Somewhere, sometime in time and space.
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A silver-tipped fountain pen scribbles furiously yet elegantly on the black pages of a journal—a memoir. The writer's mind replays fragmented memories, timelines blending together, unable to align in order. Somehow, they feel familiar, as if the outcomes are always the same, leading to the same inevitable conclusion.
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Gunshots echo in the distance. Fighters and bombers roar overhead, sweeping across the outskirts of a small city. As dusk settles, the booming of tank fire ricochets off the buildings, their treads crushing cobblestones into dust. Screams pierce the air, mingling with cries of defiance as civilians either flee or fight. Realisation dawns—they are losing the war. Their empire, once mighty, now crumbles. Desperately, they cling to control, even if it means killing innocents.
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Two pairs of feet, belonging to children, race away from the chaos engulfing their hometown. Their hands are tightly clasped, afraid one might fall behind, even as their lungs threaten to give out from exhaustion.
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“Wir haben sie gefunden! Schieß! Lass die Bälger nicht entkommen!” ("We found them! Shoot! Don’t let the brats escape!") A soldier’s shout alerts others to their position. Men in grey uniforms, stark red armbands on their left arms, cut off the children's path to the docks—their escape route to safety. Veering to the right, they hope to outmaneuver the soldiers, but they meet a dead end. Surrounded on all sides, rifles aimed, fingers tightening on triggers. Without hesitation, shots are fired. One child throws themselves in front of the other, shielding them with their body. The sound of gunfire rings out, followed by blood-curdling screams.
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The scene shifts.
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Now, under a bright, hazy sun, helicopters fly overhead. Soldiers march through the humid swamps and rice fields. Terrified villagers, wearing large straw hats, cower in fear, shielding their children from the soldiers' weapons. But the soldiers pay them no mind—their mission takes precedence. Their march brings them to the battlefield where their comrades, outnumbered and outgunned, struggle to hold the line. The volunteers' mission is clear: rescue the wounded and bring back those who still stand.
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Among the volunteers, one soldier rushes forward, heedless of the danger. He carries supplies, determined to reach his comrade trapped in a makeshift trench at the heart of the battlefield. His friend shouts at him to stay back, but the soldier pushes onward. Just as he nears his comrade, a plane swoops down, releasing a torrent of bombs—napalm, igniting the enemy's line and everything around it, including the trench. Flames engulf the battlefield. The soldier watches as his life flashes before his eyes, and in that instant, he sees her.
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Amidst the flames, she stands tall and dignified, her figure obscured by shadows, yet he remembers her as clear as day. She extends her hand, offering something unseen. He reaches out, curiosity stirring within the soldier, to see what lies in her enclosed palm. Slowly, her fingers unfurl.
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The writer’s pen screeches to a halt, hesitating over blank spaces on the page. With a decisive thud, the writer close the journal and place it alongside a stack of other notebooks on the cluttered desk. A vintage, slightly frayed top hat rests atop piles of scientific books and neatly stacked files. The writer reaches for the hat, fingers grazing its worn brim, pausing as if struck by sudden recollection. The writer retrieve the journal, flipping to a blank page near the end, and tear it out cleanly. Carefully, writes a single word on it: "Instruction," then add in precise script, “Rückkehr zu Konstantin” (“Return to Constantine”).
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Folding the page into a small, six-sided shape, the writer turns the hat over. Securing the paper under a ruby caduceus-like ornament pinned to the hat’s lining, complete the task. Just then, the sharp ring of a rotary dial telephone shatters the quiet, drawing the writer’s attention from the peaceful atmosphere.
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Checking the time and the location of the caller before answering the call, chronological rings mechanism encompassed the telephone, it moves and align together into a disc. Numbers and words form burning like filament in a light bulb. There are two results, first it reads ‘11:37 P.M. Bundle-13th’ and the second reading, reads ‘11:36 P.M. Bundle-4th’. These two reading are switch between the two, baffles the writer. “Hello? Who is this?” The writer inquires, “who would be calling at this late hour and in two different worlds at once?”.
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“Hi, Dad. It’s been a long time. Ummm… I need your help. Can you pull some strings to get the ‘Twins’ out of the hospital?” said a voice from the speaker.
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“Twins? How? And why am I getting a reading from two different Bundles? What have you done, A—?” The writer’s inquiry was abruptly interrupted.
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“Look, it’s a long story. I don’t have time to explain. I can’t get the Twins out while the NIX are after me. They’re not interested in you, so you shouldn’t have any trouble,” the voice retorted sharply.
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“Are you sure about that? And what about the Twins’ mother?” the writer asked, his voice edged with apprehension.
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“They’re dead,” came the nonchalant reply.
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“They? Why not she? Two mothers?” The writer’s mind raced, but he reluctantly answered, “Let me see what I can do.”
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The voice on the other end brightened, pleased with the response. “That’s great! One more thing—can I wait at the Singularity Cloister while you get the Twins?” The tone was less a question, more a demand.
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“Here? Why? Aren’t you safe where you are?” The writer sounded baffled.
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A frustrated sigh echoed through the receiver. “Yes, but the NIX have detected my Nexus Ambience Signature. It’s only a matter of time before they box me in and capture me. Do you really want that? If not, prove you care about me for once. You’ve always put your ‘duty’ to the Angel above everything else—even Mum…”
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The writer’s voice darkened with anger. “You’re asking too much. I never abandoned your mother, A—”
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Again, the voice cut him off. “Then prove it. Grant me access to the Singularity Cloister. If you do, I’ll forgive you. All the damage you caused—all the ways you turned me into what I am—it’ll be swept under the rug. Do you concur?”
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A long silence stretched between them before the writer finally spoke. “Alright. Don’t do anything foolish while you’re here.”
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“Perfect! I’ll see you soon,” came the satisfied reply, and the call ended with a sharp click.
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The writer returned the receiver to its cradle and rose from his seat. He picked up the same frayed top hat into which he had tucked the folded page, donned his coat from the hanger, and stepped out of his study, locking the door behind him. The door shimmered, then drifted away into the surreal hallway beyond.
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The corridor spiralled in every direction—horizontally, vertically, diagonally. Doors flickered in and out of existence, reflecting against the infinite backdrop of space. This place, this home, was the Singularity Cloister. The writer walked a glowing white path veined with an endless sea of flowers that fractured the surrounding cosmic expanse. The path led him to a central platform brimming with devices—an intricate amalgamation of machinery.
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The contraption was a masterpiece of mechanical and electrical ingenuity. Its core system included rotors mounted on a spindle, their brass pins and circular contacts representing the alphabet. Each rotor was engraved with Roman numerals, and when aligned, they connected via spring-loaded pins to form intricate electrical pathways. A plugboard sat at the front, allowing reconfigurable wiring marked by Greek letters. Beneath its surface, the device contained layers of crystal-controlled components, RF amplifiers, and finely tuned circuits.
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Its interface was a marriage of analogue precision and cosmic artistry—spinning gears, glowing filament-like letters, and floating keys that pulsed like constellations. The writer placed a stethoscope in his ears, guiding the drum through the air. Though invisible to the naked eye, he moved it along the celestial fabric, listening to the ‘resonance’ of the Narrative, searching for the desired coordinates.
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Examining the compass through a hovering magnifier, the writer typed commands on the glowing keyboard, his fingers flying over the keys. He adjusted plug combinations, ensuring the wavelengths matched the resonance he sought. Letters and numbers appeared in mid-air, glowing like burning filaments, as he dictated:
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"Charting course for;
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First destination: Norilsk, Russia, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way. 4th Bundle. June 13th, 2003, 2:54 A.M.
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Final destination: London, England, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way. 13th Bundle. June 13th, 2003, 3:00 A.M."
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Stairs materialised from the ground, rising like tendrils to meet the surface of an unseen plane. The whirring of machinery filled the space as fragments of lustrous metal coalesced, forming a pair of keys. The writer picked them up and ascended the steps. At the summit, he inserted a key into a thin, glass-like membrane. When he turned it, the surface cracked, and he stepped through.
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Beyond the threshold lay a world of architecture frozen in the early 2000s. Streets bustled, unaware of the cosmic voyage that had just bridged their reality with the boundless expanse of the Singularity Cloister.
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***
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90-60 Union Turnpike, Glendale, Queens, NY, USA. February 14, 2023, 00:00 A.M. ?
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"Kenshin! Kenshin! This is no time to be sleeping, dammit! Wake up!"
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A sharp slap stung Tetsuo’s cheek, jolting him awake. His eyes shot open, his vision swimming as though his sockets were struggling to contain them. Instinct overrode reason, and before he could comprehend his surroundings, his fist lashed out. His knuckles connected with a jaw, sending the assailant flying across the tiled floor. The figure skidded to a halt several metres away, groaning in pain.
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Tetsuo winced, his body screaming in protest. It felt as though his bones had been locked in place for centuries. Slowly, he rose from the crater that had formed beneath him, each movement like ice cracking under strain. "Ow," he hissed as his stiff joints and tendons came alive once more.
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"Serves you right," a familiar voice sneered. Tetsuo squinted up to see Sievernich, arms crossed, his face marred by a fresh bruise on his jaw. His expression simmered with restrained anger and thinly veiled disappointment.
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"What’s with the look? I already did what you told me to do," Tetsuo grumbled, irritation flaring through his aching body.
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"Did you, now?" Sievernich shot back. "Because from where I’m standing, you botched the plan completely. And now we’re knee-deep in a mess we might not crawl out of." He gestured broadly at their surroundings.
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Tetsuo took in the scene and immediately understood. They weren’t alone. Eight Paradox Movement operatives stood frozen in terror, their faces pale as though caught in a nightmare. Nearby, a group of panicked civilians, rescued earlier by the Movement, was teetering on the edge of chaos. Arguments erupted among them like wildfire, most of the ire directed at a middle-aged woman who is seem at loss on what she should say, shielded by a man with an angular face and a jagged scar running from nose to cheek.
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The tension was thick, the air crackling with fear and accusations.
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"Aren’t they your kids?!" a shrill voice shrieked at the scared woman. "Tell them to let us out! This isn’t some children’s playground!"
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The crowd surged, anger spilling over like a breached dam. Tetsuo dragged himself forward, each step agony, towards the growing mob. The scene turned ugly as the crowd lunged at a few defenders trying to shield the middle-aged woman. Tetsuo’s instincts surged. With a sharp thrust of his arm, a translucent golden bubble formed at his fingertips. It expanded rapidly, bursting with a muffled thoom that sent the attackers sprawling to the ground.
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"What the hell is going on here?!" Tetsuo roared. Silence fell, but it only deepened his frustration. His gaze swept the crowd, his demand hanging unanswered in the air.
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Finally, one of the aggressors, a frantic woman, broke the silence. "Everything was fine—until monsters appeared out of nowhere and attacked us! We were goners until you people rescued us. I thought we were safe… but then her children summoned a demon and brought disaster on us all!" She pointed an accusing finger at the middle-aged woman cowering behind the protective man.
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Tetsuo’s mind churned, struggling to process the chaos. He opened his mouth to command order, but a boy’s voice boomed over the din through a loudspeaker.
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"SHUT UP! YOU’RE RUINING OUR FUN!"
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The voice drew Tetsuo’s attention to the back of the supermarket. He turned, his gaze locking on a group of seven children and a teenager seated comfortably behind what appeared to be an invisible barrier. The boy, perched on a makeshift throne, was tearing into a chocolate bar with smug indifference. His icy glare silenced the crowd further, but his attention soon drifted back to the chaos outside.
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Curiosity pulled Tetsuo’s gaze to the same direction. His stomach dropped. Through the shattered remains of the store’s front wall, he saw Lucy and Eva locked in combat with a titanic storm-like entity. Sparks of energy illuminated the battlefield in fleeting bursts of light. The battle took a grim turn as Lucy was struck mid-air, her body careening through the sky before smashing into the supermarket with a deafening crash.
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***
Yet to be determine Time and Space
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Rapid gunfire echoed across the barren expanse, the acrid tang of gunpowder saturating the air. A small aircraft roared overhead, its droning whine interrupted by an ear-splitting explosion that churned the scorched earth into an upheaval of ash and dirt. Amid the chaos, Eva lay motionless in the centre of no man’s land, her body unnaturally still, as though caught in a deep, unshakable slumber.
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Nearby, Schrödinger, a small and wiry cat, let out a plaintive meow. His tiny paws trembled as he nudged her shoulder repeatedly, ears pinned back in an anxious posture. Despite his persistent attempts, Eva remained unresponsive. After a few moments, his ears twitched, suddenly attuned to a distant sound. He stilled, narrowed his sharp eyes, and sprang onto her shoulder before darting across the field. The air was thick with screams and an inhuman screech that stabbed the silence like a blade.
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Eva awoke abruptly, gasping as if breaking free from a spell. Her eyes flew open, and she instinctively checked her body for injuries, finding none. Overhead, a shadow blotted out the murky sky. A colossal, neckless creature with sinewy, webbed wings soared above, its hideous bulk blotting the faint light. Her instincts surged, compelling her to flee. She bolted across the desolate terrain, her heartbeat pounding like a war drum.
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Behind her, the creature dove with alarming speed, its maw gaping as it shrieked in pursuit. Eva scanned the horizon, desperate for any semblance of cover but found none. Then, faint and reassuring, came a distant meow—Schrödinger’s call. Her gaze snapped towards the sound, where the cat crouched beside a grotesque humanoid figure. Its body appeared to be covered in tree bark, its face a deer’s skull with hollow, lifeless sockets. As Eva approached, the humanoid's form crumbled into the earth like dry leaves, dissolving before her eyes.
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Schrödinger meowed again, urging her onward. But as she ran, her foot landed on something solid—a landmine. Eva froze, the realisation striking her like a blow. Her eyes darted to Schrödinger, who stood a safe distance away and yowled, as if to say, "Thank me later!" He darted further ahead, heading straight for a nearby trench.
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The winged beast shrieked, sensing an opportunity as its prey stilled. It surged downward, its grotesque body unfurling to reveal a hidden maw lined with jagged teeth and half-formed humanoid torsos writhing from its gullet. Just as the monstrous appendages reached for her, Eva leapt into the air, flipping gracefully over the creature. Her foot slammed against its skull with supernatural force, driving its head into the ground.
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The landmine detonated in a thunderous blast, engulfing the creature in a fiery eruption. Shards of its body flew in every direction, disintegrating into fragments. Eva landed on her feet with the precision of a predator, unscathed and poised.
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Above, the sky filled with more screeches as similar creatures circled. Yet instead of attacking, they wheeled away, retreating into the horizon. Eva's brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s... unexpected,” she murmured under her breath.
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From her experience as a Stargazer, Voids—ravenous, otherworldly predators—were known to attack relentlessly, fearless even in death. They never fled, even when one of their own was destroyed. This sudden display of retreat was deeply strange.
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Eva moved cautiously towards the trench where Schrödinger had disappeared. As she approached, the cold, metallic nuzzle of a gun pressed against her temple. Without hesitation, she reacted instinctively, swatting the barrel aside and summoning her M.J.O.L.N.I.R., a shimmering weapon that manifested in her grip. She swung it to disarm the stranger, but the figure countered deftly, using the handgun to block her attack.
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The stranger's confidence faltered as the weapon cleaved cleanly through the firearm, leaving only shards of metal. Undeterred, the stranger wrapped an arm around Eva’s weapon arm, applying pressure to force her to drop M.J.O.L.N.I.R.. Eva relinquished it but immediately used her left arm to regain the advantage, gripping the weapon once more. In response, the stranger pulled out a second handgun, aiming it squarely at her head. Meanwhile, Eva’s weapon was poised at the stranger’s throat, locking them in a tense stalemate.
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The impasse ended abruptly when a voice called out from the trench. “Leutnant! Tun Sie diesem Exemplar nichts!” (“Lieutenant! Don’t harm this specimen!”) A man in a white lab coat emerged, his unkempt dark brown hair framing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice calm and authoritative. Soldiers flanked him, dressed in the same uniform as the stranger.
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Eva shoved the lieutenant back, and he retreated a few paces respectfully. The man in the lab coat stepped forward, his tone diplomatic. “Hallo, ich bin Herr Dr. Wernher von Wagner. Ich kann Ihnen nicht genug dafür danken, dass Sie dieses Wesen besiegt haben – es hat unsere Truppen seit Monaten heimgesucht. Darf ich fragen, wer Sie sind und woher Sie kommen?”
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(“Hello, I am Herr Dr. Wernher von Wagner. I cannot thank you enough for vanquishing that creature—it’s plagued our forces for months. May I ask who you are and where you come from?”)
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Eva blinked, perplexed. She caught only fragments of his words. “Eh? I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’ve just said.”
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The moment she spoke, one of the soldiers flanking the doctor raised his rifle, barking, “Sie spricht Englisch! Sie muss eine der Alliierten sein, die diese höllischen Kreaturen auf das Reich losgelassen haben!”
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(“She speaks English! She must be one of the Allies who unleashed these hellish creatures upon the Empire!”)
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The doctor immediately tried to calm the soldier, but the man pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the tense quiet, but Eva swiped the bullet away effortlessly, sending it harmlessly into the dirt. She cast the soldier a deadpan glare.
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“Actually,” she said dryly, “my German’s a bit rusty. I’ve forgotten most of it. Do you have a translator? Mine’s broken.”
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Lowering her weapon to show she meant no harm, Eva glanced at the soldier, who looked stunned. The lieutenant strode over and placed a firm hand on the rifle’s barrel, forcing it down.
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“Please forgive us for our aggression,” the lieutenant said in English, his voice steady. “We are in a constant state of war, simply trying to survive. This trench is our refuge.”
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Eva exhaled in relief, about to respond when Dr. Wagner interrupted. “We must move inside. The sun is setting—it’s not safe here after dark.” His English was accented but fluent. He motioned for the soldiers to retrieve the creature’s remains. “Come with us. Let’s leave the battlefield.”
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Eva followed the soldier through the winding trench. Around her, the air buzzed with urgency. Soldiers hurriedly packed their belongings, extinguished candles, and shouldered their weapons and ammunition. A bell tolled in the distance, signaling the final roll call. Questions swirled in her mind like a storm. The Interstice had breached into 2023 from 2203, but this... this was something else. Could the breach have accelerated, causing timelines to overlap chaotically?
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She observed her surroundings carefully, deducing that she was somewhere in Germany from the predominance of the German tongue. Yet nothing about the area felt familiar. The trench ended at a heavy iron gate, where she kept close to the soldier in front of her. He glanced back to ensure she was still following, his face obscured beneath the brim of an officer's cap.
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Beyond the gate lay a stark contrast to the battlefield—a village nestled against a backdrop of towering mountains. Its high walls and strategic placement hinted at a stronghold, a refuge carved out of necessity. At its centre stood a large chapel, its silhouette imposing yet serene. But as they approached, Eva’s hopes of finding solace were dashed. The chapel had become a makeshift hospital.
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Inside, the air was thick with the stench of blood and disinfectant. Wounded men lay on every available surface, groaning in pain. A boy, no older than fifteen, sobbed loudly, his arm mangled and partially chewed away. Nuns moved frantically, their faces pale and drawn as they worked tirelessly to ease the suffering around them.
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Eva strayed from the group, her gaze fixed on the boy. She overheard one of the nuns whisper to another, “Uns ist das Opium ausgegangen.” (“We’re out of opium.”) The words made her pause. Before anyone could stop her, she approached the boy, whose tear-filled eyes met hers, silently begging for relief.
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Kneeling beside him, Eva extended her hand. Her fingertips hovered over his ravaged arm as faint strands of light began to weave through the wound. With a deft motion, she severed an unseen thread. The boy gasped, his cries fading into quiet. He slumped into restful peace as the nuns worked quickly to bandage his injury, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief.
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When the nun finished, she turned to Eva, her face pale. “Was… was haben Sie getan?” (“What… what did you do?”) she whispered, but Eva didn’t answer. Dr. Wagner, who had been watching from a distance, now stepped closer, his curiosity evident.
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Schrödinger suddenly appeared, leaping onto Eva’s shoulder. Startled, she yelped, “Gah! Where have you been?” She reached up, plucking the small cat from her shoulder, her tone a mixture of annoyance and affection. Schrödinger couldn’t respond—his mouth was full, clamped around a rolled-up newspaper.
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“What’s this?” Eva muttered as she tugged the paper free. Glancing at the headline written in German, her frustration deepened. She scanned the page, searching for context, when a detail froze her in place. Her eyes locked onto the date: 31st, August 1941.
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Her breath caught, and her grip tightened on the paper. The numbers swam in her vision, impossible yet undeniable. Schrödinger, perched on her shoulder, tilted his head, seemingly reading over her.
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“Did you see something interesting?” The soldier’s voice broke her reverie. He stood a few steps away, watching her intently. His cap no longer hid his face, and he wore a faint, playful smile.
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Eva looked up from the paper, unsure whether to feel intrigue or dread.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
