Time in the entertainment industry was usually measured in hype cycles; leaks, teasers, pre-announcements, and the slow, agonizing build-up of marketing pressure. It was a well-oiled machine designed to wring every credit out of the consumer base.
Briane Taleini, the Crystal Canary, had apparently decided that the machine was too slow.
The Zenith Hot 100 board had stagnated in the most beautiful way possible. The number one spot hadn't budged. It was occupied by a track from Briane's new album, Crystalline Feathers.
The album itself had dropped like a kinetic bombardment from orbit, no warning, no press tour, just a sudden notification on billions of datapads across the galaxy. But it was the lead single, "Lovely," that had captured the collective soul of the listening public.
A duet. A haunting, ethereal ballad featuring the enigmatic Percival.
In public squares on Sela, in the cramped mining habs of the outer rim, and in the high-society lounges of Nexus Prime, the song played. Briane's crystalline vocals wove around Percival's soulful, melancholic tone, creating a harmony that felt less like a song and more like a conversation between two lonely ghosts.
Industry analysts were baffled. Usually, a sudden release was suicide. But the raw quality of the track, had created a perfect storm. It wasn't just a hit; it was a cultural moment.
…
[Sela - GoldClick Records]
The office of CEO Pidaco was a testament to excess. The walls were lined with gold-pressed records, the carpet was woven from synth-silk, and the view behind his desk offered a panoramic look at the glittering skyline of Sela.
Currently, however, Pidaco was not enjoying the view. He was staring at a holographic projection of the Zenith charts, his face turning a shade of purple that clashed with the decor.
"Second," he hissed. "We were second on day one."
He swiped his hand through the air, watching the line graph plummet. "And now? Twelfth? Fifteenth?"
"Eighteenth, sir," his assistant, a thin man with nervous eyes, corrected quietly.
SLAM!
Pidaco's fist hit the mahogany desk, making the expensive knick-knacks rattle.
"Eighteenth!" Pidaco roared. "We spent four billion credits on marketing! We bought the banner ads on the hyper-lanes! We buy the media slots! We did everything!"
He stood up, pacing like a caged tiger. "And we are losing to a song that didn't even have a poster?"
"It's... it's the sentiment, sir," the assistant ventured. "The public is resonating with the 'organic' nature of the Taleini release. They feel it's more... authentic."
"Authentic?" Pidaco spat the word out like poison. "Authenticity! FUCK OFF!!"
He stopped pacing and turned to the window, glaring at a massive digital billboard in the distance that was currently playing a snippet of the "Lovely" music video. He saw the silhouette of the man in the mask.
"Briane..." Pidaco muttered, his eyes narrowing. "She's untouchable. She's a legacy artist, too big to fail, and her legal team is a fortress. If we go after her, we look like petty tyrants."
His gaze shifted to the masked figure standing next to her on the screen.
"But him..." A cruel smile tugged at the corner of Pidaco's mouth. "He is new. He is an anomaly."
Pidaco turned back to his assistant. "Percival."
"Sir?"
"He's the weak link," Pidaco said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He came out of nowhere. No history, no agency, no paper trail until a few months ago. You don't get that good without a past, and people who hide their past usually have something to hide."
Pidaco walked over to the assistant and loomed over him.
"I want you to dig. Scrape the data-nets. Look at the guest list from that gala he attended. Talk to the catering staff, the security guards, the janitors. Someone saw something. A slip of the tongue, a face behind the mask, a credit transaction... anything."
"You want me to find his identity?" the assistant asked.
"I want you to find dirt," Pidaco corrected. "Scandal. Debt. Criminal history. Anything I can use to drag him down to the mud. If we can't beat them on the charts, we break the pedestal they're standing on."
The assistant bowed low. "I will put the investigative team on it immediately, sir."
"Go," Pidaco dismissed him.
As the door clicked shut, Pidaco looked back at the hologram of Percival. "Enjoy the view from the top, mask boy. It's a long way down."
…
[Friton - The Estate]
Away from the scheming boardrooms of Sela, the atmosphere in Dorian's studio was one of intense, quiet productivity.
Dorian sat at his home studio, surrounded by three large curved monitors. He took a sip of water, his eyes scanning the project management board.
The development of Hades was moving at a pace that would have terrified a normal studio in his past life, but his team wasn't normal.
"Status report," Dorian murmured, opening the audio channel.
"Physics engine is locked," Logan Kim's voice came through, sounding tired but satisfied. "Bem and I finished the collision detection for the dynamic weapons. The shield throw bounces are calculating correctly now. No more phasing through walls."
"Excellent," Dorian said. "And the narrative flow?"
"Done," Kasavin's voice chimed in. "The base script is settled. I've mapped out the branching dialogues for the first three bosses. Hypnos has sixty different snarky comments prepared for when the player dies. It's... quite demoralizing. It's perfect."
Dorian smiled. "Good work. Lin?"
"Storyboards are green," Lin Liseli reported. "I've sent the prototypes for the environmental assets to the render farm. The depths of Tartarus look suitably gloomy. And Ross has the audio demo ready for the combat SFX."
"Send it over," Dorian said.
He listened to the sample, the heavy thud of a sword, the sizzling dash of the protagonist, the ambient groans of the damned. It was crisp. Visceral.
"We are officially out of pre-production," Dorian announced to the channel. "Great work, everyone. Take the rest of the day to reset. Tomorrow, we start building the vertical slice."
He closed the Hades production tab. The game was in good hands. It was a machine that just needed fuel now.
He swiveled his chair to the music room, where a holo keyboard and a blank sheet of digital music paper awaited him.
The success of "Lovely" had been a pleasant surprise, but for Dorian, it was already the past. He wasn't interested in riding another wave of hit. He was trying to build an ocean.
"Now," Dorian whispered, picking up a stylus. "For me."
He looked at the blank sheet. He had ideas. Hundreds of them, stored in the library of his Mnemonic Echo. Songs that had defined generations. Songs that could start riots and soothe broken hearts.
He needed an album. A debut that would cement 'Percival' not just as a composer, but as a Titan of the industry.
He pressed a key, a single, resonant note echoing in the soundproofed room. It would be something that bridged the gap. Something that told his story without saying a word.
His fingers hovered over the keys, the melody of a new masterpiece forming in his mind.
…
The Starcrest didn't so much land as it did crash with style.
Smoke trailed from its starboard engine, painting a black streak across the bruised purple sky of the uncharted planet. With a groan of tortured metal, the heavy freighter slammed onto the rocky plateau, skidding through the red dust before coming to a shuddering halt just meters from a dense tree line.
Before the dust could even settle, shadows detached themselves from the jungle.
They were a ragtag army, their armor a mismatch of stolen riot gear, repurposed mining suits, and leather. But their weapons, a stolen Accord carbine, were uniform, and every single one was pointed at the ship's airlock.
"Perimeter secure!" a voice barked. "If that hatch opens, light it up!"
The hydraulic hiss of the airlock depressurizing cut through the wind. The heavy door groaned, tilting downward to form a ramp.
The revolutionaries tightened their fingers on their triggers.
A massive hand gripped the edge of the doorframe. Then, Ula stepped out.
He looked like he had gone ten rounds with a mining drill. His clothes was shredded, revealing patches of scorched skin. Blood matted the fur on his left arm, and he leaned heavily against the metal frame, favoring his right leg.
He raised his hands slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds.
"Don't shoot," Ula rasped, his voice a dry gravel. "It's me. Ula."
The soldiers didn't lower their weapons. They had been hunted too long to trust a face.
"Identify!" the platoon captain shouted, stepping forward. He wore a mask made from a scavenged compadre faceplate. "Infiltrator protocol is in effect!"
"I don't have time for protocols," Ula grunted, spitting a glob of blood onto the red dirt. "My comms array got shot off three sectors back. I'm running on emergency power and fumes."
He took a step forward and nearly collapsed, catching himself on the ramp railing. "I need a medic. And... I need to speak to Command."
The captain stared at the hulking Neman for a heartbeat, then signaled with two fingers. "Stand down! It's our heavy lifter."
The tension in the clearing broke instantly. The carbines were lowered.
"Medics!" the captain yelled into his headset. "Get a stretcher! Move!"
As the medical team swarmed up the ramp, Ula let himself slide down to a sitting position. He looked up at the alien sky, his vision blurring. He had made it. But the hard part was just beginning.
…
Hours later, the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of a medical pulse generator filled the small, sterile room.
Ula lay on a reinforced bio-bed, his massive frame dwarfing the furniture. A web of blue light scanned back and forth over his chest, knitting tissue and sealing wounds.
The door hissed open.
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The air seemed to grow heavier, colder.
A woman walked in. She was older, her graying hair pulled back into a severe bun. But it wasn't her age that demanded respect; it was her uniform.
She wore the pristine uniform of the Accord Navy. A half-cape draped down to her heels. On her right breast, six insignias caught the light.
Rear Admiral Ganea.
To the galaxy, she was a loyal servant of the Accord, a decorated hero of the suppression fleets. But under those uniforms, she was the architect of the Revolution, one of the highest-ranking leaders.
She rarely came to the surface bases. Her presence here meant something was wrong.
"Ula," she said. Her voice was calm, cultured, and terrifying.
Ula grunted, trying to leverage himself up on his elbows. "Rear Admiral."
"At ease," Ganea said, waving a hand without looking at him. She walked to the foot of his bed, inspecting the medical readout. "Three fractured ribs, plasma burns on thirty percent of your dorsal region, and exhaustion. You look like a wreck, Ula."
"I've had better weeks," Ula admitted, sinking back onto the pillow.
Ganea turned her gaze to him. Her eyes were like steel, hard and unyielding. "You went dark for three weeks. You missed two scheduled drops. And now you return, shot to pieces, with a ship that will need a complete engine overhaul."
She pulled a metal stool over to the bedside and sat down, crossing her legs. The movement was precise, military.
"You should know why I am here personally," she said softly.
Ula closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. "Because I broke protocol. Because I risked the cell."
"And because you survived," Ganea added. "Dead men are easy to forgive. Living ones have to explain themselves."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Come then, Ula. Let's hear it. What was worth risking our entire supply line for?"
Ula opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting back to the smell of ozone and screams.
"It started weeks ago," Ula began. "With the rescue."
…
The observation room smelled of lavender tea and antiseptic.
On one side of the one-way mirror, Verza Zal sat, holding a delicate porcelain cup. She looked every bit the civilized officer, her uniform crisp, her demeanor relaxed.
Opposite her sat Eevlas Zin.
"The resonance frequency is fascinating," Verza said politely, gesturing with her tea cup toward the glass.
"It is not merely resonance," Eevlas corrected. She didn't look at Verza; she faced the glass, her tendrils move toward Jakor's suffering. "It stimulates the pain receptors directly through the nervous system without damaging the tissue. Infinite agony, zero physical trauma. It is... art."
Verza took a sip of tea, hiding her excitement. She needed this woman.
"It is certainly effective," Verza purred, trying to build rapport. "I'm very interested in how you managed to bypass the brain's natural shut-down safeguards. Usually, they pass out by this point."
"The inhibitors inside the helm." Eevlas said proudly. "It keep them awake. It keep them aware."
Verza glanced at her chrono. "We need three more hours. Is there any side effect if we... accelerate the process? Take him out early?"
Eevlas tilted her head. Her tendrils shivered. "We still don't know. The neural elasticity might snap. I would like to see it, theoretically, but... it seems this guest is quite important to you. If you want his mind intact, let us be safe. Let him enjoy it for the full duration."
Verza nodded. "Very well. We will–"
BOOM!
The floor jumped. The tea cup in Verza's hand rattled against the saucer.
A second later, the red emergency lights began to strobe. An alarm blared through the facility.
"Report!" Ret barked, tapping his comms.
"Explosion in the East Sector!" a panicked voice replied. "External wall breached! We have hostiles in the corridor! They're moving fast!"
Verza stood up, her face hardening into a mask of cold efficiency. She drew her sidearm.
"Eevlas, follow me," Verza ordered. "We need to get you to the safe room. You're more important than the asset."
Eevlas move. Her head cocked to the side as if listening to a sound only she could hear.
Verza command. "Ret! Legionnaires! Move out!"
…
Ula barreled down the pristine white corridor of the West Wing, his massive strides eating up meters of ground in seconds. A squad of security compadres rounded the corner ahead, their ocular sensors flaring red.
Before they could even raise their rifles, Ula was on them.
He didn't slow down. He lowered his shoulder and smashed into the lead compadre with the force of a battering ram. Metal crunched, circuits sparked, and the compadre was sent flying backward into its squadmates, knocking them over like bowling pins.
Ula didn't stop to check the damage. He fired his Helios pistol, Thwum! Thwum! putting two superheated plasma bolts into the tangled mess of metal as he vaulted over them.
'Keep moving,' he told himself.
He checked the internal map he had memorized. The interrogation cells were ahead. He skidded to a halt in front of a heavy blast door marked CELL 4. This was it. The intel was good.
He peered through the small, reinforced glass window. Inside, bathed in harsh white light, was Jakor.
Ula jammed the override code into the keypad. The light turned green. The door hissed and slid open.
Ula rushed in, weapon raised, scanning for guards. "Jakor! We're leaving! Move!"
The room was empty of guards.
Ula slowed down, his brow furrowing. He looked around. "Jakor?" Ula stepped closer.
"Jakor, snap out of it," Ula growled, holstering his pistol and reaching for the restraints. "We have to go."
Jakor didn't move. He didn't blink. His eyes were wide open, staring at something a million miles away. His mouth hung slack, a line of drool running down his chin.
Ula grabbed Jakor's shoulder and gave him a rough shake. "Jakor! It's me! Ula! Wake up!"
Jakor's head lolled to the side like a ragdoll's. Then, a sound escaped his throat. It was a thin whimper. The sound of a dog that had been kicked one too many times.
Ula froze. He looked at his friend's eyes. They were empty. Not just vacant… shattered. The spark of the man who had led the labor strikes, the man who had laughed in the face of overseers... it was gone. Extinguished.
Ula looked at the sterile room again. 'What did they do to you?' he thought, a cold horror gripping his heart.
He realized then that there was no saving Jakor. The man in the chair was just a husk. If Ula dragged him out, he would just be hauling meat. And if he left him here... the Accord would just continue to torture him.
Ula's hand drifted back to his holster. His chest tightened. "I'm sorry, my friend," Ula whispered, his voice trembling.
He drew the Helios. He placed the barrel against Jakor's temple. Jakor didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the gun. Ula squeezed the trigger.
Thwum.
Jakor slumped forward. The whimper stopped.
Ula stood there for a second, the silence of the room heavier than the gravity of his homeworld. Then, he holstered the weapon, turned, and marched out of the room.
"Target acquired!" a voice screamed.
A plasma bolt clipped Ula's shoulder, spinning him around. He roared, firing blindly down the hall as he broke into a sprint.
The chase was a blur of pain and noise. He took a hit to the thigh. Another grazed his ribs. He didn't feel them. He just ran.
He smashed through the airlock, throwing himself into the open hatch of the Starcrest.
"Launch!" he screamed at the ship's computer, slamming his hand onto the ignition. "Launch now!"
The freighter lurched into the sky, its shields flaring as turret fire hammered the hull.
They broke the atmosphere, but the relief was short-lived. Three interceptors. Locking missiles are going toward him.
"Jump!" Ula yelled, his hands flying over the controls. But the Hyperdrive is offline. The emitter coil has been ruptured.
Ula slammed his fist onto the console. "Dammit!"
He looked at the tactical map. He couldn't outrun them in sub-light, and he couldn't fight them. He needed cover.
His eyes locked onto a planet nearby. Unstable atmosphere. Ionic storms. A suicide run for most pilots.
"Hang on," Ula grunted to the empty ship.
He banked hard, diving the Starcrest straight into the planet's violent, swirling clouds.
…
The humming of the medical pulse generator seemed very loud in the silence that followed Ula's story.
Rear Admiral Ganea sat on the stool, her face unreadable. She didn't look horrified. She didn't look sad. She looked like she was calculating the cost of a lost asset.
"So," she said finally, her voice cool and level. "You neutralized the target."
Ula stared at the ceiling. He could still feel the recoil of the gun in his hand. "He was gone, Ma'am," Ula said softly. "Whatever they did... there was nothing left to save."
"I didn't ask for a diagnosis, Ula," Ganea said sharply. "I asked for confirmation. Is Jakor dead?"
Ula closed his eyes. "Yes, Ma'am. He is dead."
Ganea nodded once. She stood up, smoothing down her pristine uniform. "Good job," she said. It was the same tone she would use to commend a soldier for polishing their boots.
"Rest up," she added, turning toward the door. "We have work to do when you can walk."
The door hissed shut behind her, leaving Ula alone with the ghosts of his friends and the steady, rhythmic thrum of the machine keeping him alive.
⋘ 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒂.. .⋙
🎮:
- Stardwey Valley: Completed.
- Hades: 34%███▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
🎬: -
♬:
- Your Name – Elton John (ch.9)
- A Lovely Night – La La Land (ch.20)
- Merry Go Round of Life – Howl's Moving Castle (ch.25)
- Small Fragile Hearts – Victor Lundberg (ch. 27)
- Skyfall – Adele (ch. 29)
- No Time To Die – Billie Eilish (ch. 30)
- Yesterday – The Beatles (ch. 32)
- Lovely – Billie Eilish, Khalid (ch. 47)
*A/N*
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
*A/N*