The ice didn't crack. It screamed.
Deep in the Antarctic expanse, where no nation claimed sovereignty and satellites blinked out for "maintenance," Victoria's mobile fortress rose from the glacier like a black fang. Officially, it didn't exist. Unofficially, it was already rewriting the rules of war.
Inside the command hub—sterile white walls, humming servers, air so dry it stung—Victoria adjusted her glasses and watched three live feeds at once.
Paris: a street folded into a Möbius strip, civilians tumbling through impossible angles.
Berlin: time loops flickering like a broken film reel.
London: gravity inverted, cars floating like dead fish.
She tapped a key.
"Deploy Anchors."
Across the globe, six cylindrical towers—disguised as telecom relays, weather stations, even public art installations—hummed to life. No explosion. No flash. Just a low-frequency pulse that spread outward like ripples in still water.
And then—the chaos stopped.
