Chapter 84: The Arrival, III
Lucien’s pen scratched softly against his journal. Faint, rhythmic. The only sound in the room.
He sat alone in his office at Chronos HQ—back straight, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the page before him, lines neatly filled in with his tight, methodical handwriting. The room around him was silent. No tick of clocks. No hum of machines. Just the muted, filtered light from the tall windows behind him—late autumn sunlight, pale and cold, spilling across the dark floor.
It had been eight weeks.
Eight weeks since the first alien fell from the sky. Eight weeks since his companions saw the truth for themselves. Eight weeks since the world began to unravel.
Lucien paused, tapping the pen lightly against the edge of the page. Then continued writing.
“Eight weeks. That’s all it took. The world was built on sand. And we just lived long enough to feel the ground collapse beneath us.”
In his mind, the images flashed without needing to be thought.
Wounds—fresh, open, and bleeding across the globe.
Beijing.
A child clutched to his mother’s hand, hiding behind an armored vehicle. A white figure stepped onto the street—faceless, silent, flawless. Soldiers shouted warnings. The mother turned. A flash of violet light blinked the alien out of place—then back again—reappearing in a new position mid-detonation. Time had rewound—but the terror hadn’t. The explosion hit twice. The alley became flame—like the gates of hell had opened.
Massive crowds fleeing in every direction. Aliens tearing through concrete, shrugging off tank shells. Soldiers shouting into radios, disappearing in pulses of violet light. Smoke thick enough to blot out the sky.
London.