THE FLIES IN THE GARDEN
OMEGA, SECTOR 1 (THE EQUATORIAL WILDS)
THE RUINS OF AERETH-PRIME
08:00 Local Time
The air in the High-Garden was thick with spores and the hum of insects. It was a place of rot and rebirth, where the purple fungal trees grew out of the shattered marble of ancient statues.
Elara's Handmaiden, a young elf named Lyra, sat on the edge of a mossy fountain. She was cleaning her blade, her ears twitching at every rustle in the undergrowth.
Suddenly, a tiny, buzzing sound cut through the ambient noise.
It wasn't a biological buzz. It was too rhythmic.
Lyra held out her hand.
The Ether-Fly, the construct Queen Elara had released from the Gibraltar cell, landed on her palm. It dissolved instantly, sinking into her skin like a drop of water.
The message hit Lyra's mind with the force of a physical blow. Images. Memories. The Iron Prison. The Iron Men. The plan.
Lyra gasped, clutching her chest. She stood up and ran. She ran through the ruins, vaulting over fallen pillars, dashing toward the Council Fire.
The Council was arguing. Lord Vaelen and Warlord Grak were shouting, their voices echoing off the stone walls.
Lyra burst into the circle. She fell to her knees, panting.
She looked at them. She did not speak the common tongue. She spoke the Old Tongue, the language of binding oaths.
"ᚢᛁᚾᚨ... ᛉᛈᛟᚲ:."
The Council fell silent. Even the massive Orc Warlord lowered his axe.
Lyra pointed to the sky, then to the ground. Her eyes were wide with the message she carried.
"ᚺᚨᛗᚨ•... ᚲᚨᛈᛏᚢᚱ:."
"ᛏᛋᚢᚲᚢᚱᛁᛏᛖ... ᚲᛟᛗ^."
"ᛏᚱᚨᛈᚨ... ᛋᛖᛏ:."
Lord Vaelen stepped forward, his face pale. He looked at the Silent One, the representative of the Shadow-Leaf.
"ᚢᛁᚾᚨ... ᛚᛁᚢ:?"
Lyra nodded frantically.
"ᛚᛁᚢ:. ᛒᚢᛏ... ᚹᚨᚱ... ᚲᚺᚨᚾᚷᛖ^."
Warlord Grak growled, a low rumble in his chest. He looked at his warriors.
"ᚠᛁᚱᚨ... ᚨᚾᛞ... ᛟᚨᚦ."
The Council looked at each other. The message was clear. The Queen lived. The Architects were moving. And the Iron Men were the bait.
They did not need a translation. They needed weapons.
THE WHITE DELEGATION
FOB BEDROCK, PERIMETER GATE
11:00 GST (Three Hours Later)
The alarm didn't sound like a raid. It sounded like a question.
"Contact front!" the perimeter guard shouted over the PA system. "No hostile action! Repeat, no hostile action! They are... just standing there."
Brigadier General Ironside sprinted from the Command Module, flanked by Captain Russo and Asset-Omega-1.
They reached the ramparts of the defensive wall. Below them, on the fused glass of the landing zone, stood a delegation.
It was The Third Faction. The Architects.
But these were not the combat units. They were not the terrifying Heavies or the cloaked Scouts.
There were four of them. They stood seven feet tall, slender and humanoid, encrusted in armor that looked like white porcelain and flowing mercury. They had no weapons visible. Their faces were smooth, featureless glass visors that reflected the confused faces of the human soldiers.
They stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind their backs.
"Sniper team, do you have a solution?" Ironside whispered into his comms.
"Locked," Deacon's voice came back. "But sir... my scope is glitching. Every time I put the crosshair on the lead one, the optics reboot."
Harris stepped up to the edge of the wall. He gripped the railing, his claws digging into the concrete.
"They are not here to fight," Harris rumbled. "They smell... clean. Too clean."
The lead Architect stepped forward. It raised a hand. It did not cast a spell. It did not fire a laser.
It spoke.
Its voice was amplified, booming across the FOB without a loudspeaker. It was a synthesized voice, perfect, melodious, and utterly devoid of soul.
"Greetings, United Nations Global Defense Initiative," the Architect said. The English was Oxford-perfect. "We are the Caretakers. We request a parley."
Ironside blinked. "Did... did that robot just ask for a parley?"
"We are not robots," the Architect corrected, hearing the private comms channel as if Ironside had shouted it. "We are the Optimized. And we wish to discuss the terms of your survival."
THE DIGITAL QUAKE
EARTH
13:00 GST
It started with a flicker.
Across the globe, every screen connected to the GDI network—every phone, every laptop, every digital billboard in Times Square and Shibuya—glitched.
For three seconds, the screens went white. A single symbol appeared: a perfect, golden hexagon.
Then, it vanished.
The internet didn't crash. It accelerated.
Data centers in Silicon Valley and Shenzhen reported a massive, simultaneous injection of code. It wasn't a virus. It was a handshake.
The Architects had just pinged Earth. They hadn't attacked the infrastructure; they had simply knocked on the digital door to show they could open it whenever they wanted.
GDI HIGH-COMMAND
THE AEGIS, GIBRALTAR
"They have compromised the network," the cyber-warfare officer screamed. "Firewalls are useless! They are inside the grid!"
" calm down," Sir Malcolm Hayes ordered. "They aren't destroying it. They are demonstrating capability."
He turned to General McCaffrey.
"They want a meeting, General. And they just held a gun to the head of the global economy to ensure we show up."
"Get the Atlas fleet," McCaffrey said, grabbing his cap. "We are going to Omega. If they want to talk, we talk."
THE QUIET ROOM
FOB BEDROCK, NEGOTIATION MODULE
15:00 GST
The meeting room was a prefabricated structure, hurriedly sanitized and set up in the center of the main hangar. A long steel table sat in the middle.
On one side sat the Human Delegation:
Secretary-General Elias Thorne of the UN (who had arrived via emergency shuttle).
General McCaffrey.
Sir Malcolm Hayes.
Brigadier General Ironside.
Standing behind them, weapons slung but ready, were the guards: Captain Russo, the two Gorkhas, and Harris Brown.
Harris stood directly behind Secretary-General Thorne. He was a looming shadow, the Demon Mask still and watchful.
On the other side sat the Architect. Just one. The leader.
It sat with an eerie grace. The porcelain armor shifted like fluid. The faceplate was a mirror, reflecting the nervous faces of the humans.
"I am designated Unit-Alpha-Prime," the Architect said. Its voice was soothing. Hypnotic. "We have observed your species. You are... chaotic. Inefficient. But potent."
"We are resilient," Secretary-General Thorne said, trying to project authority. "We have defended our world."
"You have survived," Prime corrected gently. "There is a difference. We do not wish to exterminate you. The Exiles—the elves, the orcs—they are vermin. We are cleansing them. But you... you have potential."
"What do you want?" McCaffrey asked bluntly.
"Peace," Prime said. "Integration. We offer you technology. Energy solutions that will heal your dying biosphere. Medical nanites that will end disease. We offer you a place in the Order."
"In exchange for what?" Hayes asked. His eyes were narrowed. He was tapping his leg, a nervous tic.
"Three conditions," Prime said.
It raised one finger.
"One. The immediate release of the Exile Queen. She is a biological contaminant. We require her for... recycling."
It raised a second finger.
"Two. The deconstruction of FOB Bedrock. You may keep the Naval Foundry, but the subterranean network disturbs the planetary harmonic. It must be filled."
It raised a third finger.
"Three. We require a biological sample. A transfer of ownership."
The faceplate turned. It looked past Thorne. It looked past McCaffrey.
It looked directly at Harris.
"We require the entity designated Asset-Omega-1. He carries the Prime Gene mutation. He is the bridge between your flesh and our perfection. Give us the Asset, and we will give you the stars."
PART 5: THE SCENT OF COMPLIANCEThe room was silent.
Harris didn't move. His blue eyes burned.
They want me, the Mask whispered. They want to eat us.
Secretary-General Thorne looked at the Architect. He looked at the table.
"That is... a heavy price," Thorne said.
But his voice lacked outrage. It lacked anger. It sounded... reasonable.
"Think of the benefits, Elias," General McCaffrey said.
Hayes's head snapped toward McCaffrey.
McCaffrey's eyes were slightly glazed. His posture was relaxed. Too relaxed.
"The technology," McCaffrey continued, his voice monotone. "We could save Earth. Cancer. Famine. Energy. Is one soldier worth eight billion lives?"
"It is a logical trade," Ironside agreed, nodding slowly. "The Asset is unstable anyway. A liability."
Hayes stood up abruptly.
"I need to use the facilities," Hayes announced loudly. "My bladder isn't what it used to be."
The Architect turned its mirrored head toward Hayes. For a second, the soothing aura in the room faltered.
"Make it quick, Sir Malcolm," Thorne said dismissively. "We are close to an agreement."
Hayes walked out of the room. He walked calmly past the guards, into the corridor, and turned the corner into the latrine block.
As soon as the door closed, his demeanor shattered.
He ripped his smartphone from his pocket. He jacked a hardline cable into his personal bio-monitor watch.
He opened a proprietary app: 'Canary'.
It was a passive atmospheric analyzer he had commissioned after the Amazon incident.
The screen flashed red.
ALERT. AIRBORNE NEURO-TOXIN DETECTED.
TYPE: UNKNOWN PHEROMONE COMPLEX.
EFFECT: SUPPRESSION OF AMYGDALA. HEIGHTENED SUGGESTIBILITY. DOPAMINE FEEDBACK LOOP.
CONCENTRATION: 400 PPM inside Negotiation Module.
"They're drugging them," Hayes hissed. "It's not a negotiation. It's a hypnotic induction."
He checked his own biometrics.
FILTER STATUS: ACTIVE. (Nasal filters holding at 85% efficiency).
Hayes had worn the filters on a hunch. Paranoid? Yes. Right? Always.
He didn't go back in. If he went back in, he would be exposed or targeted.
He pulled an ear-piece from his pocket. He tuned it to the secure tactical channel—the one only Harris and the Gorkhas were monitoring.
He pressed the transmit button.
Inside the room, the atmosphere was warm, fuzzy, and agreeable.
"We accept," Secretary-General Thorne said. He smiled, a vacant, happy smile. "It is for the greater good. Peace in our time."
Unit-Alpha-Prime nodded. "A wise decision. We will take custody of the Asset immediately."
General McCaffrey stood up. He turned to Harris.
"Specialist Brown," McCaffrey said, his voice devoid of the fatherly concern he usually showed. "You are relieved of duty. You are to surrender your weapons and accompany the delegation. It is a direct order."
Harris looked at McCaffrey. He saw the glazed eyes. He saw the puppet strings.
He looked at the Architect.
The Architect stood. "Come, Prime Gene. Your evolution awaits."
Harris stood still.
In his ear, a voice whispered. It was Hayes.
"Harris. Listen to me. The air is poisoned. They are mind-controlled. Thorne, McCaffrey... they aren't making this choice. They are high. Do not comply. Repeat: Do not comply."
Harris's hand moved.
He didn't reach for his sidearm. He reached for his back.
He unslung the HK417.
"Asset-1!" Ironside barked. "Stand down! That is an order!"
Harris looked at the Secretary-General.
"No," Harris rumbled.
Thorne looked confused. The drugs made conflict difficult to process. "Specialist? You are being transferred. It is a great honor."
"I am not... merchandise," Harris growled.
The Architect took a step forward. Its movements were no longer graceful. They were twitchy. Aggressive.
"Compliance is mandatory," the synthesized voice sharpened. "The pact is sealed."
Harris raised the rifle.
He didn't aim at the Architect.
He aimed at Secretary-General Thorne.
The laser dot settled right between the politician's eyes.
The room froze.
The Gorkhas, Rakesh and Rahul, instantly leveled their Tavors—not at Harris, but at the Architects. They sensed the shift. They saw Harris's play.
Captain Russo, confused and fighting the pheromones, wavered, his gun shaking.
"Nobody moves," Harris roared, his voice shaking the walls of the module. "Or the peacemaker dies."
The Architect stopped. It looked at the gun pointed at the human leader. It calculated.
"Illogical," the Architect stated. "You would kill your own leader to save yourself?"
"I'm not saving myself," Harris said, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I'm vetoing the bill."
The standoff was absolute.
Inside the toilet, Hayes watched the feed on his phone, sweat pouring down his face.
"Brilliant," Hayes whispered. "Crazy, suicidal, magnificent bastard."
Harris stared into the mirrored face of the Architect.
"Now," Harris said. "Get out of my house."