The man rose abruptly from his chair, his straight back casting a long shadow across the glowing screens. His voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding:
"One, recall every single team we've got. Whether they're out on mission, on leave, or asleep in the base. We need to be ready right now."
In that same instant, the faint violet lighting died out. The room snapped to life under a harsh, cold gray-white glare that revealed smooth metal walls—bare, unadorned, like the interior of a buried spacecraft. For the first time, his face was fully visible: a man in his late thirties, features sharp as a blade, cold gray eyes, an old scar slicing across his left eye from eyebrow to cheek—a thick white line that looked almost like a manufacturing defect. His left shoulder moved with a subtle, too-perfect mechanical smoothness, entirely prosthetic, covered in realistic synthetic skin that still revealed the glint of metal underneath when he moved fast.
The calm robotic voice answered from hidden speakers in the ceiling, perfectly neutral:
"Readiness protocol active, Sir Chris. All available forces are being recalled at maximum speed. Estimated time until full assembly: four minutes and seventeen seconds."
Chris turned with military precision—his footsteps completely silent on the metal floor—and walked toward the massive iron door at the far end of the room. It hissed open automatically, almost deferentially, and he stepped into a long corridor lit by the same cold gray light.
In another room, much larger—this one the main assembly hall—controlled chaos had already erupted.
Dozens of glowing blue circular portals stood open along the walls, like tears ripped straight through reality itself. From each one, men and women poured out at astonishing speed. Some dropped hard onto the floor, others landed lightly and leaped forward, sprinting straight to their stations.
The scene felt like a fever dream: a few were still in everyday clothes—jeans and t-shirts, as if they'd been yanked straight out of a Paris café or a Tokyo street. Others stumbled out in pajamas, hair wild, eyes heavy with sleep but instantly sharpening the moment they saw the flashing red signal overhead. And then there were those who'd just come back from the front: black-and-violet reinforced combat suits, smeared with blood that wasn't red. Violet sticky blood dripping from freshly sealed wounds. Phosphorescent green blood that gave off faint smoke when it touched the air. Clear, viscous fluid that slowly ate away at armor, leaving tiny bubbling craters on metal surfaces.
Everyone was running, barking short orders, dodging collisions with the kind of practiced grace that only comes from endless drills.
Suddenly one of the portals tore open more violently than the others. A young man in his twenties collapsed out of it, crashing hard onto the floor. His combat suit was shredded, face deathly pale, right arm coated in thick green slime. He tried to stand but stumbled.
In the same heartbeat, a powerful hand grabbed his leg and yanked him backward. A tall, broad-shouldered man in full military gear dragged him a few steps—on his right shoulder gleamed a golden officer's patch: the inverted hourglass inside a circle.
The officer's roar filled the entire hall:
"You son of a bitch! Get up, Zak! Move! You're always the last one, Recruit Zak! Double-time to the armory or I'll personally throw you into the disciplinary chamber!"
Zak—the collapsed kid—gasped for air as he was dragged a little further before managing to stagger to his feet. He wiped the violet blood off his cheek and gave a tired, crooked grin:
"Yes sir… but this time the monster was bigger than usual."
The officer shoved him hard toward a side corridor lit in angry red:
"No excuses! Run!"
Around them the room was filling faster and faster. Hundreds of bodies now, forming rapid lines, stripping off civilian clothes, pulling on combat suits from the automated lockers that descended from the ceiling. Metal clanged, orders overlapped, the air thick with sweat and the strange, alien smell of those unearthly fluids.
At the far end of the hall, Chris appeared at the upper entrance, standing motionless on a raised platform. He looked down at them all with those ice-cold eyes.
The entire room went dead silent. Even breathing seemed to stop.
He raised his right hand—the natural one—and spoke in a voice that reached every corner without effort:
"Brothers and sisters… we've waited years for this day."
He lowered his hand. Behind him, a gigantic screen lit up with a world map. The red dots had multiplied—more than thirty now—pulsing in perfect, steady rhythm.
"The Ancients have awakened. The surface world still has no idea. But we are the ones who will decide who lives… and who gets rewritten."
Absolute silence. Then a single, thunderous shout exploded from every throat:
"Forever!"
Chris allowed himself the faintest of smiles. The scar over his eye twitched slightly.
Deep in the Algerian desert, beneath the endless golden sands, the ground trembled—just a little. Something enormous had begun to move toward the surface.