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Shattered echoes of the Fallen

EzrinWright
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Chapter 1 - Prologue

It's whispered that a century ago, the first metahuman was born—an anomaly in a dying world. His powers remain shrouded in mystery, cloaked in darkness. Some believe he possessed the ability to grant others powers, but in truth, his existence heralded only chaos. Shortly after his birth, thousands of superhumans materialized across the globe—born from fear, anger, and desperation.

At first, humanity's reaction was predictable: terror, disbelief, violence—then numb acceptance. But beneath the surface, dread festered like an infection.

Time dragged on, and so did the nightmare. Until one day, a new breed of metahumans emerged—beings capable of annihilating entire cities with a single breath. They were called the Annihilators, but in truth, there was no name savage enough to encompass their destructive wrath.

We learned about them the hard way—too late. An entire city—erased in minutes, seconds—became nothing but ash and memories. No one truly remembers the details. Time blurred, and in the chaos, humanity turned from victims into hunters. We were hunted like vermin, forced into hiding, our existence a nightmare no one dared to confront.

Why? Because humanity's fear had always been a poison—an insatiable hunger to control what they could not understand. They saw us as threats, as monsters, as potential destroyers. Their fear was a corrosive force, simmering beneath false smiles and forced acceptance, waiting for the slightest spark to ignite their hatred.

That day arrived—June 25th, 2050—the birth of the first Annihilator. Half of Las Vegas was reduced to cinders in moments. Minutes later, Australia followed, half its land incinerated into oblivion. The world watched in muted horror, powerless, as the flames devoured everything.

Before long, humans turned their fury into a relentless hunt. From shadows and ruins, they tracked us, exterminating our kind with cold efficiency. The meta population dwindled rapidly—slaughtered, captured, erased. They knew they couldn't hunt us all down—no, that was impossible—but they offered a cruel choice: betray your own, aid us in hunting your kind, or perish alongside the rest.

Initially, we believed no one would be foolish enough to accept such a heinous bargain. But what they fail to understand is that beneath our extraordinary exteriors, we are just as fragile—just as prone to despair and desperation. In moments of crisis, morals are the first casualties. Rationality falls away, replaced by fear and the instinct to survive at any cost.

We are still human. And in this darkness, that humanity feels like a curse—an anchor dragging us deeper into despair, condemning us to choose between damnation and extinction.

The war raged on for a brutal decade, tearing apart the fabric of the world as we knew it. Cities burned, forests razed, and the very earth seemed to tremble beneath the weight of conflict. In the chaos, humanity's fury knew no bounds—exterminating us with ruthless efficiency, driven by fear and hatred. By the war's end, nearly everything was reduced to ash and rubble; what remained of civilization was fragile, shattered, hanging by a thread.

With no place left to run, both sides—human and meta—found themselves cornered, exhausted, and desperate. A fragile ceasefire was brokered, a temporary lull in the relentless storm. A deal was struck: the remnants of society would be rebuilt from the ruins, and in a shocking turn, both sides were forced to coexist—living in uneasy proximity, the scars of war etched deep into their bones. For a time, hope flickered anew as life slowly tried to return to some semblance of normalcy. Streets were cleaned, buildings reconstructed, and the world tentatively moved forward—at least on the surface.

But beneath this fragile veneer, darkness lurked. While society appeared to be healing, the truth was far more sinister. The human officials, driven by paranoia and an insatiable hunger for control, were already working in secret—upgrading their weapons, developing new technologies, and preparing for the next hunt. The peace was a veneer, hiding the cold, calculated schemes to hunt us down once more.

And so, the second hunt began. It was more brutal than the first—more precise, more merciless. Our numbers, once again, dwindled to a mere shadow of what they had been—roughly five hundred Meta-Humans scattered across the globe. To maximize our chances of survival, the five of us took command of separate colonies, spreading across different regions, trying to hide, to endure.

Oh, how I longed for the days when the streets were open and free, when we could walk without fear, when life was simple and unburdened by the threat of annihilation. But those days are gone. Ten years have passed since the second hunt, and although society remains mostly peaceful on the surface, the undercurrents of danger never truly disappeared. The humans walk among us, unaware of our continued existence, believing the threat has been eradicated. Metahumans have integrated into society—working, studying, living normal lives. I often catch myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, we've earned a moment of peace. But just as I dare to believe that, I hear whispers—sighted colonies, disappearances, strange sightings in the shadows. The fragile calm is only a veneer. Beneath it, the storm waits, patient and deadly, ready to strike again.

Accounted by,

Kayden

Strategist of the Five