Chapter 11
On the other side, Arya was already moving like a whirlwind.
He spun around, and a high, precise kick landed with a solid "thok!" against the side of a soldier's helmet who had been trying to stand.
The kick transformed the attempt to rise into an uncontrolled collapse.
The soldier toppled backward, his head striking the dusty ground, and his body went limp and motionless.
The agonizing hum still rang in the air, but several of the remaining soldiers began showing signs of adaptation, struggling against dizziness as they tried to lift their weapons again with shaky and sluggish movements.
Nirmala knew their time was almost gone.
Her hand darted quickly into the pocket on the chest of her simple uniform and retrieved an object that appeared utterly ordinary: an old brass doorknob, simply engraved, as though taken from a colonial-era house.
Without ritual or preparation, she threw the doorknob into the air, precisely between herself and Arya.
It did not fall.
Upon reaching the peak of its arc, it seemed to lodge itself into empty air.
Then, from the "point" where it hung suspended, the rectangular shape of a copper-colored door began to radiate outward, framed by pale yellow light.
An emergency portal, activated by an unexpected physical key.
"Arya, now!" Nirmala shouted, her voice cutting through the hum and the growing thunder of approaching footsteps.
There was no panic in her tone, only a firm and urgent command.
Arya, having just secured his footing, did not even look back.
He dashed forward, his feet leaving streaks in the dust.
In three long strides, he reached the imaginary doorway.
Nirmala, with one final kick to shove away a soldier who had nearly grabbed her, spun and followed.
Together, they leaped.
At the very instant their silhouettes were being drawn into the yellow frame of light, a rain of gunfire finally erupted.
But it was not the measured firing of elite troops.
It was a panicked barrage, wild shots discharged by soldiers whose ears still rang, whose balance had not recovered, and whose vision swam in dizziness.
The glowing blue energy bolts rained upon the area around the teleportation door, scorching the ground and tearing through the air, yet not one came close to Nirmala and Arya, who had nearly vanished completely.
Several shots even passed through the luminous frame without effect, like stones thrown into an illusion.
Moments later, the teleportation door closed in a peculiar way.
Not like a door shutting firmly, but like an image in sand erased by wind.
The pale yellow frame shrank inward from its edges, pulling the copper-hued door into a single bright point of light in the air before extinguishing entirely with a faint "plip," like a soap bubble popping.
Nirmala and Arya left no traceable energy behind, no residual distortion—only a sudden emptiness where they had stood.
In the field now silent except for heavy breathing and groans of pain, the eight members of the Temporal Cross-Police remained in humiliating disarray.
The tormenting hum gradually faded, leaving their ears ringing and heads throbbing.
One by one, they managed to move again, though stiffly and unsteadily.
Two still lay on the ground, one clutching his aching stomach, the other unmoving.
The rest struggled to stand, their bodies wavering, hands occasionally pressing against their helmets.
The scene was total chaos compared to the military discipline they usually prided themselves on.
Dust swirled around them, clinging to their now-creased metallic gray uniforms.
Their advanced weapons lay scattered across the ground or hung uselessly from weakened grips.
Worst of all was the expression—though hidden behind helmets—visible in their body language.
Slumped shoulders, bowed heads, slow movements heavy with defeat.
The unit leader was the first to stand fully upright.
He stared at the spot where the teleportation door had vanished, then surveyed his disordered squad.
His fists clenched tightly at his sides, the tremor of boiling anger and humiliation palpable even without words.
He drew a deep breath, the sound filtered through his helmet like the hiss of a wounded serpent.
"Report… report unit status."
He ordered, his voice hoarse and thick with restrained frustration.
Hoarse responses followed one by one, listing the injured, the unconscious, and the equipment lost.
No one mentioned success, because there had been none.
An arrest operation that should have proceeded smoothly with superior personnel and technology had ended with the two most wanted fugitives escaping right before their eyes, after incapacitating the entire squad with a sonic wave from a dropped bracelet.
It was a profound humiliation.
They no longer looked toward the calm 1950s Djakarta in the distance.
Curiosity and admiration had vanished, replaced by the heavy burden of failure.
Tonight, they were not mighty guardians of time.
They were merely silent witnesses and victims of the superiority of two individuals they labeled "disruptors," who had once again vanished into the folds of time, leaving behind injuries, damaged equipment, and a report that would be painfully difficult to write without incurring their superiors' wrath.
The night wind felt colder now, as though mocking their defeat.
Several minutes after the vacuum left by the teleportation door, the air above the suburban field vibrated once more with tightly organized activity.
Temporal Cross-Police mothership, which had remained cloaked until now, finally deployed additional personnel.
Dozens of officers in identical combat uniforms descended in orderly fashion, forming two groups distinct in aura and purpose under the command of a higher-ranking officer marked by additional insignia on his shoulders.
The first group, composed of psycho-temporal specialists, spread out like white blood cells rushing to a wound.
They carried devices resembling large flashlights with crystal lenses at their tips.
Their targets were the nearest residential areas, shop-houses, and even several passing vehicles.
"Memory cleansing protocol A-7 activated."
Their team leader's voice echoed through their communicators, flat and emotionless.
"Standard cover: lightning storm with unusual flashes.
Erase all visual images of anomalous entities, large formless creatures, and interaction with uniformed personnel.
Ensure no residual collective fear develops into new urban myths."
Soft purple light from their devices swept across windows and street corners, rewriting fragments of thousands of memories within their routines, ensuring the night would be remembered only as ordinary bad weather.
Meanwhile, the second group, composed of temporal forensic technicians and trackers, worked in far greater silence.
They gathered around the area of the field where Nirmala and Arya had disappeared.
Their devices were not meant to erase, but to extract even the smallest piece of information.
A large suction-disc-like machine was positioned at the center, scanning every dust particle, every trace of ionization in the air, every fragment of residual energy from the sonic wave or portal activation.
To be continued…