"Mother, what's above the clouds?" asked a curious child.
The young woman, mature beyond her years, looked up from the book resting gently in her lap. Her curly blonde hair framed a face far too youthful for her wisdom. She closed the book with a soft thump, then lifted the hazel-eyed boy onto her lap. Her voice dropped to a hush, as though she were about to share a legend passed down through generations. A full smile played on her lips.
"Above the clouds," she said, "lies a sliver of heaven crafted by the world's most brilliant architects."
The child's eyes widened with wonder, then narrowed with suspicion.
"Is heaven really up there—right above those clouds?" he asked, a little skeptic in soft pajamas.
She laughed gently, tousling his messy brown hair with fingers that had known war and warmth alike.
"It's called 'Little Heaven' because it's the most breathtaking place left in this world."
Lifting him into her arms, she carried his skinny frame to the window. Together, they gazed up at the thick gray sky that stretched endlessly above. Her dark gray eyes lingered on the churning clouds—always there, like a ceiling that would never quite break.
Pointing upward, she continued,
"Above those clouds lies a vast sea of white, stretching in every direction. Towering spires pierce the heavens, and floating islands drift like dreams, covered in wondrous plants and creatures too beautiful for stories."
The boy's eyes sparkled with awe.
"Then why don't we live up there, Mama? When sister Susie's wings grow big, she could fly us all!"
That made her laugh again, bright and soft.
"That's not how it works," she said, grinning. Then she feigned solemnity, eyes wide with mock gravity.
"The clouds are nearly as treacherous as the seas. And the people up there?" She paused. "They don't just welcome anyone."
He blinked. "Then who gets to go?"
"The righteous. The strong. Those who use their power to protect others." Her voice was firmer now, the warmth still there but shaped by something deeper.
The boy nodded fiercely.
"Then I'll be really strong! I'll take everyone—my brothers, my sisters, and you too, Mother! We'll all go up there, and—"
She cut him off, laughing, and placed a hand on his cheek.
"Of course you will. But for now, it's getting late. Let's gather everyone for dinner. You can tell them all about it at the table, alright?"
She took his hand and guided him out of the room, his little footsteps echoing alongside hers.
Let him dream, she thought, the smile never quite fading but never fully reaching her eyes.
Because she hadn't told him the truth.
That the most beautiful place in the world was also home to the ugliest of souls.
That perfection often concealed rot.
That not all paradise is pure.
After all, wasn't the greatest of evil ever born... born in Eden?
Caelumbra, Year 2970, November 3rd.
What should have been just another evening in the city was anything but ordinary.
The wind hissed through alleyways like a warning, carrying with it the sour tang of wet rust and distant ozone. Overhead, the bruised sky threatened violence, its belly swollen with storm. Rain fell in shivering sheets, slicing through the halo of the streetlights, painting the skyline in shades of mourning.
Raindrops traced glowing arcs down a flickering neon sign that read: Wispen St.
On a balcony three stories up, a man sat slouched in a cushioned chair, arms slack across a circular black table. His eyes were closed, not from rest, but from resignation. Strange, bone-white devices cupped his ears—headset-like, but deeper than sound, pressing silence into his skull. The steady drum of rain was the only mercy tonight.
Jerry had seen worse days. But this one clung to him.
He ran a hand over his tired face, slick with damp air, and let the tension in his shoulders unravel. Most days followed a familiar cadence—clock in, chase a story, poke the right bear, file the right words. And while today had been no different in shape, its weight was another matter.
A woman had taken her life. In public.
She'd staggered into traffic near South Ring, raving, eyes wild, a pistol shaking in her grip. Witnesses said she was screaming something about "shadows in the sky" and "echoes that won't die." And then, just like that, she was gone.
It shouldn't have hit him this hard. Suicides weren't uncommon in Caelumbra. Not here. Not under these clouds.
But this one—it lingered.
She had been twelve months pregnant.
Somehow, medics had salvaged the child. Now it clung to life in intensive care, caught between two worlds, gasping in a glass box. A miracle, they said.
Jerry wasn't sure he believed in those anymore.
He'd chased the story all day—interviews, backdoor recordings, favors owed and repaid in whispers. He'd burned through his energy reserves hours ago, pushing his ability past safety. Eavesdropping on a soundproofed facility had left him with a nosebleed and a migraine that throbbed behind both eyes.
And for what?
A tragedy with no clear motive. A woman lost to madness. A child born into a world that might not want him.
Jerry leaned back in his chair, surrendering to the lull of rain and pain.
All he wanted now was a long sleep. Dreamless.
Then, he heard it.
At first, he ignored it. The city groaned. Buildings muttered. Sometimes the mind filled in what the ears could not.
But this... this was different.
It came again—raw, hoarse, like a throat torn ragged by hours of screaming. Not loud. Not clear. Just enough to burrow into the base of his skull and fester.
A whisper dragged through water. Words he couldn't catch. A voice that didn't sound like it belonged to anything human.
In the downpour, a lone patrol vehicle idled under the sickly glow of streetlamps. Sleek and obsidian-black, its chassis gleamed with rain, broken only by bold white stripes slashing across its sides and a matching white hood. Two rotating lights—one red, one blue—spun lazily atop the roof, their glow painting the soaked pavement in pulses of warning.
The rhythmic patter of rain against metal echoed faintly beneath the neon haze of Caelumbra's undercity. Inside the vehicle, laughter erupted.
The source: a man with ivory-pale skin, jet-black hair streaked with white like cracks in obsidian, and a thin scar that snaked from his right cheek down the side of his neck. He wore a black tactical bodysuit molded to his frame, broken only by a dark blue collar poking from beneath the neckline and a metallic badge pinned to his chest—circular, gold-trimmed, with a chevron, a star, and an identification number etched below.
Despite the storm outside, the man was cackling uncontrollably, clutching his ribs as if holding himself together.
Seated beside him in the passenger seat was a younger man—mussed brown hair, fresh bruises blooming across his cheekbone, and a deeply unamused expression on his face. His uniform matched the elder's, though his badge was notably different, marking him as a rookie.
Sergeant Kael wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and glanced at his companion.
That glance was all it took to set him off again.
Steven, jaw tight and brow twitching, shifted in his seat. He looked like someone trying very hard not to throw a punch.
As the laughter finally died down, Steven opened his mouth. "Sergeant Kael—"
Kael, still grinning, cut him off mid-breath. "Officer Steven, tell me what you did wrong."
Steven paused, exhaled through his nose, and said with strained patience, "I failed to properly assess the situation. I treated the child like any other child and failed to consider the volatility of his abilities."
Kael raised an eyebrow, the grin never quite leaving his face. "Not only that—you rushed in headfirst, no caution, no recon. You saw a ten-year-old and your brain went soft."
Now, before he could express his displeasure at that statement, Steven's eyes lit with a sudden, sharp realization. "Wait—did you choose that call on purpose because you knew I'd let my guard down?"
Kael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Steven leaned back against the seat, replaying the incident in his head.
Earlier, during their patrol, Kael had taken a call about a Psion-Restraint malfunction—a neural suppression device used on awakeners with psionic abilities, usually the early awakeners, the ones under eighteen. The subject was a ten-year-old boy whose implant had begun to malfunction. Standard procedure.
"Let the rookie take point," Kael had said.
Steven had followed protocol to the letter—until he laid eyes on the kid. Small. Fragile-looking. Scared. Just a kid.
So he approached gently, as he would with any kid.
And got ragdolled.
The boy had cackled gleefully as he launched Steven across the room with invisible force, levitating furniture and spinning the rookie like a toy. Kael, meanwhile, had nearly keeled over laughing beside the mortified parents. Only after the mother managed to coax the child into stillness did they recalibrate the device and restore order.
As they left, the boy had called out, "Come play again later, big brother!"
Kael hadn't stopped laughing since.
In fact, he'd laughed so hard he had to pull the vehicle over.
Now, wiping his eyes once more, he finally muttered, "Your file said you grew up in an orphanage. I figured you'd have a soft spot for kids. I figured right."
He turned to Steven, voice softening just slightly. "I'm not saying treat all children like threats. Just remember—threats come in all shapes and forms. Some can hug you. Some can bend you."
Steven didn't respond. He just stared ahead, rain dancing on the windshield.
Kael nudged him with an elbow. "Still—first day in uniform and you've already seen some serious action."
"Well, if being thrown around by a ten-year-old counts towards a positive learning experience," Steven muttered, not quite under his breath.
Kael ignored him and chuckled again, patting the younger man's shoulder.
"Our shift's almost up. Let's grab a drink—I know a place that—"
A voice crackled over the console before he could finish.
"Echo units, be advised—anonymous report of a possible disturbance at 1968 Wispen Street. Possible 10-31."
Steven blinked. "That's just a block from here."
Kael let out a sigh, already reaching for the ignition. "Alright, one last detour before the drinks."
He pressed a button on the dash. "Dispatch, this is Echo 2-11—show us responding."
"Copy that, Echo 2-11 responding."
The patrol car hummed to life, its siren quiet but ready. The rain hadn't stopped.
And neither had the night.