Date: 5-14-2025

 

Chapter 1: Liora & Aeva

 

“Beep beep beep.”
Liora’s 6:30 a.m. alarm blared. She slowly opened her eyes and tried to roll onto her side—but a sharp pain flared beneath her right breast. She froze. She knew what it was. Her worst prediction had arrived. Next year would be filled with doctor visits, scans, and aggressive rounds of chemotherapy.

Two years ago, she’d lost her husband in a tragic car accident, leaving her and their 11-year-old daughter, Aeva, to navigate life alone. And now this.

How would she tell Aeva? How would she explain that the world might shift again, just when it had started to feel steady? Aeva had adored her father—he was her anchor, her hero, her everything.

Liora sat up abruptly and shook her head.
Not today.  I am not going to think about it today, I will think about it tomorrow.

 She wouldn’t let her mind spiral. Not today. Today was important.

 Today was Friday—Bring Your Kid to Work Day at AetherCore, and this year, it wasn’t just an internal celebration. News crews from across the country were covering the event, calling it a “landmark in corporate transparency and youth education.”

Major networks were streaming it live. Cameras were stationed in the lobby, conference areas, and even the orientation rooms.

Liora was a Level 3 engineer at AetherCore, one of the most advanced technology corporations on the planet. She worked alongside leading neuroscientists, developing systems that fused human biology with computing power to enhance sensory perception and fight disease.

Suddenly, Aeva burst into the room, wide-eyed and brimming with energy, twirling around in a flurry of outfit options.
“Mom! Mom! You have to get up—we’re going to be late!”

Aeva had wanted to be a scientist for as long as she could remember. She’d been counting the days ever since Liora mentioned the event. Today, she’d get to see parts of AetherCore that were usually off-limits—even to employees’ families—and she could barely contain her excitement.

 

Liora moved briskly through her morning routine, her motions mechanical and precise. In her mind, she ticked off the list:
Breakfast for Aeva—check.
Lunches packed—check.
Backpack by the door—check.

She flicked on the news as she tied her shoes, just to stay ahead of the day’s headlines. The screen lit up with a well-groomed anchor in a polished studio, her tone upbeat and professional.

“Today marks AetherCore’s first ever Bring-Your-Kid-to-Work Day open to the media. Dozens of children will be allowed access to normally restricted areas inside one of the world’s leading biotech companies. The event is being broadcast live across multiple networks and streamed to millions. The goal? Inspiring the next generation of scientists, engineers, and innovators.”

A clip rolled of kids from the previous year’s private event walking through gleaming corridors and peering into labs, followed by footage of this morning’s crowd already forming outside the building.

Liora let it run in the background as she zipped Aeva’s lunch bag closed.

The next segment cut in sharply, jarring against the light tone of the previous report. A grainy video filled the screen—shaky cell phone footage of glowing orbs in the sky.

“In other news, another string of alleged alien sightings has social media buzzing again. This latest video, captured just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, shows what some claim to be ‘intelligent formation patterns’—”

Liora rolled her eyes and shut the TV off.
“People really need a new hobby,” she mumbled, grabbing her car keys.

“Let’s go!” she called down the hall. Aeva came bounding out, practically glowing with excitement.

And with that, they were out the door.

 

Chapter 2: AetherCore 

The AetherCore campus stood just outside the city limits, modern but unflashy—clean lines, glass panels, and a quiet confidence in its design. Liora pulled into the employee lot, scanned her badge at the gate, and drove through as Aeva leaned forward in her seat, eyes wide.

“Is all of this AetherCore?”

“Just the research side,” Liora said. “The administrative buildings are across the road.”

Inside, the lobby was anything but quiet. Dozens of employees had brought their children, and the space buzzed with voices, laughter, and the hum of conversation. Kids darted between their parents’ legs, clutching visitor badges and paper maps, while staff tried to wrangle the chaos with clipboards and practiced smiles.

Liora and Aeva stepped in and were immediately greeted by a cheerful volunteer. “Welcome! Visitor pass for Aeva?”

Liora handed over the printed form, and within seconds, Aeva had a bright yellow lanyard around her neck.

“You’re in Group B,” the volunteer said. “Tours start in about ten minutes—feel free to grab a snack or look around.”

Liora nodded politely and guided Aeva to the side, away from the thickest crowd. They passed a long wall lined with framed patents and milestone photos—teams posing beside early prototypes, celebration shots from breakthroughs in neural scanning, awards from medical journals.

“Wow,” Aeva whispered. “You’re part of this?”

Liora glanced at her daughter, then at the wall. “Yeah. A small part.”

Children were asking questions. Parents tried to explain without getting too technical. Someone had set up a table with simplified brain models and little puzzles meant to simulate how neurons fire. A few older kids were already in deep conversation with one of the junior engineers.

Aeva grinned. “This is amazing.”

Liora gave a soft chuckle. “Just wait till we get upstairs.”

A voice over the lobby intercom chimed in:
“Attention all Bring-Your-Kid-to-Work Day participants—please begin moving toward the North Hallway. Staff will guide children and parents to their assigned areas.”

Almost immediately, the energy shifted. Volunteers in branded lanyards started organizing the crowd, directing kids to gather near the large double doors at the far end of the lobby. Parents were gently ushered in the opposite direction.

“Looks like it’s time,” Liora said, nudging Aeva.

Aeva tightened her grip on her mom’s hand for a moment. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Not yet,” Liora said with a soft smile. “They want to give you all a rundown first. I’ll be close the whole time.”

Aeva nodded, a mix of nerves and excitement flickering in her eyes. She stepped into the growing group of kids, now forming a long, winding line. Volunteers handed out printed schedules, clip-on name tags, and small tote bags filled with notebooks, pencils, and company swag.

Liora watched her disappear into the crowd, then turned to follow the other parents through a separate hallway. They were led into a large, modern conference room with several rows of seats and wall-mounted screens already lit up. The screens showed a multi-angle view of the kids’ lunchroom—wide overhead shots and closer feeds from cameras mounted in the corners.

A company rep in a clean, navy-blue blazer stepped to the front.

“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to AetherCore,” she began. “While your children are being introduced to the day’s activities, we’ll be giving you an overview of the safety protocols, the learning sessions planned, and the areas they’ll be visiting. After this briefing, we’ll break into smaller groups so you can rotate as parent chaperones.”

Liora took a seat toward the back, crossing her arms as she scanned the screens. Aeva had already found a seat near the front of the kids’ room, chatting animatedly with the girl next to her.

For the first time that morning, Liora let herself breathe.

At least for today, everything felt… okay.

The presentation had just begun. On the screens, the kids were seated in rows, chatting among themselves as a young staff member passed out folders and gave directions from the front of the room.

Liora glanced at Aeva on the feed—still talking, gesturing excitedly with her hands.

Then the screens flickered.

A quick blink. Then black.

The lights in the conference room dimmed at the same moment. Murmurs rippled through the crowd of parents.

“Did we lose the feed?”

“Is this part of the program?”

Liora sat forward, suddenly alert.

Seconds stretched.
The screens stayed black.
The silence in the room deepened, thickened.

Then—click.

The lights in the kids’ lunchroom came back on. But the children were gone.

Every single seat was empty.

Instead, in the center of the room stood five figures.

They wore plain, neutral-toned clothing—nothing flashy, nothing high-tech—but something about them was unmistakably wrong. Too still. Too calm. Their posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet there was a quiet, unsettling confidence in the way they held themselves. Like they weren’t surprised to be here.

A hush fell over the room. You could hear someone’s breath catch.

The company rep stepped forward, her voice tight. “Please stay calm. We’re likely experiencing a temporary system malfunction.”

But no one believed that.

Gasps filled the conference space. A few parents rose from their seats.

But it wasn’t just this room watching.

Every major network still broadcasting the event—ABC, CNN, SkyStream, VSN, dozens of smaller outlets—was still live. The footage was being streamed in homes, on phones, in schools, in coffee shops.

Liora’s eyes locked onto the screen, heart pounding. She leaned toward the woman next to her. “Where are the kids?”

The woman didn’t answer. She was frozen, staring straight ahead, mouth slightly open.

The figures on screen hadn’t moved. They just stood there, staring—at nothing, at everything.

One of the parents stood up. “Is this a joke? What the hell is going on?”

No answer.

Liora’s instincts kicked in. Something was very, very wrong.

And for the first time in a long time, her fear wasn’t about the future or a diagnosis.

It was about right now.

 

Chapter 3: 11,000 BCE

The figures on screen remained still—until the oldest among them stepped forward.

He looked to be in his sixties, maybe older. Sun-worn skin, weathered face, yet he stood tall with a strange composure. His eyes scanned the room slowly, as if measuring the weight of what he was about to say.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.

“I know this will be difficult to hear.”

No one moved. The room was silent but electric with fear.

“We are your eldest,” he continued. “We’ve come to ensure your survival.”

He paused, letting the words hang.

“We have traveled 12,000 years from the past to reach this moment. Our civilization collapsed. Yours is next.”

Murmurs began. A chair scraped against the floor. Someone whispered, “What is this?”

Liora’s pulse thundered in her ears.

The man raised his hands gently, almost in reassurance. “We’ve tried every path. Every possibility. This… is the last resort.”

“We need your children.”

Gasps broke out across the room. A few parents stood up, outraged, frightened.

The man kept going, unshaken.

“Not to harm. But to help. We need them to bring about the end of this version of the world… so another may survive. Ours. Yours. The two are now bound.”

He looked directly into the camera. Directly into them.

“To survive, we must flood the planet.”

Cries erupted. Some people shouted. Others demanded security, answers—anything.

The man didn’t flinch.

“This is the only way forward. We cannot do it without you.”

Liora stood, barely aware of it, her mouth dry, heart pounding. Her voice cracked as she called out—quietly at first, then louder, frantic.

“Aeva?”

The oldest man stepped forward again, his voice slow and even, but it carried the weight of finality.

“Traveling through time takes a toll on the body,” he said. “It’s not meant for adults. Only children can endure a trip both ways. Their biology is flexible, adaptable—still capable of repair.”

He paused, letting the words settle in.

“When they return from the second trip, they’ll need you. They’ll need their parents’ DNA to repair the damage time travel will have done to their bodies. Without it, they won’t survive.”

The room was dead silent. Every parent sat frozen, trying to process what they were hearing.

“This is why you must stay,” the man continued. “So you can receive them. So you can help them recover. Five years from now, they will be back.”

A few gasps. A few quiet sobs.

“If you want to go with them, you can. But understand—it’s a one-way trip. You will not be coming back. The conditions of the journey are not survivable for adults over time. Not long-term.”

He looked over the crowd, and his expression softened. “Five of us will remain here. We will guide you for the next few months. And then we will die. The damage is already done. We accepted that cost. Your children are already in transit. They left with the five who came through with us.”

Liora’s breath caught.

Already gone.
She hadn’t even said goodbye.

Her mind spiraled. Aeva. Her daughter. Her baby. Sent across time—across centuries? Millennia?

And she was just supposed to wait?

Five years.

But she didn’t have five years.

Not with her diagnosis. Not with what she felt growing inside her—too real, too aggressive, too late.

Liora stared at the screen, unable to move. The panic wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild. It was a cold, silent scream inside her chest.

She wouldn’t be here when Aeva came back.

The man kept talking, but his voice faded into a low, distant hum. Her hands trembled in her lap.

She needed to act. She needed to think.

Liora stared at the screen, unable to move. The panic wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild. It was a cold, silent scream inside her chest.

She couldn’t let Aeva face whatever was ahead without her. Five years was a wall she couldn’t climb—but one trip was still possible.

There was only one choice.

She would go with her daughter.

 

The old man stepped forward again, voice steady but now carrying a faint tremor—fatigue creeping into his frame.

“We can take some of you with them,” he said. “But only a few.”

The room held its breath.

The old man straightened, his voice steady despite the visible toll on his body.

“We can send only ten of you,” he said. “That is the limit of what we can withstand. Between the five of us, it is all the strength we have left.”

The parents sat frozen in place, some trembling, some silent, some whispering frantically to themselves. Liora had already made her decision. She stood up. Her legs felt like glass, but her will held.

Beside her, a woman with dark hair stood, jaw tight. Across the room, five others followed. Some exchanged brief glances. Some didn’t. The only thing they shared was resolve.

That made seven.

The old man gave a slow, approving nod.

“We don’t have much time. The process must begin now.”

The monitors on the wall still displayed the children’s room—but now, it was empty. No chairs. No noise. No children.

They were already gone.

In their place stood the five Eldest—the same five who had appeared when the lights returned. Each now stood alone, spaced evenly in the room, eyes closed, still and solemn.

The feed flickered once. A pulse of light swept across the screen.

The old man gestured to the seven volunteers. “You won’t be brought to us. We will come to you.”

He turned back toward the monitors. “Our civilization was advanced, yes—but not through machines. Not through weapons. We mastered what lies inside the mind. We learned to shape thought, intention, and time through what you might call sacred geometry. It binds all things. And now, it will carry you.”

He looked over the group of volunteers one last time.

“You must know this: the strain is great. It will tear at your body, at your sense of self. We can protect you—but only just. And we can only do this once.”

The room began to dim. Not just the lights—everything. Colors, edges, sound. As if the world itself were holding its breath.

On the monitors, the five Eldest raised their arms. Their mouths did not move, but a resonance began to fill the observation room. Low. Vibrating. Deep enough to feel in the spine.

Liora’s knees nearly buckled from the pressure of it.

“This is your moment,” the old man said. “There will be no second chance.”

The air rippled, and the monitors flickered again—no longer showing a feed, but shimmering like water caught in starlight.

Liora stepped forward, breath shallow.

She didn’t think of the science. She didn’t try to understand the how.

She only thought of Aeva.

And as the shimmering veil thickened in front of her, she reached out with both hands—into the unknown.

 

Chapter 4: Derek

 

Derek drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, stuck behind a long line of unmoving cars. Horns blared somewhere up ahead. A garbage truck was trying to make an impossible turn, blocking two lanes. He cursed under his breath.

He glanced at the time—already past nine.

He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel again. The freeway had turned into a parking lot. A blinking construction sign two exits ahead promised relief that wasn’t coming. 

He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, then sighed, already composing an apology in his head for missing the city planning session. He hadn’t planned to be this late, but today his wife had taken their daughter to AetherCore for the highly publicized “Bring Your Kid to Work Day.” Half the council was probably there too. It had turned into a media circus.

He reached down and tapped the console.
“Channel 7.”

The dashboard screen lit up mid-broadcast.

“…an unprecedented situation unfolding live from AetherCore headquarters—where a group of children and, just moments ago, multiple adults appear to have vanished during what was supposed to be a celebratory event…”

Derek sat up straighter, eyes locked on the screen.

“…the initial group included more than 90 children, all seated in an orientation room inside the cognitive tech wing. The event was being streamed live across several major networks. We’re going to show you now—viewer discretion is advised.”

The screen replayed the footage. A wide camera angle showing children chatting, laughing. A woman speaking at the front. Then—

Darkness.
Lights flicked off. Cameras cut.
Seconds later: lights returned. The children were gone. Every single one.

The image cut to a wide shot of the AetherCore children’s orientation room. Empty chairs. Abandoned tote bags. And in the middle of the screen—a group of strangers. Five of them. Still. Silent.

The footage froze.

Then rewound.

Derek’s jaw tensed.

“Jesus.”

Derek leaned forward, heart beginning to race.

The anchor continued:

“Viewers watched live as every child in the room vanished. Minutes later, a group of adult volunteers appeared to follow them. Among them—sources now confirm—was the mayor’s wife, Evelyn Hayes.” 

The footage cut again, this time to a different room. Seven adults stepped into frame—walking calmly, deliberately, toward the strange figures. One woman paused just before stepping through what looked like a ripple in the air.

 

The camera zoomed in. Evelyn, just before stepping into a glowing distortion on screen. Her hand outstretched. Her face is calm and pale.

 

Derek’s breath caught in his chest.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

Derek spun the wheel and cut across the median, tires bumping over grass. Horns blared, someone shouted, but he was already flooring it. He flipped on the siren embedded in his car’s dash and sped toward the AetherCore campus.

Alice.

Evelyn.

Gone.

The engine roared as he blew through lights, heart pounding in his throat, news still playing in a loop from the dashboard. Footage again. Evelyn disappearing.

Ten minutes later, he hit the final stretch of road. AetherCore loomed in the distance—its campus now surrounded by barricades, armored vehicles, and a chaotic swarm of flashing lights.

As he approached the gates, the scene shifted from bizarre to militarized chaos.

Barricades lined the road. Police cruisers and armored trucks choked the entry. Helicopters hovered above the facility, broadcasting live footage. News vans were parked in tight formation. People crowded the sidewalks, holding up phones, shouting questions, crying.

Derek slammed the brakes and jumped out of the car, flashing his badge and city ID at the nearest officer. “Mayor Derek Hayes. I need access. Now.”

A soldier raised a hand. “Sir, this is now a federal containment zone. We’ve been instructed to hold all civilian and local government personnel outside the perimeter.”

He shouted at the officer. “That’s my wife and daughter in there!”

The soldier didn’t budge. “Sir, the site’s under lockdown. We’re under federal jurisdiction now.”

“I’m the goddamn mayor!”

“I understand, sir. But you’re going to have to stand down.”

Derek stared past them—at the building, the news trucks, the rising panic—knowing that somewhere, impossibly far away, his family was no longer part of this world.

 

Chapter 5: Arrival

 

Aeva had only a second to understand what was happening before everything came apart.

There was no sound. No flash of light. Just a sudden tearing sensation—as if her body had become weightless and heavy at the same time. The air thickened, then vanished. Her thoughts stretched out into something wide and strange. She wasn’t standing anymore. She wasn’t sure what she was doing.

Around her, the other children were suspended in the same shimmer—faces flickering like reflections in moving water. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t hear. Her senses were scrambled. The pressure in her ears was like diving too deep underwater, only instead of pain, there was a hum. A low, constant vibration in her bones.

Colors bled in and out of each other—blues, golds, a deep red like fire behind closed eyes.

Then the hum snapped.

And suddenly, gravity returned.

She hit the ground hard—knees first, palms scraped against stone. A groan escaped her lips. Somewhere nearby, a child was crying. Another was throwing up. Most were just lying there, breathing like they’d been held under water too long.

Aeva blinked, blinking away dust, blinking against the harsh sunlight. The sky above was impossibly blue. Too blue. Like someone had turned up the contrast on reality.

She sat up slowly.

They were on a high, windswept hill. The land around them stretched in waves of dry grass and golden soil. But what stole her breath was what stood just ahead of them.

Massive stone circles. Towering monoliths carved with animals, symbols, and spirals. They rose from the earth like the skeleton of something ancient and sleeping. The stones were warm in the sun, but the air felt cold. Not weather-cold. Time-cold.

It reminded Aeva of a picture she’d once seen in one of her mom’s science books.  But this wasn’t a ruin. This place was alive.

Birds circled above. Dust blew in from the east. The ground hummed faintly beneath her, as if the stones themselves were still resonating from their arrival.

One of the older boys stood up unsteadily. “Where… are we?”

Aeva turned to him but didn’t answer. She didn’t have the words.

As Aeva pushed herself upright, still reeling from the journey, she noticed them—five children, seated in a perfect circle not far from where she and the others had landed.

Have they come through with the rest of them?

Were they already here?

Is this all a dream? 

Boys and girls, roughly the same age as Aeva and the others, but different in a way she couldn’t name. Their posture was impossibly still—backs straight, legs crossed, palms facing upward and resting on their knees. Each of them held the hand of the child beside them, forming an unbroken ring.

Their eyes were closed. Not like they were sleeping—but as if they were listening to something very, very far away.

Their clothing was strange. Simple tunics, slightly beaded cuffs, simple stone jewelry strung around their necks. They didn’t flinch at the wind or the sun or the shifting of time itself. They seemed to belong here, in this ancient place.

The humming in the earth had begun to fade, replaced by the faint whisper of dry wind moving between the standing stones.

Then—movement.

One of the seated children stirred. A girl, the smallest of the five, opened her eyes slowly —not with confusion, but with deliberate calm. She looked straight at Aeva as if she already knew her. Her expression shifted—just barely. The corners of her mouth curled upward, but it wasn’t a warm or playful smile. It was thin, uncertain. Like someone who knew they were supposed to smile, but didn’t quite remember how. There was something about it that made Aeva’s stomach turn.

One by one, the others in the seated circle began to stir. A boy rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Another flexed his fingers and stood, glancing around the hilltop like he was reorienting himself with a place he hadn’t seen in a while.

All five rose together, quiet and composed, their gaze fixed on the new arrivals. They seemed unaffected by the disorienting journey that had left the others gasping and dazed. Calm. Steady. Expecting them.

But as Aeva turned to look at the other kids who had arrived with her, her eyes widened. Something was wrong. Their faces—her friends’ faces—weren’t quite the same. Their clothes still fit, their voices still sounded right when they whispered or cried or muttered in confusion. But they were… different. Taller. Slightly broader. She touched her own arms, blinked down at her hands, they looked different, slightly bigger then she remembered them last.

Aeva looked around in a daze. They had all aged—a couple of years, at least. Not drastically. But undeniably. It hadn’t been seconds. It had felt like moments. But time had passed in a way they couldn’t see—like being pulled through a dream and waking up older.

 The little girl took a slow step forward, her strange half-smile still in place.

“You made it,” she said softly.

Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—relief, maybe. Or resignation.

She didn’t look at the other children—only at Aeva.

Then her expression faded back to neutral as she added, “We have to get going.”

Aeva didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her eyes were still scanning the others, silently confirming it:

They were not who they had been this morning.

 

The sky was wrong.

Liora hit the ground hard. Her shoulder dug into warm earth. She gasped, choking on air that smelled like smoke, salt, and something ancient—like crushed stone and sunbaked plants.

Around her, six others lay sprawled, groaning, coughing, trying to find which way was up. The hum in her body—the resonance that had guided her through time—was gone. In its place was a ringing silence that pressed in from all sides.

She rolled to her back, staring at the sky.

It was bright, yes. Blue. But not her blue. The hue was deeper, rawer, almost surreal. The sun felt closer. The wind stung. There were no contrails overhead, no planes, no towers—only vastness.

Then the pain hit.

Not from the landing, but from inside her bones. Her joints ached. Her skin felt tight. Her breath came fast and shallow.

They had changed.

She could feel it in her limbs, in the weight of her body. They had aged. Not much—maybe a few years—but enough to feel foreign inside their own skin. Her hands looked the same but moved differently. Her heartbeat felt just a little slower.

Liora pushed herself up and scanned the horizon.

They were on the hill. She recognized the monoliths from her college books. The towering stones etched with symbols she still didn’t understand. But the wind was louder here. The air heavier.

And then she saw them.

The children.

Aeva was near the center. Taller. Thinner. Her face had changed in a way Liora wasn’t ready for. Not just physically. Her eyes had changed.

Like she’d lived years in the span of minutes.

Liora’s mouth moved but no sound came out. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself. Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled forward.

Aeva blinked. Recognition flickered—and then emotion cracked through the calm exterior she had worn like armor.

“Mom?”

The word broke the silence like glass.

Liora dropped to her knees and pulled her daughter into her arms. Aeva didn’t resist. She held on tightly, shaking. All around them, other reunions were happening—awkward, trembling, wordless embraces between the seven who chose to follow and the children who had arrived before them.

The smallest girl took a step closer.

“You came,” she said quietly, voice nearly lost in the wind. “Good.”

Liora held Aeva tighter.

“I wasn’t going to let her face this alone.”

 

Chapter 6: The Five

The helicopter dropped low over the Potomac, banking sharply as it lined up with a hidden landing pad on the eastern edge of the Pentagon complex. Derek Hayes sat strapped in, his jaw clenched, the city shrinking behind him.

The call had come two hours after the AetherCore lockdown.

At first, he’d been stonewalled—shuffled between federal agents, dodged by military brass, left to pace the sidewalk like a man with no title. But then someone from Homeland Security recognized the political risk of freezing out a mayor whose constituents were disappearing on live television. An emergency clearance was granted.

Not to lead. Not to speak.
But to witness.

The landing pad cracked open to receive the aircraft, hydraulic arms drawing it into the subterranean hangar below.

By the time Derek stepped into the steel-walled corridor that led to the facility’s secured wing, the weight in his chest felt unbearable.

A man in a black suit and earpiece met him just past the security checkpoint.

“Mr. Hayes. You’re here as a civilian observer only. You do not speak to them. You do not address the room. Do you understand?”

Derek didn’t respond. He just nodded.

They walked in silence, the corridor narrowing, lights dimming the deeper they went. At the final door, the agent tapped a code into a panel and nodded toward a windowed chamber just ahead.

“They’re in there.”

Behind reinforced glass, seated in five separate chairs arranged in a semicircle, were the Eldest.

The same five Derek had seen on screen. The same five who had appeared out of nowhere after the children vanished. In person, they looked even stranger—older than time, yet not frail. Their clothing was plain, their expressions unreadable.

Monitors on the walls displayed real-time readings—vital signs, neural activity, thermal scans. None of it made sense.

One man sat with his eyes closed, unmoving. Another blinked slowly, as if savoring each second. The woman at the center looked straight at the glass, locking eyes with Derek like she’d known he was coming.

He felt the air leave his lungs.

The room beyond was packed with analysts, military officers, intelligence specialists. A general was whispering into a headset. A linguist was pacing with a tablet. A neurologist was reviewing infrared scans of the Eldest’s brains.

Still—no one had spoken.

The Eldest hadn’t said a single word since their capture.

“Have they… asked for anything?” Derek finally asked, voice low.

The agent beside him shook his head. “No demands. No threats. They don’t seem interested in negotiation.”

“Then what do they want?”

The agent hesitated.

“They told us the children were not taken. They were chosen.”

Derek’s heart sank.

“And the ones who followed?” he asked, though he already knew.

The agent turned to him, face unreadable.

“They’re not coming back.”

 

The silence had become unbearable.

The glass-walled observation room was thick with tension—analysts murmuring over data, generals whispering into headsets, translators poised with headphones. Derek stood near the back, half-shadowed, watching the five motionless figures seated inside the chamber.

Then—he moved.

The oldest of the five.

He leaned forward, slowly, as though the weight of his own body required concentration. And then, in perfect English—clear, unaccented—he spoke.

“My name is Hattesh.”

The room froze.

Heads snapped toward the speakers. Dozens of hands flew to keyboards and headsets. In the side room behind Derek, ten large monitors lit up—each connected via encrypted satellite link to secure government bunkers and diplomatic situation rooms across the globe.

Leaders of the ten most powerful nations—China, the United States, Russia, India, France, the U.K., Brazil, Japan, Germany, Israel and South Africa—watched simultaneously as Hattesh’s voice came through live, with real-time translations piped directly into their ears.

“I am the one chosen to lead. I speak for us.”

The room tensed.

Derek felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. On the far side of the room, a U.S. biosecurity advisor leaned toward General Roth and whispered—just loud enough to be heard by a few nearby staff.

“What if they’re contagious?”

There was no way Hattesh could have heard him. The glass was soundproof. The question hadn’t been said into a mic.

But Hattesh answered.

“There is no need for containment,” he said, never shifting his gaze. “We are not contagious. Your air cannot harm us. You will not infect us.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

A heartbeat passed.

“This wall—” Hattesh gestured to the barrier dividing them “—is your fear made solid. Understandable. But misguided.”

Derek glanced at the man who’d whispered. His face had gone pale.

Hattesh continued, undeterred. “Our forms are temporary. Fragile. We extended ourselves beyond natural time. By my calculations, we will disintegrate within four to five of your months. You may study us, question us, film us—but we will not remain.”

On the overhead monitors, several of the global leaders were now leaning in. Some furiously giving orders off-screen. Others simply staring, faces expressionless.

Just as the room began to settle into the weight of his last statement, Hattesh spoke again—cutting through the silence without shifting his tone.

“Have you,” he asked, voice low but unmistakably deliberate, “been noticing a rapid increase in the sightings of the unidentified phenomena?”

The air in the room tightened.

A few heads snapped toward one another. Screens flickered. On one of the monitors, the Russian interpreter paused and looked off-screen at someone behind her, clearly unsettled.

No one answered.

But they didn’t have to.

The past year alone had seen a surge—classified and public—of anomalies. Not just lights in the sky. Not just shapes without origin. But movements that defied physics. Objects that blinked in and out of radar signatures. Craft that left no trace, no heat, no sound—yet crossed thousands of miles in seconds. Frequencies that disrupted electronics in entire quadrants. Sudden atmospheric changes followed by nothing.

Pilots had come forward. Satellites had caught footage. AI had flagged patterns no human wanted to believe.

And yet—no one had spoken about it like this. Not openly. Not as a known progression.

Hattesh didn’t wait for their reply.

“They are not random,” he said. “They are not probes. They are not accidents. You call them UAPs. We called them Collectors.”

He glanced at the other four Eldest, who now nodded once, all at once.

A heavy silence settled over the Pentagon chamber.

Even the interpreters had gone quiet.

Hattesh remained still, eyes calm, hands folded as if the weight of history was simply something to be delivered. Not argued. Not explained. Just… known.

Then, without warning, his voice filled the room again—quiet, but heavier now. Final.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “If you think they are here for your planet.”

A long pause.

“They are not here for your oceans. Or your minerals.”

His gaze turned toward the glass, and somehow—despite the physical barrier—it felt as though he was speaking through it, looking straight at every person watching.

“They are here for you.”

A quiet gasp broke out in the room. Someone dropped a pen. On one of the feeds, the French Prime Minister leaned forward and whispered furiously off-screen.

“You,” Hattesh repeated. “Not your machines. Not your weapons. Not your cities. They come for consciousness.”

He let the word settle—like a cold wind passing through stone.

“They seek minds that have expanded beyond their form. Not many of you reach that state. But when you do… you light up like beacons across the dimensions. They find you. They take you. And once taken, you are never returned.”

Behind him, one of the Eldest whispered a single, unfamiliar word—a tone that echoed like a bell. Hattesh didn’t flinch.

“You believe your technology makes you valuable. It does not. You believe your intelligence protects you. It cannot.”

He leaned in slightly now, his eyes sharper.

“You are not the harvesters in this universe. You are the harvest.”

Derek felt his chest go cold. He heard someone behind him mutter “God” under their breath.

On the screens, at least three world leaders were visibly reacting—one rising from his seat, one pounding the table, one simply staring ahead with eyes wide and glassy.

Hattesh’s voice softened.

“They have no need to invade. They are patient. They wait for you to evolve. For your children to breach the veil of awareness. That is when you become useful.”

He paused. Then added with surgical clarity:

“They are not conquerors. They are collectors.”