Lucia was three when her father left home and never came back.
Her mother told her he'd gone far away, and in the too-small world of a toddler, far away meant nothing at all. Only later did she understand that it meant he was never coming back.
Her mother was a researcher.
Her presence was more felt than remembered: a ghost of a kiss pressed to her forehead past midnight, the careful script of notes left beside plates still holding their heat.
Loving, yes, but always elsewhere.
So most days, it was just her and Luna.
Luna was the younger one. She never learned to fix her hair by herself, always wearing her clothes inside out.
Lucia taught her how to brush her teeth, how to tie her shoes, held her close when the nights stretched long and terrifying... They grew like that, twin saplings braided together against the wind.
Then the Chaos Contamination came.
Faces in the street grew twisted and hollow, one by one winking out, until no one remained but the two of them.
Shop doors hung open, shelves lay toppled, and she picked her way through snarled glass, searching for whatever might sustain them another day to carry home.
One day, her mother stopped coming back.
Lucia didn't wait. She had learned that lesson long ago, when she was three.
She held Luna's hand and wandered. The world was dying slowly, and they wandered for a long, long time.
From crumbling buildings to stores still standing, the scavenging went on and on.
When Luna cried, she just told her that it would be okay, that she'd always be there. When Luna was hungry, she split her own cookie and handed half over.
Then the Hetero Tower vanished.
With its disappearance, the ground shuddered violently. Amidst the collapsing world, she held Luna tight.
And then, nothing. Lucia woke to empty hands. Her sister was gone.
Around her stood twelve battered adults. A woman with white hair gathered her up and said, We'll help you find her.
She believed them. Because belief was all she had left.
Leora turns the page. To know the child better, she has taken note of the essentials: name, approximate age, physical records, and a date.
Birthday.
Her gaze lingers on the date for two seconds. Then she closes the file and pushes open the conference room door.
Harsh white light cuts across every face in the vanguard team.
The scars the Hetero Tower left behind have yet to heal, but no one in this room mistakes the gravity of the hour.
The head of the table sits empty.
About that rift left behind when the Hetero Tower disappeared... Julian, can you walk us through what you've seen so far?
Julian leans against the wall. When he speaks, his voice is still hoarse, thinned out.
Non-linear acceleration in progress. White fog bleeds outward from within, the affected area expanding every day.
Yesterday, when we returned, the expansion rate was at 0.05%. Today, we can't even get a lock on it. The fog is creating intense interference with our instruments.
"Interference" isn't even accurate anymore. It's more like consumption. Our signals, any matter that touches it... it just takes it all in. At this rate... it won't stop until it's swallowed everything.
I wish I could tell you that you were wrong, but this is the truth we have to carry.
She looks down at the terminal resting on the table. A recorded message waits inside, left behind by Dominik.
This terminal... We all know Dominik always kept two plans ready.
I think it's time that we go through it again.
The terminal emits a thin light. It coils upward, shaping itself into a translucent silhouette.
Dominik. Standing there as if no time had passed.
Chris' hand stiffens on the table, knuckles drawn tight.
The voice that follows is achingly familiar—calm, unwavering, the voice of one who once held the world on their shoulders.
If you're seeing this, it means my Plan A failed.
I've vanished inside the tower. And that disappearance brought no victory.
The figure in the projection pauses, as if giving the audience time to process what was just said.
Then my theory was right. The worst kind of right. The kind none of us wanted.
The Hetero Tower isn't the source of the Chaos Contamination. It's only a symptom. Our world alone doesn't have the strength to save itself. We must truly unite with the power of other worlds.
"If it really comes to that, how do we unite with other worlds?" A question from one of the vanguard team members echoes from within the projection.
We send out a call to arms to other worlds.
From the place closest to our civilization's end, the most dangerous place of all, the Hetero Tower. We have to broadcast our message to as many other worlds as we can reach.
The others in the projection fall silent.
Dominik's plan isn't just empty words. Everyone present knows there is more to come.
But simply learning about the civilization filtering isn't nearly enough for a world to survive.
Without power, a civilization will only end up like ours, marching toward an inevitable collapse.
Before their world sinks into the same stagnation as ours, they must be given the power to resist the Filtering.
These people are spent, hollowed out. If any "power" still remains to them, it no longer resides in their broken frames and weary limbs. It lies elsewhere...
Every gaze shifts to the cube beside Nemo, the "key" forged from Chaos Contamination with the Hetero Tower's core sealed within.
All of them remember the terror it unleashed.
The core of the Hetero Tower. We must harness its power.
Absorb the Hetero Tower's core. Use it as a template to replicate... and generate technical blueprints that can actually be deployed. I call them "Sefirot".
Chris mutters under his breath.
...He knew it would come to this.
He'd always been planning for the worst.
The Dominik in the hologram doesn't stop. The voice continues, flat and level throughout, as if reading off a weather report.
Yet no one forgets the moment those final words came.
At that moment, Dominik turned to the window, gaze reaching past everything visible, toward something far away. A place that did not yet exist.
Only by uniting with other worlds can ours be saved.
The projection freezes for a moment. Then Dominik's image tilts its head slightly, as though something just occurred to it.
...It's all up to you now.
The hologram fades away.
The terminal rests silently on the table, its faint glow dimming into nothing.
In silence, Leora's gaze holds the empty air where the terminal light once lived. Then, softly, she speaks.
Nemo, you know more about the Sefirot than any of us. Could you help us all understand what we're working with?
Nemo leans back in his chair. He was the one who used the key, sealing the core within the Hetero Tower, and the strain it placed on his M.I.N.D. still lingers.
...The "key" that absorbed the Hetero Tower's core is essentially a technical blueprint. We analyze it, we replicate what we find, and the results are what we're calling Sefirah technology.
If we want to reach more possibilities<//worlds>, we need to master as many Sefirot as we can.
But there's a catch. The Hetero Tower's core needed the "key" to contain it. Sefirah technology that stemmed from it isn't any different. It needs an appropriate vessel.
Right now, the only vessel we've identified is the M.I.N.D.
When I made contact with the core, the sensation was immediate. Part of its power was accepted, while the rest was repelled.
...Only a M.I.N.D. with compatible properties can house a Sefirah's power.
A compatible... M.I.N.D.?
She repeats his words, as if tasting the truth of it.
Yes.
Then once the technology is developed, how do we actually put it into use?
"It depends entirely on what other worlds are out there, and what each of them needs."
Nemo lets out a sigh, barely audible.
Dominik must have known from the very beginning: sealing the core would not grant the death Nemo was reaching for. There would have been no other reason to pass this information on.
So once we've got this Sefirah tech ready, how do we deliver it to other worlds?
...If Project String is going forward, if we're going to distribute the Sefirot, we'll have to enter that rift. Go back into the Fog.
Everyone knows the horror hidden behind that rift. Even now, it's still expanding, silent and slow, white fog seeping through like an open wound that refuses to close.
Go back there... The silence returns, deeper than before.
Leora sits at the table's edge, quietly studying the faces before her.
She knows every single one. Their names, their fears, the loss they carry in their bones.
The last thing she wants is to tell them this is "necessary."
...I don't know where this path will lead.
Dominik gave us a way forward. But even someone like Dominik couldn't tell us what we'll find on the other side.
There's only one thing I can say with certainty: Dominik believed this was worth it.
That person gave everything for that belief.
She pauses for a moment.
So... I want to ask all of you. Are you willing to walk down this path?
Chris answers almost immediately.
You don't even need to ask that.
His voice rises.
Dominik put everything on the line. Even his life. What the hell are we still sitting here for? Let's move.
Helga says nothing. She only gives a slight nod, the smallest acknowledgment.
Julian sniffles.
I'll handle communications. The signal protocol for Project String will take time to decrypt, but... I can do it.
Are you sure about this, Leora? Developing a Sefirah requires a temporary M.I.N.D. container. Dominik said your M.I.N.D. is the only one with enough resilience to hold it temporarily. But...
He spares them the details of the pain. But everyone in this room knows exactly what it costs.
Yes, I'm ready.
Alright. I'll go collect the data we need.
One by one, the vanguard team speaks their resolve, each in their own way.
Leora's gaze moves across the faces of the companions she's worked alongside for so long, then drifts to Dominik's empty seat at the head of the table. Complex emotions flicker through her eyes, gone in an instant.
She simply holds their gaze and offers a soft smile.
Let's get started, then.
The vanguard team sets to work.
Nemo ventures into Chaos-contaminated zones, gathering data for the Sefirot. Julian tracks the Fog's expansion rate while doubling as the team's communications relay.
Helga takes charge of medical care. Leora compiles the data and begins developing the Sefirot.
The rest rotate through their duties in shifts: scavenging supplies, eliminating hostiles that crawl out of the Fog, maintaining the defensive perimeter... and always coming back with fresh wounds.
But no one stops. They can't stop. Not when the rift overhead widens with every passing day.
Everyone appears to be functioning. But beneath the surface, a quiet disarray is taking hold.
Two days after waking, Lucia spends most of her time in bed. Helga forbids movement, and honestly, she can barely manage it anyway.
Lying still for so long unravels her sense of time and sleep, which is when she begins to notice. The grown-ups always pass by her room. Always "coincidentally."
Helga lingers a little longer than necessary after each routine check, waiting until Lucia's eyes have closed. Leora sometimes slips in to adjust her blankets.
The men mostly linger outside the door, just a moment, just long enough to know she's still alright, then move on.
She doesn't understand why they care so much. But she can feel a warmth she can't quite name.
She notices something else, too. The grown-ups aren't keeping things tidy.
Dust thickens on the windowsills. Discarded parts gather in the hallway corners. Chris' bottles scatter across the floor. Leora's documents have crept from her desk all the way to the doorway.
She knows this state of things. Home looked the same during those days when her mother didn't come back, and back then, she was the one who tidied it all.
On the third day, as Helga is away in the lab, Lucia eases herself out of bed, bare feet pressing silently against the cold metal floor.
Leora is walking down the hallway when she sees her.
Lucia... what are you doing up?
I'm feeling better now. I want to help.
Oh... you don't have to earn your place here. All you need to do is stay safe.
"As long as you stay safe... that's hope enough for us." Leora keeps the words to herself and simply crouches down, meeting Lucia's eyes at her level.
Lucia lowers her head, thinking for a moment.
But you all come to check on me every day when you get back.
Leora pauses, caught slightly off guard.
And... before... when Luna was still with me, I was the one who took care of things at home...
The sentence trails off, unfinished. But Leora catches the rest of it in the silence. She presses a gentle hand to Lucia's forehead, her face soft with concern.
That's when Helga strides back from the lab, all brisk efficiency and familiar bluntness.
Absolutely not. Back in bed. One wrong step and you'll undo everything, and I don't have the resources for a second round of treatment.
Leora catches Helga's eye and gives the smallest shake of her head.
A little movement won't hurt her, Helga. Staying in bed all day... that has its own cost.
Helga studies Lucia. Her face is still pale, yet her two small feet are planted firmly on the ground.
...Fine. No running. No lifting anything heavy. And if you feel even slightly dizzy, you stop immediately. Understood?
Okay.
Chris lives in the hammock by the entrance.
Every time he drags himself back from a mission, he collapses into it, digs out a bottle, takes a swig, and stares at the wall with hollow eyes.
The floor around him is a graveyard—empty bottles mixing with scattered weapon parts. Magazines, energy canisters, replacement joints. All of it dumped together, indistinguishable.
Before a mission, he spends ages rooting through the mess, swearing quietly as he hunts for usable pieces among the garbage.
Lucia watches him struggle a few times. Then she waits until he's gone on the next mission, kneels before the pile, and begins to sort.
She doesn't know the model numbers. But shapes, she understands. Sizes, she can read. Like things with like. Broken apart from whole. Spent casings gathered into one corner.
When Chris returns and reaches into his usual chaos, something feels wrong. He looks down and freezes.
Magazines on the left. Energy canisters on the right. Replacement parts organized by size.
...Who did this?
No one answers. Lucia is already elsewhere, long gone.
The following day, his gear check flies by in half the time... And when he returns from the mission, he quietly puts the new parts he brought back in their designated spots.
Julian's comms terminal sits at the heart of a perpetual disaster.
Cables snake across the floor. Components, stripped modules, handwritten frequency logs—all of it scattered within a two-meter radius according to an internal logic known only to him.
Lucia doesn't dare touch the components. She has no way of knowing which are critical. Instead, she works the edges. Discarded packaging cleared away. Tool rack straightened.
Then she crouches low and carefully gathers the dangling cables, binding them together with a length of old rope she scavenged from somewhere, a small act of care so no one catches their foot.
When Julian comes back, he trips over nothing at the doorway. His leg lifts by muscle memory to clear a hazard that isn't there anymore.
He tilts his head in confusion, scanning the area.
Who touched my stuff?
Then he sees it. The heart of the chaos—his chaos—is still there, undisturbed. Only the outer edges have been gently straightened, the cables no longer sprawled across the floor like tripwires.
...Oh.
He lowers himself back down before the terminal. For a while, nothing. Then, quietly, he nudges an empty casing by his foot over to the trash pile.
Helga's medical station is the tidiest spot in the base. She keeps it that way herself.
What she doesn't maintain is herself.
The crack running from her shoulder to her wrist has never been repaired. Resources go to others first.
Lucia once sees her organizing instruments one-handed. She walks over, positions herself on Helga's left, and begins passing instruments to her, one by one.
I didn't ask for your help.
But Lucia doesn't leave. She stays right where she is.
...Fine.
When Helga needs the next instrument, she passes it over; when she doesn't, she waits quietly nearby.
Helga doesn't tell her to leave again.
Nemo's room is always locked.
Lucia tries the handle once, finds it firm, and doesn't try again.
But she notices something. Every time Nemo returns, he stops at the end of the corridor and sits against the wall. Just for a while. Eyes closed. Doing nothing.
The floor there is cold. At least, Lucia thinks it must be. The metal panel is completely bare.
The next day, a small thermal blanket appears in that spot, neatly folded.
The first time Nemo comes back and notices it, he pauses briefly, then carries on like any other day.
By the third day, the blanket has slightly shifted. Someone sat on it, then put it back.
It's now folded differently than how Lucia left it.
Leora is the last coffee drinker in the base.
Constructs have no use for caffeine, but she's never let go of this one human thread. A cup is always within reach when she works, a ritual from a life she used to have.
She often forgets to refill it when it runs dry, forgets to dump it out when it goes cold. Sometimes three or four half-finished cups sit lined up on her desk like abandoned thoughts.
After watching for a few days, Lucia figures out how to use the coffee machine.
That day, Leora worked in the lab for over ten hours straight. When she finally returns to her room, the old cups have been cleared away. The documents have been stacked neatly aside.
In that clearing sits a single cup of coffee, still hot.
Already dazed from exhaustion, Leora stares blankly at the coffee cup for a long moment. Then she picks it up and takes a sip.
There's far too much sugar in it, like something a child would drink. She used to make it that way back when she first started drinking coffee. Now, she prefers it bitter.
Way too sweet...
She takes another sip.
Days slip by like this.
The grown-ups go out, come back with fresh wounds, and keep working... Lucia finds her place in the rhythm.
She tries her best not to disturb anyone, but when no one's looking, she works bit by bit to shape the cold metal base into something that resembles a home.
Cloth laid down. Corners tidied. Fallen things set upright. Small traces of life pressed into every cold surface.
Her movements are always quiet and careful, as if she's afraid of being caught. The same way she used to pull blankets over Luna in the dark.
One thing gnaws at her: the base shows no trace of vibrancy. Digital plants bloom on screens everywhere, but real ones are nearly absent.
Sometimes she finds herself standing before the empty garden plot, staring. The space feels like it was once meant for beautiful flowers. Now, there's nothing there at all.
Medical Station
Chris lies on one side, Nemo on the other. Both of their frames have been partially opened up, their damaged structures laid bare.
Chris' left arm joint is shattered again, completely. Inside Nemo's chest cavity, a deep fracture runs long and jagged, still bearing traces of where it was welded shut before being torn open once more.
On the next bed over lies Julian.
The only "patient" in the medical station without external injuries, he curls in the corner, his face ashen. His modified eyes have lost their usual restless darting; now they stare vacantly at the ceiling.
Helga moves between the three beds... When Lucia enters, she's working on Chris' joint, tools in her right hand.
Lucia crouches beside Helga's toolbox, a row of instruments spread out before her in varying sizes.
Oww— Can you just turn off my pain receptors?
Can't.
Why not—ow ow ow, wait, WAIT—
M.I.N.D. deviation. We ran out of stabilizers a few days ago. Shut off the pain receptors now, and your deviation rate will just keep climbing.
Grit your teeth and ride it out.
Chris grits his teeth against the pain, his face a knot of tension. His fingers curl around the edge of the bed, gripping so hard the knuckles go pale as bone.
Lucia takes in the entire scene. Quietly, she walks to Chris' bedside and holds out a folded piece of cloth.
...What's this for?
I used to let Luna bite down on something when she had to get shots. She said it helped.
Chris stares at the cloth, then at the small, earnest face gazing up at him.
...Kid, I'm not your little sister.
He grumbles for a good while... then bites down on it.
Helga finishes with Chris and turns to Nemo. Nemo's chest fracture is worse, far trickier than Chris' joint.
The welding requires absolute precision, and with the repair site so close to his core, the pain receptors must also stay online.
The young man's hands clutch the bedsheet, knuckles white, a sheen of sweat covering the bionic skin on his temples.
But his face betrays nothing, and not once does he make a sound.
Lucia keeps stealing glances at him as she passes tools to Helga.
Once the procedure ends, she walks to his bedside and holds out the cloth to him too.
...You can bite it too.
No need.
If it hurts, holding it in will make it worse.
...It's already over.
He doesn't say no. He just lets out a weary sigh, takes the cloth, and sets it aside.
Outside, Leora leans against the doorframe, watching the entire procedure. She doesn't enter until Helga straightens up from Nemo's bedside.
How's everyone?
Chris' joint is rebuilt. The spare parts we had left were barely enough for one final set. Nemo's fractures have been welded shut, and there's only enough material left for one more repair. That's it.
If anyone takes this level of damage again, I can't promise I'll be able to put them back together.
Leora makes no comment, her gaze drifting silently to Julian.
And him?
M.I.N.D. boilover. "Fried his brain."
Julian... You maintained the relay for over twenty hours straight again?
A weak response drifts over from the bed.
The fog... the fog seeping from the rift. The interference was too heavy. If I'd let the relay drop, everyone out there would've gone dark, and today there'd be five or six more lying here instead of me...
......
And that's not even the worst of it.
While I was holding the relay open, I could feel it. The fog... it wasn't just interfering. It was actively suppressing every Construct in the field.
And then something new came through. Not the usual entities corrupted by Chaos Contamination...
Weakly, he turns his head toward Chris and Nemo.
Whatever those things were... that's what did this to them.
Silence settles over the medical station.
By the toolbox, Lucia works in quiet focus, wiping down each instrument, slotting them back into order. Her movements are gentle, but in the silence, each tiny clink of metal sings out, sharp and clear.
Chris hasn't let go of the cloth. He speaks through it, the words coming out dulled and indistinct.
Hey. Not in front of the kid.
Julian shrinks back slightly.
Lucia continues wiping down the instruments as though she hasn't heard a thing. But her hands lose their rhythm, just a little, without her noticing...
Leora walks over and gently lowers herself beside Lucia.
Lucia, you were a huge help today.
Let Helga handle the rest, okay? Go get some rest. You've earned it.
Lucia's gaze shifts to Leora, then across the room to Helga. Helga answers with a slight nod.
...Okay.
Hey, kid, hold up a second... Got something for you. Noticed you keep staring at that flower bed outside. Nemo said you'd know what to do with 'em.
I was just reminding you not to step on the dandelions. Flowers are rare now.
Yeah, yeah... Here, kid. Take these dandelion seeds.
Lucia accepts the seeds with a dazed, uncomprehending tenderness, gathering them into her arms as if they were something fragile and precious.
Thank you.
She slips out quietly, her footsteps receding down the metal corridor. The medical room holds only the adults now.
Helga... if we keep pushing forward with Project String, we'll need to run more missions toward the rift. Given where we are right now...
You're asking for casualty projections?
...Yeah.
Like I said, Chris' joint parts were the last set in inventory. Nemo's welding material is good for one more repair, and that's it.
And that's just today's damage.
A prolonged, heavy silence settles over the medical station.
Chris pulls the cloth from his mouth, feigning nonchalance, then cries out as the movement tears at his wound. Nemo's eyes lower from the ceiling to Leora's face. Julian uncurls slowly and closes his eyes, exhausted.
Leora exhales, a sigh so faint it's barely there. Something nameless tears at her heart. She stands there for a moment longer, then turns and walks out of the medical station.
Night
Lucia crouches at the empty garden bed, tucking the dandelion seeds into the soil with care. She remains there for a long while, gazing at the freshly planted earth.
Even knowing they won't bloom anytime soon, she can't help but be captivated by these small, fragile things that hold the promise of life.
On her way back to her room, she passes Leora's laboratory again. The table outside still holds the discarded drafts Leora moved out a few days ago, now sorted into several file folders.
Curious about what the adults have been working on, Lucia finds herself picking one up.
The words make no sense.
She recognizes most of them, but strung together, they might as well be another language. "World attenuation coefficient." "Sefirah load threshold." "Project String signal protocol."
She flips to the cover and finds the files marked with strange letters.
Ω
She stares at it, her lips moving as she tries to sound it out.
O—
That's not quite how you say it, little one.
Lucia jumps, the folder nearly slipping from her hands. Her gaze snaps up to find Leora in the doorway. She hadn't heard her approach at all.
I wasn't—I wasn't trying to snoop. I just...
I know. It's alright. There's no one left to read them anyway.
She draws Lucia down beside her, takes the folder from her hands, and skims it with a brief glance.
Can you make sense of any of it?
Lucia shakes her head, her expression open and guileless.
This letter is called Omega. It's the last letter of the Greek alphabet.
Lucia nods, all sincerity, her lips moving soundlessly around the unfamiliar syllables. Her eyes, usually so still, glimmer now with fascination.
Leora can't help but smile.
...Alright. These really aren't meant for you anyway.
She closes the folder and sets it aside. Then, watching Lucia's gaze linger on those three letters on the cover, she pauses in thought.
Tell you what. Instead of all those boring files... how about I tell you a story?
Do you know about the stars?
You mean the little night lights up in the sky? Mom told me about them a very long time ago.
One, two, three... and so many, many more night lights.
The childlike fancy brings a smile to Leora's face, but it fades just as quickly. A tightness builds in her throat.
This little one always puts on such a brave front that Leora often forgets she is still, after everything, just a child.
Leora's hand finds her hair, stroking softly.
Mm... There are so many stars up there, the night lights your mother told you about. More than anyone could count.
But each and every star is lonely... They shine all on their own, scattered so far apart that their light can never reach each other.
Each star believes it's the only one in the whole wide sky. It doesn't know anyone else is out there.
Lucia listens without a sound. She curls up at Leora's side, tucking herself small and listening to the fairy tale. For once, she doesn't have to be anything but a child.
But then, one day, a group of people looked up and said, "No, that's not right. Stars shouldn't have to be alone. They should be able to see each other."
If someone could carry one star's light to another, and then pass it along from that star to the next...
Then, eventually, the whole night sky would light up.
...How do they pass the light along?
They turn themselves into light.
They set off from one star, carrying its spark with them. They fly to the next star and plant that little flame there. Then they fly to the next one. And the next.
To reach the next star... how far would they have to fly? Is it as far as from here to my home?
Much, much farther than that, I think.
But if it's that far, how does the light of the stars find its way home?
...Maybe they can't. Maybe they can never go home again.
Something dims in Lucia's expression, but she nods all the same, as though the answer makes sense.
Those people... the ones who turned into light. What kind of people are they?
A silence settles over Leora. She finds herself retracing her thoughts to that first time Lucia asked the question, and the answer she had offered in return.
Warriors. They're warriors too.
Lucia is quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she raises her little hands: a single finger extended from one, the other closed into a tight fist. She presses them together, fingertip to knuckle. Then, with deliberate slowness, she begins to pull them apart, the gap stretching, until her arms are spread wide.
So far... They'll go so, so far away.
Yes... Even though they travel to such distant places, they might not accomplish anything. Maybe they set out but never reach the other stars at all.
Maybe they set out and lose their way... somewhere in the universe. Maybe... even after they leave, the night sky stays just as dark as before...
But they're brave.
Even with a universe this big... this dark... they aren't scared. To carry the light, they still choose to fly toward those stars, no matter how far away they are...
Light cutting through all that dark... it sounds so cool. If Luna were here, she'd love it too.
So I think they're heroes.
Leora's lips part. Her mind floods with tangled things to say.
Then she meets Lucia's eyes. Eyes that hold no doubt, no attempt at comfort—only that absolute, unreasoning certainty that belongs only to a seven-year-old.
She cannot bring herself to break the child's hope.
Yeah... Maybe they really are heroes.
So what are their names? The heroes.
Leora pauses for a moment.
It was just a story she'd made up on the spot. She never prepared names for its characters, never imagined they'd be called heroes.
She looks up at the ceiling she knows all too well, then lowers her eyes without meaning to. Lucia's gaze follows, drawn by the movement.
Together, they find themselves looking at the unfinished document lying nearby—
<color=1>Ω
"They've been fighting all this time for this research, to cure the world."
In Lucia's imagination, a streak of light suddenly shoots across the pitch-black night sky.
The hazy figures in the story begin to take shape in her mind.
How does that sound?
She hesitantly utters the letter, only to be met with a gleam of pure wonder on Lucia's face.
That's so cool! Hero Omega!
Yes, Hero Omega!
So what happened to Hero Omega? After they flew away?
Well... To carry the light to other stars, Hero Omega flew to the farthest reaches of space. But there were no other stars to find.
They'd traveled too far. The light inside them faded... and scattered into the universe.
How...
But there wasn't just one hero. Behind Omega, there were countless others.
Hero Ψ, Hero Χ, Hero Φ... One by one, they all set out.
Hero Ψ, Hero Χ, Hero Φ...
Little Lucia counts on her fingers, cycling through them again and again, until the designations blur and she can no longer remember which name belongs to which finger.
So many heroes... What was the last one called?
They all left, one after another... Did the last hero fail too?
...The final hero represents the beginning of everything. The first letter.
α
...! Alpha... What kind of hero is Alpha?
Mm...
Leora runs her hand tenderly through little Lucia's hair, her fingertips brushing against the soft, delicate strands.
She gazes at the child, as if peering into a future far, far away...
Alpha is different from the heroes who set out before. She's still a child. Everyone's little hero.
She pictures the child walking through school gates, attending classes, and studying like they once did in their own childhood...
Lucia's eyes widen, looking somewhat dissatisfied with that answer.
A little hero... The smallest of all the heroes... Does that mean Alpha's weak? Not like the others?
No, sweetheart. It's not like that at all... You see, she's the hope of all the other heroes. She's their light.
As long as she exists on this planet... the other heroes have a home. A place to go back to...
She pictures the child making friends, surrounded by companions as sweet and dear as she is.
But if she's so small... how can she pass the light like the others?
She's small now. But she'll grow. Slowly... surely... until one day, she shines just as brightly as all the other heroes who came before.
Little Alpha is the hero of heroes.
She pictures the child finding the one meant for her, eventually walking down the aisle...
Our one and only... our most precious little hero.
So far away... as distant as the journey ahead of them. Yet she cannot help but long to see that future come to pass.
She recalls something Dominik once said, long ago, before everything turned into a nightmare. Standing by the observatory window, gazing out at the night sky, that person had said it so casually—
"One day, every star in this sky will reach one another... And eventually, we'll light up the whole universe."
Someone laughed back then, teasing Dominik for dreaming too big again... That dreamer is gone now.
Lucia.
Hm?
Omega... Gamma, Beta, and Alpha. We gave those heroes some great names, didn't we?
Lucia's lips curve into a subtle, quiet smile.
Go on now. Time for bed. I'll tell you more tomorrow.
Her hand finds Lucia's, pulling her gently up.
Lucia follows without protest, but a few steps later, she turns her head. Her gaze drifts back to the cabinet.
Leora.
Hm?
Did the heroes ever light up the night sky?
Leora stops. Fragmented memories flood her mind, seizing the moment of hesitation.
The Gateway torn open, the tower looming, their lost leader... and the ones still fighting, marked with everything they've endured.
...Not yet. They're still flying.
They will do it.
Hm?
They will light up the night sky. I know they will.
Alpha... Alpha.
Lucia mouths the name again and again, as if savoring something precious.
Perhaps one day, she will be the pride of them all. Perhaps one day, she will become that final hero.
She follows Leora back quietly, her mind still wandering through futures yet unwritten.
After tucking Lucia in, Leora sits by the thermal blanket for a while, watching until her breathing steadies into sleep.
Then she rises and walks alone to the observation platform.
Above her, the sky is gray and wounded. The rift cuts across its surface, white fog seeping out in silence.
She takes the spot Nemo used to take, tilts her head back, and watches the sky being devoured.
There are no stars.
Not a single one.
