The Eye of the Storm
The transition from the fever-dream to reality was a cold, jarring plunge. George's eyes snapped open to the sterile, blue-white hum of the control room. The ceiling lights, no longer obscured by the neon-green fog, felt aggressively bright. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, but the agonizing fire that had been racing through his veins had cooled to a manageable simmer.
"Take it easy, George," a voice said, steady but strained.
George turned his head to see Faust leaning over him. The intellectual's reddish-blond hair was a mess, and his fractured spectacles were held together at the bridge by a piece of medical tape. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp with the data he had been processing.
"What... what happened?" George croaked, his throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sand.
"The antitoxin worked," Faust updated him, his hands moving back to a nearby tablet. "But things have escalated while you were out. Nana and Kayn managed to link up with Ren. They found Davina and Professor Jinx Starwind in the far East Wing on Level Twelve. They're currently engaged in a heavy skirmish with a Serpent Chimera. It's a nightmare, George; it has telepathic abilities. It's messing with their coordination." Faust gestured toward the wall of monitors. "The fog has nearly dissipated thanks to the purifier. We can finally see the board, but the view isn't pretty."
The Status of the Sanctum
George pushed himself upward, his muscles screaming in protest. He stumbled toward the medical cot where Professor Log lay. The Professor's face had regained some color, the sickly green rash now reduced to a faint, bruising purple.
"He's stable," Rimona said, not looking away from the main console. Her fingers moved across the glass interface with the speed of a concert pianist. Her professional bun had partially unraveled, dark strands of hair framing a face etched with grim determination. "Log will be fine, though the neurotoxin was deep. He'll be unconscious for several hours while his mana-core stabilizes."
"How bad is the infiltration?" George asked, gripping the edge of the console to steady himself.
"Worse than we feared," she replied, her voice dropping an octave. She tapped a command, and the monitors flashed a facility-wide heat map. Red icons—the Hunters—and yellow icons—the escaped Chimeras—were scattered across every level. "The facility has been completely infiltrated. All wings, all levels. It wasn't just a breach; it was a synchronized execution. I've been fighting their slicers for the last twenty minutes just to regain control of the internal gates and the automated defense barriers."
The Weight of the Blade
George's gaze drifted to the corner, where the ancient longsword he'd retrieved from the armory leaned against a chair. The residual magic in the hilt seemed to hum in recognition of his gaze. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around the leather grip. The weight felt right—a solid constant in a world that had gone mad. He began to shuffle toward the heavy blast doors of the control room, his jaw set. "I have to get to Level Twelve. If that thing is in their heads, they won't stand a chance."
"Stop right there, George." Faust intercepted him, stepping into his path. The usually timid scholar stood his ground, his chest out. "You're not going anywhere. Look at you—you can barely stand."
"I'm fine, Faust. Get out of the way," George grumbled, trying to sidestep him. But as he tried to put power into his stride, his balance betrayed him. His vision swam, and he stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him right into Faust's shoulder.
Faust caught him, wrapping a sturdy arm around George's waist to keep him from hitting the floor. "Sorry, George, but right now you're not well enough to fight," Faust said, his voice unusually firm. He guided George back toward a chair near the primary monitors, practically forcing him to sit. "You'll only get in the way out there. You need time for the toxin to completely clear from your blood, or you'll just be another body for the Hunters to tag."
George slumped into the chair, the ancient sword resting across his lap. He hated the weakness, the feeling of being a spectator while the world burned. He turned his eyes to the screens, watching the flickering feeds. On Level Twelve, he could see the chaotic flashes of Nana's purple lightning and the brilliant orange flares of Ren's conjured flame bow. They were moving in jagged, confused patterns—the Serpent Chimera was clearly weaving illusions into their minds.
"Be patient George," Faust whispered, standing beside him. "Analyze. If you can't be their to help them right this second, be their eyes. We're the only ones who can see the whole map."
George gripped the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for the strength to return to his legs while his heart raced for his friends.