Turku Varsinais-suomi, Finland.
Time: 8:32 AM Date: 21/9/1931.
3 Days after the Gates appeared.
A ferry is sailing toward a port city. The ferry's engine coughed softly beneath the floorboards as Étienne Marceau leaned against the rusting rail of the ferry, cigarette in one hand, notebook in the other. The cold mist of the Baltic clung to his coat. Behind him, a few bored locals spoke in Finnish, their voices muffled by the chill wind. the radio inside the cabin was on the news anchor cracking in and out of static, it seem to be talking about the appearance of multiple gates around Europe and suspected the 3 missing Gates to be in Norway and. Berlin?
"...Still no official statement from Berlin, though local reports confirm a large vertical structure has appeared near the city of Malchow, Germany, similar in size and design to the Gates reported off the coast of Britain , France, and the Baltic coast..."
Birds flying in the sky one of them is not a bird and a child pointed toward the horizon where the spire of something.... jutted against the gray sky like the blade of a god.
It was the unmistakable silhouette of the gate.
He didn't need binoculars to feel its wrongness. Even at this distance, it towered out of the sea like an obsidian monument right off the coast, perfectly vertical, looks like a castle gate straight out of medieval times.
"Gate visible from 4 km, no escort, locals unaware of scale?" he wrote on his notebook
"Journalist" Jean Roux, they called him on his paperwork. A harmless Parisian from a modest weekly, come to write about northern isolation, port city, and the economy of trees. He smiled at the thought. Trees, yes. And shadows much darker than trees.
There were already whispers—new businesses popping up near the logging roads, staffed by new people who seem to be new to the city. One of them had offered him coffee last week when he'd pretended to be lost.
The cup was fine, but they seem out of place despite looking like they are from around here.
The radio signal dip before returning.
"Eyewitnesses in Ålesund and Bodø claim to have seen strange lights in the mountains—possible locations of the remaining Gates, though Norwegian officials have issued no confirmation. Military radar continues to track unidentified flying objects—some described as resembling large birds, others... more like creatures from myth."
The ferry creaked as it nudged against the dock, ropes tossed and tied with practiced ease by the crew. A hiss of hydraulics signaled the lowering of the ramp. The passengers disembarked in a slow trickle, coats buttoned tight against the cold, boots echoing on the damp planks of the pier.
Jean Roux adjusted the strap on his leather satchel, pulled his collar up, and stepped off into the city.
The town smelled of salt, damp stone, and wood smoke. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor like tired old dogs. The streets, still wet from morning fog, shimmered faintly under the gray sky. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
He didn't stop to admire the view.
Instead, he walked with purpose—quietly, deliberately—through the twisting streets of the old district, toward a café tucked between a bookstore and a closed-down tailor shop. A place he'd visited once already.
Not for the coffee.
It was quiet when he entered, the little bell over the door giving a polite chime. Warm air wrapped around him, laced with the smell of brewed beans and cinnamon. A few customers sat at tables—locals by the look of them, but he couldn't be sure anymore.
Behind the counter stood the same young man from before. Clean-shaven, polite. Eyes a bit too still. Voice just barely off, like someone who'd memorized a language rather than lived it.
Jean offered a smile and took a seat in the corner, angled to watch both the counter and the front window.
He didn't order yet.
He was here for the staff.
And for the ones who chose to drink among them.
Behind the counter, one of the baristas wiped their hands on a dish towel and slipped quietly through a door marked Staff Only.
Inside the back room, Olivia (Operator 2) leaned against the doorframe with a scowl.
"He's here again. That journalist-looking guy. Someone else deal with him. Last time I handled a journo, we almost blew the whole operation."
Clair looked up from her notebook, calm as always. "Relax. It's only his second visit. If we act normal, he'll get bored and move on."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "He doesn't look bored."
"The real problem," Clair said thoughtfully, "is trying to make him go away."
"Exactly," added Eino (Operator 1) without looking up from his cup of Coffee. "The harder we push, the more curious he'll get.." *sips* "mhm. this coffee taste good." Eino muttered joyfully.
A heavy silence settled between them.
Collective sigh.
Jean Roux sat in the corner, the same corner as last time. He flipped open his notebook and began sketching idly in the margins, lines, arrows, numbers, half-thoughts disguised as distraction.
A waitress approached. Different face than last time. Same smile.
"Coffee, monsieur?" she asked, perfect French with the slightest accent he couldn't quite place—neither local nor Parisian. Too polished.
He nodded. "Black, please. No sugar."
She left without asking his name.
His eyes scanned the room. Three patrons. One reading a paper upside down. Another hadn't touched his drink in ten minutes. The third—an old man in a fisherman's coat—seemed normal enough, until Roux noticed the man glance at the same clock every thirty seconds.
The clock wasn't working.
The waitress returned, placed the cup gently, and turned away. He watched her reflection in the window. posture military-straight, eyes scanning rather than serving. She whispered something at the counter. Too quick for casual.
"Staff rotation inconsistent. Too alert. Possible surveillance pattern. Language too clean." He scribbled in his notebook.
Malchow Mecklenburg, French Occupied Germany.
Time: 2:46 PM Date: 20/9/1931.
2 Days after the Gate appeared.
A hotel room overlooking Malchow, northern outskirts. Curtains drawn. Thick smoke curling from an ashtray.
Three figures dressed in casual clothing stood around a table strewn with surveillance photos. Aerials. Sketches. One, in particular, a colossal castle Gate, jagged and monolithic, rising out of a wooded area like a black tooth driven into the earth.
"It's identical," one muttered. "Down to the structure of the outer casing. Same mineral layering." they said while holding a picture above their head while laying in bed
"Then we pray," said another, staring out at the distant GATE, "that it's not the same enemy."
"maybe putting a puppet government in France wasn't a good idea" said the third.
They had come from another world and tip the balance in French favor.
They had not expected this world to remember them.
French Command – Malchow Military Complex, Berlin, French Occupied Germany.
General Estienne peered over the intelligence briefing. The Malchow Gate shimmered faintly outside the armored bunker's observation slit.
"Confirmed naval contact in the Western Gate sector," said a junior officer. "Royal Navy intercepted something, but didn't engage."
"And the object returned?" Estienne asked.
"Yes, Général. They identified the vessel, CRS Stubby. One of the same classes seen in the Sheten island incident."
Estienne rubbed his temple.
"This is no longer a British problem," he said. "It is a continental one. Inform Marshal Delacroix. And raise readiness levels along the Baltic Gate as well."
"And if London shares intelligence?"
"We will review it. Quietly. Let the Allies dance around the mystery. We have other... instruments ready."
He turned to the window, watching the dark shimmer of the Gate.
"Whatever comes through next," he murmured, "we must be ready to shape the war before it begins."
Allied Maritime Perimeter – Western Gate, North Sea.
Time: 6:12 PM Date: 19/9/1931.
1 Day after the Gate appeared.
14 Nautical Miles Off the Coast of Sheten island.
The sea was unnaturally calm, like glass waiting to shatter. Steel-gray skies sagged low, the North Sea barely rippling under the weight of the storm yet to come.
Encircling the Gate were several Royal Navy vessels, six destroyers, eight frigates, and the battleship HMS Iron Resolve.
The Gate itself rose from the water like the skeleton of some ancient monolith, black stone and alien alloy, humming faintly with energies T.A.S.P (The Atlantic Solidarity Pact) had no name for. No lights. No signals. Just presence.
Inside the battleship's CIC, Captain Rachel Lonsdale stared at the sonar console.
"Still no response from that vessel the Norwegians intercepted," her XO said. "But they sent the footage."
The screen flickered to grainy life. A patrol boat, small, fast, and low. cut through rough water like a scalpel. Angular. Silent. Its design was neither TASP nor French occupied Europe nor anything archived in postwar databases.
"We hailed two times," a Norwegian voice crackled over the audio. "No response. It turned back when we launched a RHIB (Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat)."
In the glass-paneled observation room beyond, two so-called 'civilian' consultants leaned forward. They didn't flinch at the footage. They leaned in.
"One of yours?" Lonsdale asked.
The man, dark-haired, late 30s, eyes far too tired, shook his head. "No. But I recognize the lines."
The woman beside him narrowed her gaze. "That's Panturan engineering. Probably a scout-class. But look at the antenna mast, ten meters tall. That's a ship you'd mistake for a research boat... until it shoots. After we came to this world we didn't expect 'them' to follow."
"Designation came back," the XO said. "Name stenciled on the hull: CRS Stubby."
"That's a lie," the man muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"They rename captured vessels. 'Stubby' was once ERS Rose. We lost track of her two years before the Collapse."
"Collapse?" Lonsdale asked.
The woman nodded at the screen. "They emptied our banks. Twice. hundreds of Trillions in gold, gone without a trace. Then they lit the fuse for the last world war."
"And you're saying they're here now?"
The man gave a thin, bitter smile. "Not here. Not fully. But they're peeking through the door."
7:23 PM HMS Iron Resolve – CIC, Hours Later.
"Contact!" shouted the sonar chief. "Narrow-band sonar ping. Origin inside the Gate's perimeter, deep-water return.... It's gone."
Footage from the Norwegian Coast Guard replayed: CRS Stubby, darting like a predator near sheten island. A new better frame appeared, two turrets. one at the front one at the back. 90mm auto-flak. Beautiful, lethal symmetry.
"Twenty-four meters long," Lonsdale murmured. "Fast. Armored. And those cannons..."
The woman consultant broke in. "MP Miradas. They're anti-air by classification, but that's deceptive. They can shred ships in half in under a minute."
"And if Stubby is out here," her partner added grimly, "then the Serpent isn't far."
"Serpent?" Lonsdale asked.
"A cruiser-submarine. Cloaked until it's too late. We once tried to tail one. It vanished... and the tailing ship never reported back."
British Allied Command – Subsurface Alert.
Near the Gate.
"Subsurface contact," a young radar tech confirmed. "Dive depth around 300 meters. Cruiser-sub displacement. Transient sonar ping before dropping off the grid."
"Serpent," whispered one of the civilian advisors. "She was supposed to assist Stubby before being recalled."
"Recalled by who?" asked the Turkish liaison.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he muttered, "If the Pantura pulled their ships back, it means they're not ready to act... yet."
Inside the Castellum - West Gate naval base - Panturan Naval Command.
Time: (Undesignated) Date: (Undesignated)
Deep behind the Gate, within a massive naval port nestled in the giant lake within the Castellum, Admiral Tsunamina stood in front of a map that's constantly updating.
"CRS Serpent reported multiple unknown hulls, battleship-class among them? She pinged once and withdrew. Stubby made contact and returned."
A junior officer rushed in. "Sir! Unknown fleet at 3km away, surrounding the Gate. multiple different nation composition. We're being bracketed."
"Prepare ships," Tsunamina ordered, rising from his seat.
Then the phone rang. Tsunamina picked up the phone
"Hold position," a voice from High Command ordered. "BID System will engage if needed. All ships and personnel are to withdraw immediately."
Tsunamina stared at the Gate symbol on the table display.
"Very well," he said, hanging up.
He dialed in to fleet command.
"All units—return to the Castellum. Let the humans puzzle over shadows."