The C16 sliced through the clouds, a silver dart returning home. Inside, the cabin lights hummed softly. Marc sat by the window, his reflection caught between the clouds and the dark ocean below. Every vibration of the fuselage reminded him of the Aether pulse, of the hum in the Enttle crater that had nearly swallowed them whole.
Howard was slumped in the seat opposite, headphones half-on, a tablet glowing with data logs. His expression was fixed, his mind still lost in the luminous haze of the battlefield.
Neither of them spoke for the first few hours. There were no words left for what they'd seen — the hallucinations, the glass that had breathed like flesh, the hum of something alive beneath the world.
Finally, Howard broke the silence. "You think anyone's going to believe our report?"
Marc turned his head, eyes heavy. "They'll redact half of it. Say it was a misfire. Experimental weapons. Radiation exposure. They'll cover it like everything else."
Howard exhaled sharply. "Then what's the point?"
Marc didn't answer. His mind was elsewhere—on the jetpack stored in the cargo bay below. The relic hummed faintly to him even now, a heartbeat only he could hear. Tecciztecatl was silent, but Marc could feel the god's attention watching the artifact like a predator circling prey.
When the clouds broke and London glimmered beneath them, Marc's pulse quickened. He wasn't coming home. He was returning to the battlefield that never ended.
---
William Lex Webb stood at the center of his boardroom like a conductor before an orchestra. Screens lined the walls, displaying schematic diagrams of phones—sleek, minimal, consumer-perfect. Engineers filled the seats, notebooks open, styluses ready.
The smell of espresso and ozone mingled with the low hum of server banks. William looked rejuvenated—thinner already, sharper around the eyes. The weeks of fasting, the medications, and the nightly rituals whispered into his blood.
"Gentlemen, ladies," he began, his tone rich with authority, "our cameras have conquered sight. Now we conquer touch."
He gestured, and the screens shifted—phones in mockup, spinning in perfect render. "I intend to launch two models under our new Ynkeos Mobile division. One flagship, one affordable device. We will enter the market as saviors of accessibility and power."
One of the engineers, a young man with a nervous cough, raised his hand. "Sir, what kind of phone are we developing? Gaming? Everyday use? Foldable design?"
William smiled, patient. "We start with the everyday. We sell familiarity before innovation. The world does not embrace change—it eases into it. Once they trust us, we move to niche markets."
Another voice from the back: "And what about the chip, sir? What's our architecture?"
"We'll use Milsobs for the first generation," William said smoothly. "Reliable, efficient, and cheap enough for scale. But by next cycle, we'll produce our own. A proprietary chip—ours alone. It will run faster, draw less power, and learn the user's patterns."
The head of technical support frowned. "Why Milsobs? They're known for performance throttling and manufacturing defects. Public trust in them is shaky."
William's smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "Because they owe us favors. And because they already use Sangre-based materials in their fabrication. The public doesn't know that yet."
A murmur rippled across the table. Sangre. The word alone carried weight.
William lifted his glass of water, swirling it lazily. "The El Lobo brothers in Yucatán supply the refined compound—trace elements from the black liquid. Juarez stabilizes it. When combined with silicon wafers, it increases conductivity tenfold. The result? Faster chips. Hungrier devices."
One of the engineers swallowed hard. "Sir… that compound is unstable. The tests—"
"I have read the tests," William cut in, voice like iron. "Controlled doses, tightly monitored. What we are building is not merely a phone. It's a vessel."
He turned toward the panoramic window. The skyline outside glowed with screens and neon—a constellation of modern worship. "Every user who touches our devices will become part of the network. Every lens an eye. Every circuit a vein. When the time comes, our OS will not need to be installed. It will be invited."
The room went utterly still.
Only his assistant, Serra, dared speak. "You're talking about total integration."
William didn't turn. "I'm talking about evolution. The camera taught humanity to see. The phone will teach it to obey."
He pivoted back to them, his smile immaculate again. "But let's not frighten investors, hm? For now—simple words. 'Innovation.' 'Efficiency.' 'Connection.' Sell those. Believe those."
He raised his glass again. "To the dawn of Ynkeos Mobile."
The toast was hesitant, but unanimous.
---
That night, as the team dispersed, Serra lingered in his office doorway. The city light bathed William's face in silver and shadow.
"Sir," she said quietly, "our analysts report a phenomenon in Enttle. A radiation spike—classified as Aether contamination. The same energy that powers those alien relics. The military's trying to contain it."
William turned his head slightly, one eyebrow raised. "And what do they think caused it?"
"Unconfirmed," Serra replied. "But… there's talk of survivors."
For a moment, something flickered across William's expression—something dark, almost reverent. "Aether," he whispered. "So the gods still bleed."
He reached into his pocket, touching the small pendant of the Tzitzimimeh idol he kept hidden. "Prepare a research team. If Aether still sleeps under Enttle, we will wake it."
"Yes, sir," Serra said softly.
As she left, William stared at the reflection in his office glass. The city's glow framed his outline like a halo. For a fleeting instant, his eyes glimmered not blue, but faintly red.
---
High above the Atlantic, the C16 sliced through storm clouds. Marc sat rigid in his seat, Tecciztecatl whispering through the static of his mind.
He digs for what he does not understand, the god murmured. The same hunger that built stars will consume him.
Marc pressed his palms together, trying to steady himself. "William."
Yes, Tecciztecatl said. The serpent builds temples from glass and calls them towers. You must be ready, Champion. His devices will not just see. They will listen.
Marc's gaze drifted to the cargo hold below, where Gaidan's jetpack rested under tarpaulin. "Then I'll need to fly before he learns to crawl."
Lightning flared outside the window, and for a heartbeat, Marc's reflection vanished—replaced by something vast and luminous, wings of starlight unfurled across the sky.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Howard stirred beside him, half-asleep. "What was that?"
Marc looked away. "Nothing. Just turbulence."
But Tecciztecatl's voice was colder now, like the edge of a blade. No, Champion. That was the past remembering its heir.
And in the dark belly of the plane, the jetpack pulsed once—faintly, like a sleeping heart beginning to wake.