Lucien's pen scratched softly against his journal. Faint, rhythmic. The only sound in the room.
He sat alone in his office at Chronos HQ—back straight, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the page before him, lines neatly filled in with his tight, methodical handwriting. The room around him was silent. No tick of clocks. No hum of machines. Just the muted, filtered light from the tall windows behind him—late autumn sunlight, pale and cold, spilling across the dark floor.
It had been eight weeks.
Eight weeks since the first alien fell from the sky. Eight weeks since his companions saw the truth for themselves. Eight weeks since the world began to unravel.
Lucien paused, tapping the pen lightly against the edge of the page. Then continued writing.
"Eight weeks. That's all it took. The world was built on sand. And we just lived long enough to feel the ground collapse beneath us."
In his mind, the images flashed without needing to be thought.
Wounds—fresh, open, and bleeding across the globe.
Beijing.
A child clutched to his mother's hand, hiding behind an armored vehicle. A white figure stepped onto the street—faceless, silent, flawless. Soldiers shouted warnings. The mother turned. A flash of violet light blinked the alien out of place—then back again—reappearing in a new position mid-detonation. Time had rewound—but the terror hadn't. The explosion hit twice. The alley became flame—like the gates of hell had opened.
Massive crowds fleeing in every direction. Aliens tearing through concrete, shrugging off tank shells. Soldiers shouting into radios, disappearing in pulses of violet light. Smoke thick enough to blot out the sky.
London.
An alien moved like a puppet in reverse—leaping between rooftops, untouched by bullets that never arrived in time. Military drones locked on, ready to figure. The alien crossed his arms, and a radial pulse erupted, warping pavement and glass into spiraling waves of force.
A bus impaled on a spire of metal. A black-and-gold Chronos satellite crashing into the Thames. Civilians arming themselves with crap tech and jury-rigged coil weapons. Parliament in flames.
Sao Paulo.
Civilians fought back—barely. Pipe-bombs and bolt-action rifles. They laid cables across intersections, tied powerlines to truck batteries. None of it mattered. The aliens blinked through electric arcs and fired their beams clean through a block of housing.
Barricades of rebar and salvaged armor plating stretching across the streets. Militia's carving turf out of abandoned police stations. Old uniforms burned. New orders painted on brick in white spray.
New York.
Crowds gathered, desperate for food, answers, protection... Aliens descending in full daylight—moves too fast to follow. They blinked from roof to ground to street, every stop marked by a rising cloud of dust and broken bodies. Newsfeed cut to static before the first emergency broadcast even played.
Martial law declared. Drones patrolling empty avenues. Every civilian with a screen glued to Chronos broadcasts—some demanding answers, some begging for protection, others preparing to fight alone.
The world was shattering. Piece by piece.
Banks froze. Digital networks went dark. Currencies collapsed. States merged under militaries. Rebels offered sanctuaries. Governments run by false prophets. Groups were forming everywhere. Some worshiped the aliens. Others feared them. Some claimed the government had created them. Others simply wanted everything to burn to the ground.
And at the center of it all—Chronos.
Lucien turned to the next page of his journal.
He wrote slowly now, deliberately.
He paused.
Then he set the pen down.
He stood, slowly, and walked to the far end of the room. A large wall overlooked Chronos' central campus—square towers rising from engineered symmetry, all forged in steel and gold-white alloy. Below, recruits marched in formation across the quad. Others trained with target drones, simulating alien encounters with brutal precision.
His work.
His response.
Chronos had changed.
Where it once was research and invention, now it was readiness. Blueprints became weapons. Theories became armor. Inventions meant to preserve life now optimized to take it.
Chronos had established a private army. Soldiers in white tactical armor, the only color in their uniform was Chronos's golden emblem at the center of their vests.
Lucien had built everything he once prepared. Autonomous drones. Impenetrable vehicles. Energy observant armor. Thead-light fueled weaponry. Various weaponry, from pistols to hand-cannons. Bullets that erase moments.
And behind each unit—a human.
Max handled the recruitment. Relentless. Sharp. He'd secured tens of thousands of able, willing, desperate volunteers.
Julian trained them. Morning to night. He demonstrated will and resilience. He'd memorized the alien's tactics after Lucien's encounter and planned counter-attacks.
Isabelle organized global aid. She drafted networks across continents, identified critical zones, and assigned and trained medical and rescue squads. Her teams were the only ones some civilians trusted.
Kieran drilled commanders. Taught Lieutenants how to lead—not just tactically, but morally. How to survive when command lines collapse. How to recognize patterns in the enemy's movements. How to react in moments of despair.
But none of it was enough.
Lucien returned to his desk and sat down again.
He opened his journal again, picked up his pen, and started writing.
His hand stopped after a while. He stared at a few words.
He could already feel it. The doubt. The fear. The questions.
Even within Chronos.
Lucien said nothing. But he heard it all.
He knew his betrayal was imminent.
He tapped his journal once, gently.
Then he closed it.
Outside, the wind picked up. Dead leaves spiraled across the training ground.
Lucien stood and walked to the door, leaving his office. Outside, his recruits drilled in rows, his engineers performed tests, and his staff distributed instructions.
The world didn't know it yet—but the next phase had already begun.
And when it comes, they won't be ready.
But he would.