The air in Paleview City felt different now.
It wasn't the lingering stench of smoke or the quiet that ca after violence. It was sothing less tangible—an undercurrent in the silence, a weight in the atmosphere that told everyone the world had changed. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a reddish-orange glow over buildings that still bore scars from the earlier chaos. Streets were quieter than they should've been at this hour, with civilians either tending to the injured or mourning those who wouldn't return.
Derek sat alone in the small, reinforced living room of his mansion—one of the only luxuries awarded to him by the system. The large monitor, mounted above an empty shelf, flickered to life.
A static screen snapped into a governnt insignia. No build-up. No cinematic opening.
Just a voice.
"This is a national ergency broadcast from the Central Governntal Communication Network."
The voice was male, calm and trained. There was no panic behind the words, only a deliberate, practised pace ant to soothe, ant to lead.
"All citizens across Paleview, New Junction, Fenhold, and the surrounding Eastern Territories—please remain calm. We understand the confusion, the fear, and the losses you've experienced. We mourn them with you. And we want you to know this—we are not blind. We are not powerless. And we are not broken."
The feed cut to a studio—modest, yet reinforced, with a flag of the United Allied Republics hanging behind a polished steel podium. A middle-aged man in military uniform stepped into fra, eyes clear, back straight. General Marcus Halrow. Known for his decisive command during the Trident Crisis five years ago. Derek rembered him as the kind of man who never spoke unless he already had a plan.
"We now confirm the reality of what many of you have witnessed firsthand," Halrow said, voice steady. "This event is no act of terror, no rogue nation's weapon, and not a drill. This is, to put it plainly, a global event—a multidinsional incursion. An apocalypse, if you must na it."
He paused. Not for dramatic effect, but to let the words settle.
"Roughly 7 hours ago, rifts opened across the globe. These portals unleashed creatures, beings, and forces not of our Earth. While the exact cause is still under investigation, we can now confirm: these portals originate from non-Earth planes. They were not naturally occurring. This was orchestrated."
The cara cut to a map of the globe, with red pins blinking over hundreds of locations. A counter in the top corner ticked steadily downward—signifying that, at the very least, the number of active portals was dropping.
Halrow's voice returned, now overlaying footage.
"Our response was imdiate, but not without cost. Thousands of soldiers, responders, and volunteers gave their lives within the first few hours to secure populated regions."
The footage shifted—streets strewn with debris, rescue teams guiding survivors, fireteams engaging monstrous silhouettes in shattered downtowns.
"Now," Halrow said, "we begin the next phase: Retaliation. And containnt."
The screen shifted again—this ti, to footage ant to inspire.
Derek nearly snorted at the first clip. There he was in Tempest Walker, mid-swing, drenched in monster blood, slicing through the heads of that multi-headed hydra.
Then the screen changed again—to the hulking silhouette of Phantom Cloud-1. A wide-angled cara caught the suit from above, launching a spear of concentrated plasma at the Broodmother Scarab. The explosion was captured in glorious, propagandised slow motion. The crowd of soldiers below cheered. The ssage was clear: we can fight back.
Derek leaned forward, watching the segnt in silence. There was no credit. No ntion of him by na. No consent form. No "used with permission" disclair.
They were using him as a symbol.
"Fantastic," he muttered to himself. "Do I at least get royalties?"
The footage continued, switching to other outposts across the Eastern Region. In one, a battalion of power-armoured troops marched through the flooded ruins of New Junction, guns lighting up creatures with glowing eyes. In another, a tactical airship strafed a mutated serpent in the heart of old Fenhold. Each shot frad the human fighters as coordinated, courageous, and unyielding. My Vi$rt!ual Li-b$ra^ry E%mpire (*) a p p&re@cia-t es- you&r@ re&a*d*er^s^h#i%p at the s^o!ur!ce!.
Halrow's voice returned.
"We have already taken back over 85% of our territory. Portal sites are being secured. Bases have been reinforced. Scientists and engineers from across the globe are collaborating to understand the rift technology. Recovery has begun, and we're ahead of schedule."
Derek leaned back slightly. The ssage was clear: this wasn't the end. The governnt wasn't flailing or panicking. At least, not outwardly. They were digging in. Preparing for war.
The general now stood directly before the cara, hands clasped behind his back.
"We know many of you have lost soone. Family. Friends. Coworkers. Neighbors. Their lives mattered. And their loss will not be in vain. In every city, in every zone, recovery stations are being set up. Temporary housing. dical centres. Hot als. These are not just words. Their operations are already in motion."
The screen split into several smaller boxes—footage of mobile hospitals, food lines being managed, survivors being reunited. There were even small monts of children being cared for by relief workers. It was honest. Derek could appreciate that. They weren't hiding the horror, but they were showing what ca next.
"We also understand that so of you may be experiencing strange symptoms," Halrow continued. "Fatigue, heightened senses, enhanced strength, changes in physical condition—these could be the result of exposure to rift energy or mutations triggered by contact with otherworldly matter."
Derek tensed slightly. The governnt acknowledging that was big. It ant they knew. That this wasn't just an invasion—it was a shift. In people. In biology. In reality.
"If you or soone you know begins experiencing such effects, do not panic. Do not attempt to isolate. Report to your nearest Command Observation Post or licensed health centre. We are collecting data. And we are prepared to offer treatnt, containnt, and—if possible—guidance."
He didn't say "arrest" or "quarantine," which ant the governnt was trying to keep things stable. At least in the public eye.
The cara cut back to Halrow one final ti.
Lastly, let be clear. This was not a natural disaster. Soone—or sothing—did this. We don't yet know who. But we will find out. And we will hold them accountable. We will rebuild. Not just our hos, but our confidence. Our unity. Our place in this world."
He paused for the first ti with visible emotion.
"You are not alone. Not anymore. And we will not let this happen again."
The screen slowly faded to the UAR crest again, along with scrolling information on recovery zones, nearby shelters, and ergency contact networks. No dramatic music. No hero speeches. Just facts, and a quiet sense of resolve.
Derek sat in the silence that followed.
Outside, the city was still scarred. Fires still smouldered in the distance. But the panic was giving way to sothing else. Not hope—Derek didn't believe in that word. But structure. Direction.
He stood, stretched his shoulders, and walked to the monitor. The glow of the broadcast still flickered faintly in the glass.
He'd be seeing more of himself on screen soon. That much was clear. The governnt needed symbols. Soldiers needed rallying cries. And civilians needed to believe soone out there could punch a hydra in the face.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Next ti, I'm billing them."
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