The outpost loomed ahead like a jagged scar on the landscape, its towering black walls sharp against the fractured sky. As Dren trudged toward it with the other newly selected, he couldn't shake the strange buzzing in the back of his skull—a low, droning hum that had started the moment he passed through the portal.
The terrain around them pulsed with color and danger. The earth beneath their boots shimmered faintly in hues that shifted subtly with every step, and spire-like growths jutted from the ground like the bones of some ancient, buried creature. Dren felt like they were walking through the body of something alive—and waiting.
The Dominion soldiers escorting them were brisk and humorless. Their gleaming rifles swung across their backs like pendulums of judgment, and none made an effort to reassure the nervous recruits. They didn't need to. Everyone knew the truth: this wasn't training. This was a test to see who wouldn't die immediately.
They reached the gates, which parted with a mechanical groan. Inside the perimeter was a crude semblance of order: stone walkways, command towers, landing pads for shuttle drops, and scattered barracks. In the distance, Dren caught glimpses of strange creatures being transported in massive glass containers. He saw one shift—a flicker of a dozen eyes in a single skull.
Inside the central command dome, the recruits were herded into a wide circular room, where a tall man with a cybernetic arm waited with a data pad tucked under one elbow. His uniform bore a different insignia than the regular soldiers—black and gold, the mark of a Nexus Protocol Commander.
"You've all survived the crossing," he said without preamble. "That's already more than some manage. But survival here is not your goal. Awakening is. The Outworld changes people. It strips you down and reveals what's buried inside. That can either kill you—or make you something else entirely."
His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Dren before moving on. "You are about to undergo your evaluation. Each of you will enter the assessment pod. You'll be scanned, read, and—if the Outworld accepts you—awakened. There is no certainty. And there are no second chances."
As the recruits were split into groups and led toward side corridors, Dren and Kira were motioned into separate chambers. Dren's feet felt heavy as he followed a technician through a narrow hall, the buzz in his skull now louder, like a rising tide of static behind his eyes.
The technician was a woman with close-cropped silver hair and tired eyes. "This is your pod. Stand in the center. Keep your arms at your sides. The system will handle the rest."
Dren stepped into the sleek, domed structure. It closed behind him with a hiss.
"Assessment initializing," a disembodied voice said.
He tried to breathe deeply, but the air felt too thin.
Lines of light traced along the interior walls. A beam descended from the ceiling, scanning over his body. He tensed, resisting the urge to move. His skin prickled, and the hum grew deafening, pressing against the inside of his skull like a scream being held back.
Then it all stopped.
Blackness swallowed the chamber.
Dren blinked. He couldn't see the walls anymore. He couldn't see his hands. There was only a void—and something in it.
A whisper.
No, not words. Not exactly. It was the sense of something watching him, something ancient and infinite. A feeling of being weighed, measured... chosen.
"You are unbound," a voice finally said, cold and hollow. "You are void-touched."
Suddenly, Dren's body locked up. He gasped, pain slicing through every nerve. Symbols he didn't recognize burned into his mind—spirals, claws, shifting runes of impossible geometry.
"VOID AFFINITY DETECTED," the machine voice said flatly.
An alarm blared.
Outside the pod, Dominion officers leapt into motion. Red lights flashed, and emergency protocols initiated. A team of armored guards took up positions around the pod, rifles drawn. The silver-haired technician's face paled.
"Void affinity?" someone shouted. "Shut the system down—shut it down now!"
"But it's stabilizing!" another technician called out. "He's... he's syncing with it!"
Inside the pod, Dren collapsed to his knees, shaking. He felt like something had been carved into him—something hollow and terrible. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
The dome hissed open.
Weapons pointed at him instantly. Dren barely registered them. His mind was spinning, vision blurring.
The same Dominion commander who had addressed them earlier stepped forward. His face was grim. "What's your name?"
Dren swallowed, coughed. "Dren Halwright."
The commander exhaled slowly, not in relief—but in preparation. "You've been identified with a Void affinity, Dren Halwright. That is... extremely rare."
He paused.
"And extremely dangerous."
A murmur passed through the technicians.
"The last Void-affine was twenty years ago," one whispered. "He lost control within hours. Killed three squads before they vaporized him."
"We're not even sure the Void is... stable," another said. "It's not a power. It's a hunger."
Dren was helped to his feet, flanked by two guards. Not restrained, but watched closely.
Kira waited just outside the room. When she saw him, her eyes widened. "What happened?"
"I—I don't know," Dren murmured. "They said I'm... Void-touched."
Her face fell. "That's... not good, Dren. That's really not good."
They led him to isolation—an observation room with clear walls and silent guards. A medical scan was performed, followed by a battery of neurological tests.
No one said much. But the tension was palpable.
When night fell—if it could even be called that in a realm with no sun—Dren was alone. He stared out through the glass at the alien world beyond.
He didn't feel powerful. He felt hollow.
The whisper still lingered in the back of his mind.
"You are not what they think you are," it said. "You are more."