Colorado Springs, Colorado - Cheyenne Mountain Complex
August 26, 2030 | 4:02 AM MDT
Bryan woke up first. The room was still dim, and the only light was a faint red glow from the standby indicators near the bulkhead door. He sat up slowly, eyes adjusting, and glanced around—the others were still asleep.
He rose, stretched his shoulders until they gave a quiet pop, then made his way silently to the bathroom. A long, hot shower helped to wake him up even more. After dressing in a plain PT uniform, he headed to the mess hall. It was quiet at this hour, a few early risers nodding to him as he passed. He grabbed a tray, ate quickly—scrambled eggs, fruit, black coffee—and then made his way to the gym.
The place was empty.
He stretched on the mat, fluid and focused, then moved to the free weights. Sets. Reps. Control. Not a sound except the sounds of the weights and his breath. Afterward, he hit the treadmill.
Then he noticed movement in the mirror in front of him.
Amelia Dalton walked in—hair pulled back in a short, neat tie, wearing a fitted black workout set that traced the lean sharpness of her frame. She gave him a slight smile as she stretched, holding eye contact for just a moment before stepping onto the treadmill next to his.
They ran side by side, the sound of machines filling the space. For a while, neither said a word.
Then she broke the silence.
"So… what happened in Iran?" Her tone was casual, but her eyes were locked forward.
Bryan didn't answer; he just kept running. The sound of his steps quickened slightly.
"Hey," she said, her voice more direct as her breath picked up. "I'm talking to you, leader."
He tapped the console, slowing his treadmill to a walk. Sweat clung to his temples. He turned his head just enough to catch her in his peripheral vision.
"Why does everyone keep fucking mentioning that?"
She just smiled and shrugged a little.
"Because I want to be the first to know here." Her pace didn't change. "And maybe see… if you're willing to do it again."
He turned toward her fully this time. Her smile lingered, thin and unreadable.
The silence stretched. The sound of machines and footsteps filled the space between them.
Eventually, he looked away, back to the mirror. His jaw shifted, clenched for a moment, then settled again.
"Iran's done," he said finally. "You weren't there. You don't need to be digging."
"I'm not digging," she replied evenly. "Yesterday, you didn't say a word to anyone. I figured either you were burned out or testing the waters. So I waited."
He gave a quiet exhale, then wiped his face with the back of his forearm. "I don't do meet-and-greets."
"That's clear."
More awkward silence.
"I just need to know," she said, softer now, "if I'm standing next to someone who shuts down when things get loud."
He glanced at her again. "I don't freeze."
"Affirmative."
He slowed his treadmill and stepped off. Grabbed a towel and draped it around his shoulders.
As he turned to leave the cardio section, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"You're the one from CIA, right? Lins was it?"
She nodded, not missing a step.
He gave the faintest nod. "Then you know what ghosts look like."
She didn't reply.
"Iran's not a story," he added. "It's a scar. Don't go poking at it like it's intel."
She just stared at him through the mirror, then smiled at him.
Moments later, the door opened, and the rest of the team began filtering in.
By six o'clock, all of them were back in their quarters—clean, dressed in fresh fatigues, the morning discipline drilled deep. The room was silent. Each member stood at the foot of their assigned bed, backs straight, hands behind them.
Then, the door opened.
Deputy Director Marrick stepped in, tall, sharp-eyed, and always carrying the weight of classified urgency as if it were stitched into his spine. His gaze swept the room.
Behind him came another man.
Broad-shouldered, squared jaw, his face carved from the same stone as the Rockies above them. Eyes like cold iron. Boots built to grind souls into operators.
"Brigadier General Rick Halverson," Marrick said, stepping aside. "He built Alpha Blade. Valkyrie. Echo Nine."
Halverson stopped just inside the doorway. The room was dead silent. You could hear breath being held.
"Look at you. The best of the best. Or so the paperwork claims."
His voice was deep and steady. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, the reinforced floor thudding beneath his boots like warning shots.
"You're not Tier One anymore. Not even Tier Two. Maybe some of you were legends. Maybe some of you still carry the weight of your past missions."
He stopped and turned to face Logan Braddock, whose broad frame strained the fabric of his shirt. He was taller than Halverson, forcing him to look up slightly.
"Or maybe some of you are just too fucking big."
He continued walking. His voice, steady but laced with something rougher.
"You were chosen not for who you were, but for what you might be."
His eyes locked on each of them in turn.
"We lost the world we once knew. Allies, enemies, and even Japanese porn, too."
He stopped in front of Bryan. They locked eyes.
"You think being Tier-One makes you special? That's adorable. Earth-tier means jack-shit here."
He turned to face them all again.
"This is Tier-Zero. If you get a paper cut here, pray it's not cursed. If you get lost, congratulations—you're now a fucking cartographer."
His tone hardened.
"I don't care what you've done before. I only care if you'll do what's next."
He walked the line slowly now, studying every one of them.
His voice dropped low.
"You are the sharp end of the last flag humanity has left to plant."
Then he stepped back.
"We begin now. Step forward if you're ready to earn your right to still exist."
He waited, silence enveloping the room. Deputy Director Marrick just stood by and watched.
Then, one by one, all of them stepped forward.
Project Raven was now in motion.
Theron, Myantris - Grand Palace
August 27, 1516 | 9:52 AM (UTC +11)
Ambassador Matthews walked steadily down the hall, his footsteps echoing softly off the polished stone floor. Though the guards lining the walls remained still, their eyes tracked him with guarded scrutiny, almost judgmental.
From corners of the hall, murmurs stirred. Maids in layered dresses whisper behind their hands, their eyes fixed on him and his entourage, as if judging them.
At his side walked Dr. Helena Morris, a linguistic and cultural liaison from the State Department, though her credentials ran deeper—doctoral studies in comparative classical languages, field experience in anthropological contact protocols, and fluent in five dialects of Greek. She kept a close pace, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the hall.
Behind them, several aides—all in dark suits and subdued expressions—moved in silent formation, briefcases and hard cases in tow. Every step forward felt heavier, where the weight of two worlds was about to collide.
At the end of the hallway, two guards—larger, more ornate in their armor and dyed crimson cloaks—crossed their halberds, then stepped aside to pull open the great double doors.
The hall opened into a domed chamber lit with filtered morning light. Frescoes covered the upper walls—depictions of sea voyages, celestial events, and kings in counsel. At the center of the room stood a long table. Seated around it were six figures, their robes marking them as high officials, their faces solemn with expectation.
At the head of the table sat a lean, bearded man in a layered dark-blue himation edged with silver threading. His eyes were sharp, analytical.
A steward stepped forward and spoke firmly in their tongue: "Presenting the Basileian Council of Myantris."
The seated figures did not rise. They simply studied the newcomers.
A court scribe recited the names.
"Archon Thalinos Agetor, Master of the City and Voice of the Crown."
"Strategos Iamaris Velthon, Commander of the Sea Guard."
"Lykara Theonides, High Scholar of the Astreion."
"Selene Arkostis, Keeper of the Civic Scrolls."
"Hieromnemon Menaros Ekklesion, Watcher of the Flame."
Each name echoed with authority and history.
Dr. Morris inhaled, translating in a whisper only he could hear.
Ambassador Matthews nodded as he listened. With measured calm, he stepped forward.
The room held its breath, aware that history was about to be made.
"Esteemed members of the high council, thank you for granting us this audience," he said with respectful confidence. "I speak on behalf of the United States of America—a sovereign nation that, along with its entire homeland, has found itself transported from a distant world, beyond your own."
Dr. Morris quickly translated his words.
He offered a slight bow before continuing, "We also extend our sincerest apologies for any transgression in crossing into your territorial waters. Our presence was not meant as an intrusion, but the result of sudden circumstances we ourselves are still striving to comprehend."
Lord Agetor narrowed his eyes, his voice low and measured. "You speak with conviction, stranger… and yet your words strain the boundaries of what is known. You claim to hail from another world, bearing artifacts that hum with unseen force and conjure light without flame or essence."
He gestured to the sleek tablets and softly glowing devices the Americans had brought. They shimmered in the candlelight like illusions from some forbidden tome.
"That you admit to the act—and do so without bluster—speaks in your favor. So long as your intentions remain true, this crossing shall not be held against you."
Matthews gave a small nod. "Thank you, Archon. What you see before you is not magic, nor sorcery, but the result of generations devoted to science, innovation, and discovery."
Theonides leaned forward, her expression filled with a mixture of intrigue and caution. "Science, you say… such things, in our world, are the province of magic. Whether born of incantation or instrument, power that shapes the unseen follows the same rules. It may not be sorcery as we know it, but it functions no differently to those who witness it."
Matthew's jaw shifted slightly as if suppressing his disbelief. Then he glanced sideways at Dr. Morris.
Morris didn't speak, but one eyebrow rose behind her glasses.
Matthews exhaled and signaled for his aides.
They swiftly set up a projector and unfurled a collapsible screen behind Matthews. With a quick tap on Dr. Morris's tablet, a satellite map of the United States bloomed into view—its cities aglow with clusters of light, coastlines traced with networks of infrastructure.
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Even the guards—trained to remain still—shifted, eyes wide.
Matthews took a breath, his voice softening as he addressed the room. "I understand how overwhelming this must appear… centuries of our learning condensed into what you see before you."
He looked at the stunned faces and gestured toward the map of the US, along with the North American continent.
"This is our homeland—over three-point-eight million square miles. A population of more than three hundred and fifty million people. We're stranded here—unintentionally, without aggression or conquest in mind."
Arkostis let out a breath of disbelief. "Such breadth… and yet you are cast adrift?" Her voice trembled between awe and doubt. "What nation commands such greatness and loses its way across worlds?"
"We don't yet understand how we arrived here," Matthews admitted. "But we know one thing for certain—we're not alone. You have your histories, your wisdom, and your strengths. We believe there is much we can learn from one another. And with mutual respect, our peoples may both find a better path forward."
Commander Velthon narrowed his eyes. "You speak of cooperation… but the land you have emerged in is sacred. The Promised Land is bound to prophecy, myth, and warning. None who venture there return. That you stand here challenges everything we know."
Dr. Morris leaned slightly toward Matthews and whispered, "We may be walking straight through their legend."
Matthews nodded subtly, then turned back to the council. "We did not come by choice, nor would we ever presume to trespass upon what your people hold sacred. But now that circumstance has placed us here. We hope to learn your customs with humility—and show, through our actions, that our presence need not bring disorder, but cooperation."
Lord Agetor's tone shifted, cautious but curious. "You speak of dialogue and understanding. Are you seeking mere peace… or something more enduring?"
Matthews met Agetor's gaze without hesitation. "Peace is the foundation—but we hope for something deeper: we hope for shared trust—built not on words, but on the respect we show, and the good we can do. We do not seek to impose our values, nor to reshape the order of your world."
"And what do you desire in return?" Theonides asked.
Matthews took a careful breath. "Our foremost intent is to understand your world—to learn from your people and your wisdom. And perhaps, through mutual trust and shared understanding, we may one day find a path home."
As murmurs passed among the council, Dr. Morris tapped her tablet.
Then a set of images replaced the map. Skyscrapers rose over sprawling cities, highways cut through suburbs and industrial zones, and commuter trains threaded through concrete landscapes. Men walking on the Moon. Surgeons operating with robotic precision. Engineers launching rockets. Protesters marching for justice.
"Our knowledge—what you might call power—has cured diseases, lengthened lives, and taken us beyond our planet." He paused. "But it has not come without a price."
A new set of images was displayed: raging wildfires, rising floodwaters, cities choked by pollution. Then—voting booths. Courtrooms. Humanitarian convoys moving through rubble.
"These advancements revealed more than they changed us. They magnified both our greatness and our weakness. We have used them to heal—and to wound. To explore the stars—and to scar the world."
Several councilors exchanged glances. A few looked down, visibly unsettled.
"But even at our worst, we've tried to build guardrails—laws to check power, principles to protect the vulnerable. We do not always succeed. But we have not stopped trying."
Matthews swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as he braced for the next slide.
A grainy black-and-white film reel played next, silent and eerie. Trenches carved across scarred landscapes. Soldiers, featureless behind gas masks, trudging through mud. Dogfights in the sky—biplanes twisting like insects. The mushroom clouds rising slowly, billowing over scorched cities.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Some had their mouths covered by their hands, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dread.
Matthews stepped forward, voice low.
"This was our twentieth century. Two global wars—tens of millions dead. The first taught us how a single shot can unravel empires. The second… taught us what happens when the science of destruction outpaces our humanity."
The screen faded to black.
"For a time, we believed we had learned. That our laws, our diplomacy—flawed though they were—would hold the darkness back."
A new reel began. Distorted and fractured—like a memory trying to forget itself.
"And then came the Third War," Matthews said quietly.
The sky flared white. A nuclear blast—then another. Cities flattened in seconds. Firestorms sweeping across the suburbs. Mushroom clouds caught from orbit—plumes over what had once been capitals.
"Deterrence failed. Diplomacy failed. In a single year, we lost more than in the entire century before it. Just as we stood at the edge of irreversible ruin… the sky tore open, and we woke in your world."
The councilors sat in stunned silence, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing and hearing.
"So, to answer your question plainly: our capabilities do not make us superior. They make us accountable."
He looked each councilor in the eye, one by one. "In this new world, we do not seek your trust through strength, but by how we wield it. With restraint. With respect. With honor."
Then he locked eyes with Lord Agetor. "We have much to learn—not just of your beliefs and customs, but how to survive in this land. Your guidance could mean the difference between hardship and harmony."
The final image faded, leaving only silence.
And in that silence, something shifted—not just tension, but the weight of comprehension settling over the room like dusk.
The members of the council exchanged quiet glances, their voices lowering into a ripple of hushed debate. A few expressions were wary, others contemplative, measuring the strangers not just by their words, but by what they represented.
Then, Lord Archon Agetor rose to his full height.
"Yours is a tale of wonder and uncertainty. We shall deliberate on your words, for they bear great consequence. Return to your dwelling. Our judgment shall be given in due course."
Matthews inclined his head respectfully. "Your time and consideration honor us, Archon—esteemed members of the high council. We are grateful for the opportunity to be heard."
Behind him, Dr. Morris and the other aides bowed their heads in quiet acknowledgment, the weight of diplomacy settling across their shoulders. As the meeting drew to a close, they moved with practiced efficiency, powering down the projector and carefully furling the collapsible screen into its case. Then, without a word, the Americans turned and quietly exited the chamber.
As they made their way down the hall, Morris leaned in toward Matthews and spoke in a low voice. "Do you think it was enough?"
Matthews exhaled slowly, gaze distant. "We offered honesty. Now we wait."
Back inside the chamber, none spoke.
Sacred Recorder Ekklesion adjusted the folds of his heavy mantle, his fingers trembling just slightly. His brow furrowed beneath his tonsure. "If I may be so bold, my lords and ladies…" he began, voice low, "they claim to come from another world entirely. If such a claim be not heresy, then it is perilous in implication. Are we to believe the veil has torn so wide that realms soaked in flame and steel now slip through?"
Murmurs passed among the seated councilors.
Then, with a huff through his nose, Commander Velthon shifted in his chair. He scratched his greying beard and gave a dry, sardonic chuckle. "Or is it a tale crafted by cunning tongues?" He paused, the silence stretching as he gathered his thoughts. "These strangers speak with silver, their images—displayed buildings rising beyond clouds, roads that glowed like rivers of fire, cities that breathed light." His eyes narrowed. "Machines repaired flesh with hands of metal. And still… they spoke of wars." He paused. "Not one. Not two. Three world wars, and they speak of them with the detachment of chroniclers, as if death on that scale is merely history. I ask you—what realm traverses void and sky without divine charter?"
Theonides steepled her fingers before her as if invoking logic itself. "I have studied the scrolls of the Eleutherion… and the broken fragments of the Pre-Sundering Codices, recovered from the Ashen Vault." She met no one's gaze, her words cast like stones into deep water. "There are mentions—faint, fragmented—of worlds beyond this sphere. Of fire-chariots and glass orbs that see the stars. But those were deemed allegory, not testimony." She took a breath, then met Agetor's gaze. "And yet… these 'Americans' speak of 'science' as if it were a priesthood of its own. They conjure images in thin air, wield tools that speak in tongues, and shape light as though it were clay."
Arkostis leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping once softly upon the table. "Science. The term is foreign, yet its fruits… resemble thaumaturgy. Are we to conclude that they have found the Philosopher's Logos? That their reason has supplanted ritual?" She paused. "If so, what distinguishes their 'technology' from magic, save that they do not kneel before it?"
Velthon grunted in agreement, leaning forward with one calloused hand on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. "Indeed. They do not kneel. That troubles me most." His lip curled. "Tools so powerful, and yet no reverence. No hymns. No invocation. They wield creation as if it were their birthright."
Agetor had not yet spoken. He remained still, fingers tented before him, eyes fixed on the empty place the Americans had stood.
Now, slowly, he drew a breath. His voice, when it came, was low and clear.
"You speak truth, Strategos. And yet… their ambassador did not bluster, nor demand tribute. He offered peace and knowledge." He lifted one finger, tapping the table once. "But more than that, he offered uncertainty. And that… is the most dangerous gift of all."
Sacred Recorder Ekklesion, ever the guardian of omens, rested both palms on the table, his rings clinking softly against the wood. "And what of the Promised Land?" His voice dropped. "That hallowed ground they stumbled upon, where no man returns, where the veil is thinnest. Do we not recall the Oracles of Ekkelos?" He looked to the others. "'When the unbidden cross the threshold, the flame of old shall flicker anew.' Is this that moment?"
Theonides drew in a sharp breath, the movement imperceptible save to those watching closely. "If prophecy be in motion, then we are no longer scholars—we are actors in a divine play. And ignorance shall be our sin."
Selene's eyes shadowed, then she spoke softly. "I cannot ignore the risk. They bear no ley-aura, no resonance with our own currents. Yet they command illusions and projections as if leycraft itself were embedded in their bones." She turned to the others. "If they are not magi… what are they?"
Velthon sat back with a sigh, his knuckles whitening on the arm of his chair. "Invaders. Or pilgrims. Or something worse—innocents too mighty to know their own weight."
No one responded immediately. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the sound of banners shifting slightly in the filtered breeze from the oculus above.
Finally, Lord Agetor rose.
He moved with the weight of decision, mantle falling in perfect folds around him. His gaze swept across the council as if counting every heartbeat.
"This council has heard much. Too much for one breath, not enough for one verdict." He raised his voice slightly. "The matter shall be put forth to the full Synedrion—chambers high and low, from the Twelve Houses to the Colleges of Arcana. Let all voices be heard, for this is no trivial embassy… this is history breaking through the veil."
He turned, eyes lifting toward the frescoed dome above—depictions of stars and sea and crowned figures holding scrolls aloft.
He continued. "Let none say we met the storm in silence."
One by one, the councilors bowed their heads.
Beneath them, in the marbled courtyards of Myantris, word had already flown from lips to ears: Strangers from another world.
The veil had trembled. And now, all Myantrians would feel it.