Chapter 219: The First Crack in Perfection
Inside the dream of Asylum, the single, golden crack of light on the giant gray crystal began to spread. It branched out like a lightning bolt, creating a web of bright, warm lines across the crystal’s smooth surface.
The memory of the child’s laugh was echoing through the collective mind, a sound no one in this dream had heard for a very, very long time.
It was a foreign concept, a piece of a puzzle that didn’t fit. The dreamers, lost in their peaceful, gray sleep, began to stir. Their minds, which had been blank and quiet, latched onto this strange new feeling. Laughter? What is laughter?
Ryan felt the change. The dream-world was resisting. But now that he had made the first crack, he knew how to continue. He didn’t stop with laughter. He began to push more memories into the crystal, more "imperfect" feelings, one after another, like a painter adding colors to a gray canvas.
He sent the memory of a first kiss—not a perfect, storybook kiss, but a clumsy, awkward, and wonderfully embarrassing one that made your heart beat too fast.
He sent the feeling of a bittersweet farewell, the sadness of saying goodbye to a loved one at a starport, mixed with the warm hope of seeing them again someday.
He sent the memory of the thrill of discovery, the electric jolt of excitement you get when you finally solve a problem you’ve been working on for weeks.
He sent the sting of a noble failure, the pain of trying your absolute best at something and still not succeeding, but knowing you were stronger for having tried.
Joy. Love. Sadness. Hope. Failure.
These messy, complicated, and wonderfully human feelings flooded into the gray dream. And the dream-world began to change.
The soft, spongy gray ground began to sprout patches of green grass. The blurry, edgeless buildings in the distance started to gain sharp lines, windows, and colorful doors. The solid gray sky began to break apart, showing patches of a brilliant, beautiful blue. The dream-world was gaining color. It was coming alive.
Individual minds, which had been blended together into one big, sleepy consciousness, started to stir and remember. A man who had been a painter before joining the Cult suddenly remembered the bright, vibrant red of a sunset. A woman who had been a musician remembered the sad, beautiful melody of a violin. A former soldier remembered the fierce pride he felt standing with his friends. The dreamers were starting to wake up.
Back in the real world, the fight for Ryan’s body was a desperate, brutal dance. The core chamber was filled with the sounds of battle: the hum of energy blades, the roar of Ilsa’s rifle, the crackle of Zara’s drones, and the clang of metal on metal.
Valerius was powerful. He moved with a speed and precision that was almost inhuman, his energy blade a blur of deadly light. But he was one man against three of the most dangerous women in the galaxy. And they were not just fighting for their lives. They were fighting for the life of the man they loved, who was slumped and helpless behind them. Their love had made them a flawless, unstoppable battle unit.
Zara was the brains of the operation. She stayed back, her fingers flying across her data pad. Her swarm of micro-drones wasn’t just attacking. They were a tactical net.
They flew in complex patterns, countering the citadel’s automated defense turrets that had started firing down from the ceiling. They created temporary energy shields to block Valerius’s attacks.
One of her drones even managed to zip past Valerius and spray a tiny bit of sticky, conductive gel onto the handle of his energy blade, making it sputter and spark unreliably. "Predictable," she muttered to herself as he scowled at his malfunctioning weapon.
Ilsa was the wall. She was a bastion of defense, a fortress of steel and willpower. She stood directly in front of Ryan’s body, her massive energy shield glowing brightly. She didn’t try to be fancy. She just stood her ground.
Valerius’s energy blade would slash at her, and she would meet it with her shield, the impact sending out a shower of bright sparks. She took hit after hit, grunting with the effort, her feet sliding back on the metal floor, but she did not break. She was the unmovable object.
And Scarlett was the sword. She was a blur of constant, relentless motion, a whirlwind of silver and red. She never stopped moving, her attacks coming from all sides.
She would phase through a piece of machinery and appear behind Valerius, her daggers flashing. He would spin to block her, and she would already be gone, only to attack from his other side. She was forcing him back, step by step, keeping him off balance, not giving him a single moment to rest or focus his attack on Ilsa’s shield.
Their synergy was perfect. Zara controlled the battlefield. Ilsa held the line. Scarlett pushed the attack. They were three different people, with three different fighting styles, but their shared love and purpose had woven them together into a single, perfect weapon.
In the dream-world, the awakening of the citizens was having a direct effect on the real world. The giant psychic cannon, which was powered by their calm, placid minds, began to flicker.
Its steady, gray beam of apathy wavered as its power source became unstable. On the bridge of the Odyssey, the oppressive, sleepy feeling began to lift.
Valerius saw it on his own monitor. He saw the cannon’s power levels dropping rapidly. His perfect weapon, his ultimate tool of control, was failing. And it was all Ryan’s fault.
He let out a scream of pure, frustrated rage. His face, which had been a mask of arrogant triumph, twisted into an ugly snarl of a cornered animal.
If he couldn’t have his perfect, ordered world, then no one could. His grand dream was falling apart, so he decided to smash the whole board.
"If I cannot have this world," he roared, his voice cracking with fury, "then I will erase it! I will burn it all to ash!"
He slammed his fist down on a large, red button on the main console.
PLANETARY CORE OVERLOAD INITIATED, a cold, robotic voice announced from the ceiling.
DETONATION IN 5 MINUTES.
He had triggered the planet’s self-destruct sequence. He was going to detonate the entire core, a blast that would not only destroy Asylum but would also wipe out the entire Bastion Alliance fleet in orbit. It was a final, terrible act of spite.
The whole chamber began to shake violently. The humming engine below began to glow with a terrifying, angry red light. The final countdown had begun.