake.”
He leaned back, his demeanour easing.
“By the way… you said there were two others. Haven’t seen them yet. And you never introduced yourself.”
“They already know what they need to do,” she said, standing. “You can call me Arachne.
“My favourite hobby… is weaving.”
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Present day…On the February 23rd
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Starling sat silently, watching the others eat their rations. She stared down at her own meal—lumpy oatmeal that looked as joyless as she felt. She prodded it absentmindedly, disinterested, her gaunt features hollow with exhaustion. Her stomach growled violently. She clutched her abdomen in pain and exhaled with temporary relief once the cramp passed.
A gentle tap on her shoulder made her flinch.
“Come with me,” said Lucy, voice neutral. “My boss wants to speak with you.”
Starling rose with a tired huff and followed.
Georgie moved to trail behind, but Sievernich placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Sorry, kid. Back to your seat. Finish your breakfast.”
Georgie stuck out his tongue in protest before sprinting off to join his siblings, who were chatting with friends nearby.
Sievernich picked up Starling’s untouched oatmeal and began eating it himself as he leaned against the doorway of Brimstone’s makeshift office.
“You look awful. Food not to your liking?” Brimstone said with a smirk.
Lucy rolled her eyes and leaned on the doorframe.
Starling stared at Brimstone with deadened boredom and muttered a single word. “Duh.”
The word rumbled. A low shockwave vibrated through the room, making Brimstone jolt in his seat.
Starling laughed.
Brimstone cleared his throat. “I didn’t call you here so you could entertain yourself.”
“Then get to the point,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp and deadly. Her weariness vanished like a mask discarded.
“We know you’ve been teleporting into New York. It's now a hotspot for Void activity. At first, the Council suspected you were trying to make the Voids your Eidolons. That theory’s been ruled out.” Brimstone clasped his hands together.
“Our scouts observed something... different. You’re not consuming their flesh—you’re feeding on their ichor.
“According to surveys, you’ve focused on targets in the Mesosphere and Thermosphere. The higher the Magnitude, the more drawn you are to them.”
Starling shrugged, unimpressed. “And what does that have to do with this meeting? Haven’t I been helping you eliminate the Voids?”
Brimstone nodded. “Certainly. And for that, you have our thanks. My troops can manage the Entropy-infected—the Biohazards. They're easier to deal with than Voids.” He raised his hand in a pacifying gesture. “However, our current concern is your influence over reality itself. That power... is a threat.”
Starling narrowed her eyes. “And your solution is?”
“My top operatives will provide you with Void ichor. In exchange, you’ll refrain from any reality-bending, summoning your Eidolons, or using any other ability from your Manuscript,” Brimstone said, his voice now serious.
“That’s a pathetic deal. I’m supposed to starve my power? Just accept bloodbags as compensation?” Starling rose from her chair, turning to leave. “I refuse.”
“I can kill your friend,” Brimstone blurted out.
Lucy’s expression shifted in disbelief.
Starling froze mid-step, then turned slowly, her voice like cracking granite.
“Then I’ll make sure you’re swallowed by the Leviathan. I’ll leave you in Purgatory to rot for eternity. You’ll beg for death. And not just you—your toy soldiers too. Everyone will forget Paradox ever existed.”
Her voice rumbled, low and seismic.
Brimstone remained still for a moment before responding.
“Let’s renegotiate. I won’t harm your friend. I know you want him safe. And in return, you’ll still get the ichor—but you’ll refrain from using any reality-altering abilities. That’s all we ask. Such powers are... not in Paradox’s favour.” He leaned back, watching her closely. “What do you say?”
Starling stared at him, then gave a slow, shallow nod.
“Fine. It’s a deal. But remember this—what makes you think a contract will stop me?”
Without waiting for a reply, she left.
Lucy raised a brow at Brimstone, silently asking: That was your best move?
Meanwhile, Sievernich quickly stepped away from the door where he’d been eavesdropping. He placed Starling’s empty bowl back on the table.
Starling had noticed him already. As she passed him, she took the bowl from his hand.
“You can thank me later.”
She returned the dish to the cleaning tray and then headed upstairs at a brisk pace—rapid, but not enough to rival Tetsuo’s speed of light.
Starling entered the cramped apartment she shared with the Schindler’s List children. The rebels had grouped them together due to the children's temporal anomalies—displaced not only in time, but perhaps even in fate.
Across the room, the boy struggled to do the girl's hair.
“Why is this so difficult?” he muttered in English, his voice tinged with a German accent. He was careful not to tug too hard as he attempted to braid her hair.
They were both distracted, half-watching an old cartoon playing on a scratched DVD—one Starling had salvaged from a ruinous video store in New York.
She moved past them and headed to the refrigerator—one of two in the room. The second bore a faded biohazard sticker.
Starling opened the hazardous one and pulled out a gallon jug. Despite the label, it didn’t contain milk. Instead, a strange, iridescent liquid shimmered inside—frizzy, multicoloured, and faintly pulsing.
She raised it to her lips and drank deeply, draining over half the jug before replacing it among several identical containers.
Wiping her mouth, she poured a small amount of the remaining liquid into the sink. Thick black mould had begun to creep up from the drain—Entropic residue. She grabbed a stiff-bristled brush and scrubbed, the ichor hissing as it touched the growth. In seconds, the infestation evaporated into nothingness.
Satisfied, she unplugged the sink. A loud gurgle echoed through the pipes, followed by a high-pitched screech deep within the building’s sewage system—something had just been unclogged. The ichor was effective. One of its many perks.
Starling spent the next hour methodically cleaning. She vacuumed the floor, dusted the window sills, and opened the windows to let in the dry city air. She hummed softly as she worked, the tune low and wistful.
Beds were made. Blankets fluffed. Order restored.
Later, she returned to the children. The boy was still determinedly experimenting with the girl’s hair.
“All right, enough experimenting on Pandora’s head, Aristotle,” Starling said, amused. “Move over. Let me handle it.”
She slipped into the boy—Aristotle—seat and began unravelling the small, uneven braids he’d attempted—each one twisted into the vague shape of flower petals.
With smooth, practised hands, Starling wove Pandora’s hair into a tight Dutch braid bun. But when she reached for a tie, she came up empty.
Without hesitation, she removed her own hairpin, loosening her half-bun into a jagged, neck-length wolf cut. She slid the pin into Pandora’s braid, securing it neatly.
Aristotle brought over a small hand mirror.
Pandora’s face lit up with wonder as she admired her reflection.
Then, suddenly, she lurched forward—her smile vanishing.
A dry, hacking cough tore from her lungs.
Starling caught her instinctively. Slowly, gently, she peeled back Pandora’s hand—now stained with fresh blood.
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“It’s leukaemia,” Bart said grimly, removing his gloves and letting out a slow breath. “I gave her some of the last batch of antibiotics, but we’re running out of medical supplies. These meds are outdated—not the same ones we use in 2203—but they’re still somewhat effective.”
Aristotle sat quietly, holding Pandora’s hand as Bart secured the oxygen mask over her face. The air in the apartment was growing stale. Entropic infestation had spread through the building’s sewage system, forcing a response.
A small team of Paradox rebels, accompanied by Tetsuo, had been dispatched to contain the spread. They scrubbed at blackened patches of fungal mould, spraying diluted Void ichor onto the infestation. The substance slowed the growth, but supplies were dwindling. Much of the last batch had been stolen, leaving only enough for partial sterilisation.
Starling watched silently as Bart instructed Aristotle on how to monitor the oxygen levels in the tank and operate the device properly.
“How are we doing on supply runs?” Starling asked.
Bart shook his head, his voice low. “Not great. A lot of rebels are still recovering. We’ve only got a handful out there scavenging. The nearby hospitals and pharmacies have been looted clean. We’re going to have to push farther past the safe zone.”
He glanced toward the window. “The farther we go, the heavier the Entropic presence gets. The corruption is stronger the further we are from here.”
Bart helped Pandora sit up gently, careful not to disturb the oxygen line.
He turned to Aristotle. “Keep the room clean. Tidy, ventilated. Turn on the air conditioning—it’ll help filter the outside air. Use this spray after you clean. It’ll disinfect the area. But above all, she needs rest. Don’t let her overexert her lungs. Understand?”
Aristotle straightened and saluted. “Yes, doctor. I’ll make sure of it.”
As the boy prepared to escort Pandora back into their room, Starling stepped forward and stopped him.
With a small gesture, she materialised a top hat—an elegant one, embroidered and worn in a timeless style. A parting gift once given to her by Zeus.
She gently placed it on Aristotle’s head and gave him a fond, cheeky smile—like it might be the last time they’d see each other.
“Now you’re a handsome young man.”
She pulled him into a brief, warm hug. Aristotle’s expression froze for a second, then softened. He nodded quietly and led Pandora away, his small hand wrapped protectively around hers.
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“I’m astounded,” Brimstone said, eyebrows raised. “You actually gave away your supply of Void ichor—to the cleaning crew, no less.”
He made no attempt to tidy the chaos piled around him. Paperwork stacked precariously on every surface. His desk was a war zone of half-sorted files, scattered reports, and unidentified stains. The room had descended further into disarray with each passing day.
Starling’s eyes scanned the clutter—until she caught a skitter.
Something moved in the papers. Her expression twisted in horror as two antennae poked from beneath a stack in the corner.
“I didn’t plan it,” she said, still eyeing the infestation. “But I didn’t see this coming either—flushing just a drop of Void ichor down the drain, diluted with gallons of water or cleaning solvent? It’s practically alchemical. Worked like a charm.”
She smirked. “So now I’ve earned myself a new job, huh? Volunteer courier for Paradox’s glorious Movement—off to scavenge medical supplies for your ragtag unit.”
Brimstone gave a lazy nod. “Good luck.”
Starling bolted from the office without so much as a goodbye—just as one of Brimstone’s unwelcome companions fully emerged. At least three cockroaches skittered across the floor, disappearing into the shadows.
Brimstone didn’t even blink. He turned back to his console and began typing, oblivious to the pest parade. Fortunately, the essential utilities—internet, power, and secure lines—were still holding up.
A few moments later, Lucy burst into the room, clad in a full hazmat suit.
Without a word, she began spraying clouds of anti-infestation gas. She grabbed Brimstone by the collar, yanked him from his chair, and kicked him out of his own office.
The sound of chaos followed—thuds, curses, skittering feet, and the muffled hiss of an industrial sprayer.
After a minute, Lucy stepped back out, the office now visibly cleaner but her posture sagging with exhaustion.
“This is worse than the Entropic infestation in the sewers,” she muttered, ripping off her gloves.
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