The gates of Vanguard Station loomed ahead, streaked with rust and ash. Henry Ford pulled the hood of his borrowed Vanguard uniform lower, the silver insignia stitched over his chest catching the midday sun. His strides were long, urgent. His gloved hand clutched the inner pocket where the three Ritual Tokens pulsed faintly his passage to Route –4 was ready.
He had no time to waste.
The guards barely glanced at him. The station was already in chaos.
Inside, the halls buzzed with static from comm-lines and distant shouts. A thick tension hung in the air, one that made soldiers walk faster, whisper softer. Henry passed two medics dragging a bloodied officer on a stretcher—his limbs convulsing, skin splattered with black.
Then—
"Hey, you!"
Henry turned sharply.
Jeff Hardy, dressed in field gear with a smudge of soot across his jaw, waved from across the corridor.
Henry approached cautiously. He hadn't planned on being recognized.
"You're back from Morhat?" Jeff asked, walking beside him now. "Didn't think you'd make it out in one piece."
"Barely," Henry said, voice calm, rehearsed. "Needed to check in. Things got messy."
"You were stationed with Squad S-13, right?" Jeff raised a brow. "Never pegged you for the quiet type, but you held your own out there."
Henry offered a small nod, gaze flicking toward the ceiling. The thrum in his chest wasn't from nerves—it was the Rituals inside him burning to be completed.
He needed to find Church Father. Now.
A sound like cracking bone echoed from above.
Boom.
The roof buckled.
A tentacle thick, slick, and pulsing with greenish veins—slammed down through the concrete ceiling. Sparks burst from the lights, and a fire alarm screeched to life. The appendage coiled violently, knocking a drone station off its hinges and spraying acidic residue that hissed on contact.
Jeff drew his pistol instantly. "What the hell—? How the hell did it get this deep?!"
Vanguard agents shouted in the distance, scrambling into defense formation.
Henry stepped back, eyes narrowed at the thing. He could feel it. A whisper from the Miracle itself, twisting space and sanity.
His hand brushed the inside of his coat again. The Tokens pulsed.
He didn't move to fight.
"You alright?" Jeff asked, not taking his eyes off the tentacle.
Henry nodded slowly. "I've got business with the upper floors."
"Then move fast," Jeff muttered. "I'll cover down here. Just don't die, rookie."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Henry said, already turning.
He couldn't waste another second.
He needed to find Vain and advance.
....
The sun hung low over the cracked rooftops of Prada, bleeding amber light across the war-torn streets. In the quieter corner of the ruined town square, Major Salis Phantos leaned against a crooked lamppost, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lip. Opposite him stood Father Vain, robe fluttering lightly in the wind, eyes as deep as ancient ruins.
They didn't speak at first.
A child's laughter echoed distantly from a nearby alley, surreal in contrast to the scorched city.
Salis took a drag and exhaled toward the sky. "You ever get the feeling this place wasn't meant to be saved?"
Vain didn't look at him. "This place was never meant to last. Like sandcastles under a rising tide."
"Mm. Poetic." Salis kicked a stone aside. "I don't have your flair for metaphors. Hell, I barely passed history, and here I am—dealing with worm monsters, tentacle gods, and people talking about 'Ascension' like it's a career promotion."
Vain finally smiled, just a crack of it. "It's not a career, Major. It's a consequence."
Salis shifted his stance, suddenly more serious. "Tell me something, Vain. These… things. The Fallen Gods. Are they real? Trapped in death or whatever the term is? Or are we all just high off miracle dust?"
Vain turned slowly. "They're real. They died so long ago that even death forgot them. But they aren't gone. Just… waiting for someone to knock on their door."
Salis scratched his chin. "That's what my father said too. Had a whole notebook full of mad scribbles. Diagrams. Names that made my head hurt. I read one page and got a fever for two weeks."
Vain nodded solemnly. "Words carry weight. Especially those tied to the ancient ones. But your kind—the children of Invokers—your blood has already been branded with resonance. You're more resistant."
"Well, thank fuck for that." Salis smirked. "I guess that explains why I had imaginary friends with glowing eyes instead of stuffed animals."
Vain chuckled under his breath. "Some children see ghosts. Yours invited them to dinner."
They both laughed, the tension briefly lifting.
Then Salis added, "Though I do wonder—if I had kids, would they start levitating at birth or something? I can't imagine changing diapers while a baby hovers above the crib whispering reversed Psalms."
"Perhaps," Vain said dryly. "But I hear they stop chanting once you give them teething biscuits."
Salis snapped his fingers. "Damn, missed my shot at demonic fatherhood. That would've made for one hell of a parenting book."
Vain tilted his head. "Fatherhood of the Damned: Raising a Spawn Without Losing Your Soul."
They shared another short laugh before silence returned.
Then Vain's gaze darkened slightly. "They're stirring, Salis. The dead things beneath the world. And they remember the ones who forgot them."
Salis nodded slowly, cigarette burning low.
"Guess that makes us the lucky bastards who'll have to deal with their bad moods."
....
The Vanguard Station was in disarray, yet strangely calm inside its reinforced walls. Through the flickering lights and echoing announcements, Henry Ford made his way through the inner corridor, past a couple of field medics tending to injured scouts.
He stopped at the resting bay, where the air was thick with fatigue and antiseptic. A woman sat at the edge of one of the bunks, scribbling notes onto a slate tablet. Her braid was tightly tied, uniform neat despite the chaos around her.
Mary Janet.
She looked up, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Henry," she said, standing. "Back from Morhat?"
Henry nodded, removing his gloves. "Just arrived. Things weren't any better there."
Mary sighed. "They're getting worse everywhere."
His eyes moved past her, toward the corner bunk.
Hana Kraves lay fast asleep, blanket pulled up to her chin. Dirt smudged her face, and her short black hair was damp from sweat. Her breathing was slow, steady. Even the dreamlights above didn't stir her.
"She's been like that for hours," Mary said softly. "Andrew ordered me to keep her safe. Said she was targeted by something... bigger than PCS."
Henry stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "And he?"
"Went out with a recon unit west of Prada," she replied. "Didn't say much."
Henry slowly pulled the object from his satchel—a long, cloth-wrapped "staff" he had carried since Morhat. He unwrapped it halfway.
Mary's eyes widened.
It wasn't a staff.
It was a mirror.
Oval, long, with an obsidian frame etched with rings of forgotten symbols. The glass didn't reflect Henry's face—it showed a distorted version of him, blurred, flickering… whispering things no one could hear.
"I thought Andrew meant this was a weapon," Henry said. "Turns out it's a relic."
Mary leaned in. "What does it do? Seems like it's a rare artifact or something."
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it's called the Staff of Revolution. It's supposed to reveal what the world doesn't want you to see. Maybe more."
He wrapped it back carefully and looked down at Hana again. "This might help stop the chaos outside."
Mary crossed her arms. "If it doesn't drive us insane first."
Henry smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time something pretty tried to ruin me."
Mary chuckled. "Still charming, I see."
"Still too tired to flirt properly," he added.
They stood in silence for a moment as a distant rumble shook the ceiling slightly.
"We don't have much time," Henry said.
"No," Mary agreed. "But maybe now, we have a chance."
Inside, amidst the noise of ticking machines and half-broken radios, the air lightened for just a moment.
Henry Ford, leaning against the railing of the west balcony, watched the bruised skies of Prada with a worn half-smile. A voice called from behind.
"You finally stopped running."
Mary Janet approached, a hand on her hip, brow raised.
Henry smirked. "I was waiting for someone to say that."
Footsteps resounding next to Jeff Hardy, his usual overcoat stained with ash and one sleeve half-torn, appeared beside them, holding three cups of steaming caffeine sludge from the Vanguard canteen.
"Still tastes like motor oil," he muttered, handing them over.
Henry raised his cup like a toast. "To bad coffee and worse odds."
Mary laughed. "You know, if we live through this, I'm dragging both of you to the southern coast. Real beaches, clear water, and no cursed monsters with blades for arms."
"Vacation?" Jeff blinked. "You're serious?"
"Deadly," she replied. "We've earned it."
Jeff scratched his chin. "A vacation, huh...?"
Henry glanced at them both. "You two talking like we're almost done."
Mary nodded. "We've come this far. Just a few more worms to kill."
Jeff chuckled. "Alright, fine. I'm in. After this, after all this—I promise we go somewhere far from everything. Just us."
Henry took a sip from the mug, the warmth clashing against the cold thought forming in his head. He looked at the two of them, smiling like old times, standing in a world so close to collapse and yet… laughing.
"Sounds good," he said quietly.
Mary tilted her head. "You don't sound convinced."
He placed the mug down.
"I've got something to finish first," he said. "Can't guarantee I'll be there."
Jeff frowned. "Henry—"
Henry shook his head, offering them a tired but gentle smile.
"You two keep that promise. Even if I don't make it, at least one of us should get sunburnt for once."
Mary opened her mouth, but Henry was already stepping away.
"Bye for now," he said, not turning around.
As he disappeared into the lower halls of the station, Jeff and Mary stood still, cups in hand.
"…He'll make it," Jeff finally said, not sure who he was convincing.
Mary nodded slowly.
But the silence after Henry left felt heavier than before.