Omega 21: A New Chapter

The days blurred together, an endless cycle of patrols and radio checks doing little to ease the growing tension. The base was quiet—unnervingly so. No laughter, no casual conversations, no familiar background noise that made a place feel lived-in. Just the low hum of equipment, the static crackle of the radios, and the occasional barked orders that felt more like reminders of protocol than actual commands. Even those sounded forced, like everyone was trying too hard to pretend things were normal.

But they weren't.

The team was unraveling. Sleep came in restless fragments, and when they spoke, it was clipped, functional. There was no need for unnecessary words. Not anymore. The whispers hadn't stopped, and neither had the flickering lights. At first, they blamed the storm. Then they blamed the aging power grid. It was easier that way.

Eric knew better.

It wasn't the storm. It wasn't the equipment.

It was the base itself.

He gradually acknowledged everything. This was not natural phenomena, not something you could logically explain… not anything attributed to common sense.

But regardless… he'd play along.

For better or worse… he'd play along.

He woke one morning with his hands covered in scratches. Thin, deep marks lined his palms and fingers, sharp reminders of something he couldn't remember. The wounds were fresh, the skin raw, but there was no recollection of how they got there.

He flexed his fingers, wincing as a stinging sensation shot through his nerves. Had he done this in his sleep? He searched his bed—no sign of torn sheets or anything sharp. His nails weren't broken or bloody.

But he knew he had a dream. The memory dangled just out of reach, slipping away the harder he tried to grasp it.

A knock at the door made him jolt upright. Instinctively, he shoved his hands beneath the blanket.

Tucker stepped inside, hesitation written across his face.

"You okay, Sergeant?" Tucker's voice was quieter than usual, edged with something close to unease.

Eric studied him. Tucker wasn't the only one struggling. His bloodshot eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the way his uniform hung looser than it had a week ago—none of them were sleeping well. But Tucker? He was a log by default. The kind of guy who could fall asleep on a moving transport in full gear. Now, he looked just as drained as the rest of them.

Everyone was looking worse. It had already gone beyond that point.

Most of them didn't even shave their beards anymore—looking more like ragged cavemen than a military crew.

"Just… stress," Eric muttered, the words tasting like a lie even as he said them.

Tucker didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. He lingered for a moment, then nodded once and stepped out, leaving Eric alone with the silence.

Eric exhaled sharply, staring down at his hands again.

The truth was, he didn't know what was real anymore.

He was waiting for the next crazy occasion to happen.

And he also knew that the state of his hands was just a teaser.

And indeed… today, the generator failed—on the third day of Caldwell's disappearance.

A warning alarm shrieked through the base, jolting them all awake at once. The lights flickered violently, a rapid stuttering that made the walls look like they were shifting before plunging them into complete, suffocating darkness.

Then silence.

For a moment, the only sound left was the howling wind outside, slamming against the structure like something trying to get in.

Eric shoved out of bed, grabbed his gear, and made for the control room. The emergency lights cast an eerie red glow across the halls, stretching their shadows unnaturally long. He passed Markson, who looked pale beneath the red tint.

Eric didn't ask for an explanation—not bothered if it never came. He just stood there like everyone else… waiting for an answer he didn't feel bothered knowing.

Harper was already there, hunched over the flickering monitors. He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the air.

"We're losing power," Harper said, his voice clipped. "Backup systems should've kicked in, but they're failing too."

Eric pulled his collar tighter. The cold was already creeping in, seeping through every crack in the base's structure.

His lips curled into a bitter smile.

"If we don't get that generator back online—"

"We're dead," Harper finished grimly.

Eric turned to the others. "Tucker, you're with me. We're checking it out."

Tucker stiffened, nodded.

Harper's gaze flicked toward Markson, the youngest of them. "Take him too."

Eric glanced at the private. Markson hadn't changed—no better, no worse. He'd been the same wide-eyed wreck since their return from the buried site.

More hands would help. Unless I have to carry two people again, Eric thought agonizingly.

"Move out," Eric ordered.

The generator room was buried beneath layers of reinforced steel, a sprawling maze of pipes, fuel lines, and aging machinery. It should have been warm.

Instead, it was freezing.

Eric's breath misted as he stepped inside, the cold wrapping around them like a living thing. The usual scent of oil and metal clung to the air, but beneath it, something else lurked—something wrong. A faint, stale rot, like something long dead left too long in a sealed space.

"This place gives me the creeps," Markson muttered. His flashlight beam darted along with his unsteady eyes across the room, catching on the pipes overhead.

Eric ignored him, kneeling beside the generator. The machine was still. No fuel issues. No external damage.

Then why the hell wasn't it running?

He reached for his toolkit, but Tucker's voice cut through the air.

"Sergeant…"

Eric turned. Tucker's flashlight was fixed on the floor.

His stomach twisted.

Symbols.

Etched into the metal, covering the entire space around the generator. Not scratched in, not drawn—burned into the steel. Precise. Deliberate. They stretched out in perfect symmetry, their lines too sharp, too intricate to be random.

And Eric had seen them before.

The artifact.

Markson exhaled shakily. "That's not right."

No. It wasn't.

Then the whispers returned.

Low. Insidious. Curling around them like a living thing, pressing just beneath the surface of the air.

Eric's pulse hammered.

"Pack it up," he ordered. "We need to—" He couldn't finish.

The symbols pulsed—glowing now, burning brighter, as if alive.

Then the generator roared to life.

The sound was deafening. The walls trembled, the steel groaning under some unseen force. The sudden surge of energy sent sparks flying from the control panels.

A crushing weight filled the space, pressing down on them.

Markson shuddered, his face going pale.

Then he turned and bolted.

"Shit—Markson!"

Eric grabbed the still-dazed Tucker, shoving him toward the exit. Markson was ahead of them, but the moment they crossed the threshold—

The flames erupted.

The generator burst, sending a rolling wave of fire through the room. The heat hit them like a sledgehammer. They dove through the doorway, hitting the ground hard as the fire roared past.

Eric turned back just in time to see the flames devouring everything.

This was it.

A chapter had closed. On the base. On him.

Something new was coming now. Something worse.

The fire should have died out.

It didn't.

It spread.

Fast.

Consuming everything.

It wasn't natural.

It wasn't right.

And it wasn't stopping.