The Freakishly Kinetic Stephens
Erik Stephens wasn't just the guy who could eat anything; he was the guy who couldn't stop people from staring. It started innocently enough in high school, when he'd swallow a handful of pebbles on a dare. The cheering crowd thought he'd cough them up, but Erik grinned, shrugged, and went back for seconds. He assumed it was a harmless party trick—until he realized he never got sick.
Now in his late twenties, Erik had built a niche career as an industrial disposal technician, cleaning up hazardous waste with his, well, unique talent. His girlfriend, Diệu, tried her best to embrace his unusual lifestyle. A self-proclaimed foodie and proud of her Vietnamese heritage, Diệu found beauty in cooking and eating, savoring every bite like a religious experience. But there was something about watching Erik scarf down a corroded soda can that made her stomach turn.
"I love you," she would often remind him, cringing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "but that's not food."
One night, after an industrial clean-up job that left Erik smelling faintly of battery acid, Diệu finally broached the subject.
"Do you ever wonder if it's... affecting you?" she asked cautiously over dinner. She had prepared braised short ribs with a side of roasted vegetables. Erik, to her dismay, was munching on a discarded circuit board he'd brought home.
"Affecting me how?" Erik asked, bits of silicon crunching between his teeth.
"I don't know," Diệu replied, gesturing vaguely. "Your mind. Your moods. Your… humanity."
Erik paused, setting the circuit board down. "You think I'm losing my humanity because I eat weird stuff?"
"Not exactly. But there's science behind it. The Vagus nerve, the gut-brain connection… it's all tied together. What you eat affects how you think, how you feel."
Erik frowned. "Are you saying my gut's controlling me?"
Diệu hesitated. "Not just yours. Everyone's. The digestive system isn't really... part of us, you know? It's technically an external system, even though it's inside our bodies. Your gut biome—all those trillions of microbes—might actually be running the show. They're like little puppet masters, influencing your cravings, your mood, even your decisions."
"So I'm a host?" Erik asked, half-joking. "A dumb host?"
"It's not dumb," Diệu replied. "It's evolution. But your biome is… unique. And if you're eating things like that"—she nodded at the circuit board—"it's probably unlike anything anyone's ever seen."
This wasn't the first time Erik had heard something like this. Scientists from prestigious universities had offered to study him, their fascination tinged with a mix of awe and revulsion. One researcher had gone as far as to claim Erik's gut biome might be the most diverse on the planet—a microbial melting pot capable of digesting substances that would kill anyone else.
But Diệu's words stirred something deeper. Growing up, she'd been told stories of the Long Việt, a mythical dragon said to embody the balance of the world. In Vietnamese lore, the Long Việt only awakened when the natural order was threatened, unleashing its power to restore equilibrium. To Diệu, Erik was beginning to feel less like a man and more like an enigma—or perhaps a harbinger of change.
"You think my gut biome's calling the shots?" Erik asked, leaning back. "Like I don't even have free will?"
"I think it's possible," Diệu said. "And it's not just you. Even normal people's gut bacteria influence their lives in ways they don't realize. But with you, it could be… more."
What neither of them realized yet was the origin of Erik's abilities. Years ago, at a dingy gas station, Erik had eaten a piece of gum he'd found stuck under the counter. That innocuous piece of gum had carried an ancient, microscopic alien life form called Arkinet, a dormant species capable of adapting to any environment. Rejuvenated by Erik's unparalleled gut biome, Arkinet had thrived, integrating itself into his body and amplifying his digestion into something otherworldly.
The idea unsettled Erik. He'd always chalked up his abilities to a freak mutation, some random genetic hiccup that made him special—or cursed. But if Diệu was right, and his gut biome was more than just a passive passenger, then what did that make him? A vessel? A tool?
"You don't think I'm really me?" he asked quietly.
Diệu softened, reaching across the table to take his hand. "Of course you're you. But maybe understanding this could help you. Help us."
Erik stared at her, his mind churning like the chemical soup in his stomach. For years, he'd tried to make peace with his mutation, to carve out a life that felt normal. But normal was a moving target, and the more he learned about himself, the further away it seemed.
"Alright," he said finally. "Let's figure this out. Together."
Diệu smiled, relief washing over her face. "Together."
That night, Erik lay awake, his thoughts circling back to the idea that his gut—that writhing, churning labyrinth of microbes and enzymes—might not just be part of him, but something more. Something alive. As he drifted off to sleep, a strange question gnawed at the edges of his mind: If the gut biome was in control, who—or what—was Erik Stephens, really?
Meeting Diệu's parents was a milestone Erik had been both dreading and looking forward to. Diệu's family had always loomed large in her life, their cultural traditions and stories forming the backbone of her identity. Erik wanted to make a good impression, but he couldn't shake the feeling that his... differences might be a problem.
They arrived at Diệu's parents' house on a humid Saturday evening. The air smelled of lemongrass and charcoal, and the warm light spilling from the windows made the home look inviting. Diệu's father greeted them with a firm handshake, his eyes scrutinizing Erik with quiet intensity. Her mother, smaller and softer-spoken, offered a warm but wary smile.
Dinner was a feast of traditional Vietnamese dishes: bún bò Huế, fresh spring rolls, and caramelized pork. Erik stuck to small portions, wary of eating anything too enthusiastically. He didn't want to raise questions about his appetite.
Determined to make a good impression, Erik had spent the previous week learning a few Vietnamese phrases. As dinner ended, he decided to try one. He raised his hands and said with a smile, "Nhà đẹp quá!" He intended to say, "What a beautiful home!"
Diệu's father raised an eyebrow, while her mother covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. Diệu looked mortified.
"What? What did I say?" Erik asked, his face flushing.
Diệu leaned over and whispered, "You just said, ‘I burp in my sleep and giggle.'"
Erik blinked, then burst out laughing. Diệu's father chuckled reluctantly, and her mother's laughter spilled out like a dam breaking. The tension at the table evaporated in an instant, and Erik's embarrassment turned into relief.
"At least they'll remember me," he said, grinning.
"Oh, they will," Diệu replied, still shaking her head.
As the evening wound down, Diệu's mother excused herself and returned with a small, intricately carved jade pendant.
"Diệu," she said, holding the pendant out, "I want you to have this."
Diệu's eyes widened. "Mẹ, this is your family pendant. Are you sure?"
Her mother nodded solemnly. "It has protected our family for generations. Now it is your turn to carry it."
Diệu accepted the pendant with reverence, its green surface cool and smooth in her palm. She glanced at Erik, who smiled encouragingly but felt a strange, inexplicable unease in the pendant's presence.
"Thank you," Diệu said softly. "I'll treasure it."
As they left the house that evening, Erik couldn't shake the feeling that Diệu's parents had seen something in him—something they hadn't fully voiced. And as the jade pendant glinted faintly in the moonlight around Diệu's neck, Erik wondered what kind of protection it might offer, and from what.
The drive up to towards Humprey's Peak felt like a dream. The road curved gently through the quaking aspen, the headlights carving a silver path in the darkness. Erik stole a glance at Diệu, who was leaning forward eagerly, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the dashboard.
"You're really excited about this, huh?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Are you kidding?" she said, turning to him. "A planetary parade and a full lunar eclipse on the same night? This is like… the celestial jackpot. You'll thank me when you see it."
Erik chuckled. "You're assuming I'll know what I'm looking at. You know I'm no astronomer, right?"
"Don't worry," Diệu said. "I'll point out the cool stuff. You just keep your eyes open."
When they reached the overlook, the sky was impossibly clear, the stars glittering like diamonds scattered across velvet. The planets formed a graceful arc, each one glowing brighter than Erik had ever seen. The moon, half-shrouded in shadow from the eclipse, added an otherworldly quality to the scene.
Diệu pulled a blanket from the car and spread it on the ground. She lay down and patted the spot beside her. "Come on. Best seats in the house."
Erik joined her, the cool night air prickling his skin. For a while, they lay in silence, the vastness of the cosmos rendering words unnecessary.
"You know," Diệu said finally, her voice soft, "I've always felt small under the stars. But it's not a bad small. It's like being part of something bigger. Like everything makes sense for a second."
Erik turned his head to look at her. "I think I get that," he said. "I just hope whatever I'm part of isn't, you know, messing things up."
Diệu reached over and took his hand. "You're not messing anything up, Erik. You're just… figuring out where you fit."
Her words lingered in the air, delicate as the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Erik squeezed her hand, letting the moment settle over them like a warm blanket.
"Let's play a game," Diệu said suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eye.
"What kind of game?" Erik asked, suspicious but intrigued.
"Hide the Bone," she said with a grin. "We'll make our own little constellation."
Erik laughed, shaking his head. "Only you could make stargazing into foreplay."
As their laughter faded into the night, something shifted. A pulse of energy rippled through Erik, starting deep in his core and radiating outward. The sensation built to a crescendo as he climaxed, and suddenly, the world seemed to tilt.
Diệu gasped. The jade pendant around her neck shattered with a sharp crack, fragments scattering like tiny emerald stars. A streak of her jet-black hair turned a brilliant, iridescent purple, glowing faintly in the darkness.
Erik stared, his breath caught in his throat. "Diệu, are you okay?"
She touched her hair, her fingers trembling. "What just happened?" she whispered.
Above them, the planets gleamed brighter than ever, their light casting an ethereal glow over the mountain. Erik felt a strange awareness stir within him, as though Arkinet had awakened to something vast and ancient.
"I don't know," Erik said, his voice unsteady. "But I think… we just became part of something a lot bigger."
The note was brief, written in Erik's hurried scrawl.
Diệu, I need to clear my head. Don't worry. I'm heading out to the desert for a few days to think. I'll call when I get there. Love you.
It lay on the kitchen counter, weighed down by the shattered remnants of her jade pendant. Diệu read it twice, her hand trembling slightly as she traced the cracked green surface. Something gnawed at her gut, a feeling she couldn't quite name but refused to dismiss. She folded the note into her pocket and grabbed her keys.
Erik hadn't mentioned the strange occurrences from the night before, but Diệu's mind was a whirlwind of fragmented images: the blinding planetary glow, the shattered pendant, her streak of glowing purple hair. What scared her more was how technology seemed to falter around Erik since then. Her phone's clock had frozen during their drive home, and the car's radio emitted only static until Erik had stepped out.
The desert trailhead was hours away, and Diệu gripped the steering wheel tightly as she navigated the winding roads. The radio blasted Contigo by Karol & Tiesto, a song which now took on a more profound meaning. Her thoughts churned, pulling her back to her earliest memories with Erik—their first hike together, his awkward charm, the way he always seemed to carry an undercurrent of mystery.
By the time she arrived, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and deep purple. Erik's vehicle wasn't parked so much as… disassembled. The chassis leaned against a cluster of rocks, the tires stacked like cairns, and every piece of the engine was laid out meticulously, forming what appeared to be a geometric symbol. Diệu stepped closer, her heart pounding, but the shape was too large to discern from the ground.
Her hair prickled as though a static charge had settled over the area. She reached instinctively for her drone, her hands steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. The drone whirred to life, rising steadily into the air. Diệu watched the screen, her breath catching as the camera climbed high enough to reveal the symbol—a perfect spiral with intersecting lines radiating outward like a starburst.
The drone hiccupped mid-flight, its feed glitching. Then, without warning, it veered sharply into the desert.
"No!" Diệu shouted, breaking into a sprint. Her legs moved automatically, her trail running instincts taking over. The open terrain blurred around her as something primal howled from within and she stalked her prey: the faint whine of the drone's rotors. She didn't know what she would find, but every fiber of her being told her it had something to do with Erik.
After nearly an hour racing after the drone, with her heart beating like a jackhammer, she had to rest even if that meant losing the drone's "scent". She practiced the breathing techniques that Erik had introduced to her. With her autonomic nervous system back in a healthy state, she prayed for the love of her life to be ok. She promised never to goof on him for his crackpot ideas. She even promised to be more kind & gracious towards his estranged & thoughtless behavior. Even though he could be such an idiot, he was her idiot, and she would have it no other way. With renewed vigor and a more demure disposition, she pressed on. Upon cresting the next saddle, she saw her Erik lying unconscious, gripping his steering wheel.
Erik drifted in the thick, murky edges of sleep, suspended between memory and something deeper. His dreams pulled him backward, through time, to places he thought he had buried beneath the weight of adulthood. But dreams had a way of unearthing things.
He was a boy again, sitting cross-legged on the stained carpet of the living room, a half-broken radio splayed out in front of him. His father had tossed it there a week ago, muttering something about how nothing worked in this goddamn house. Erik had picked it up, turning it over in his hands, feeling the jagged crack along its plastic casing. He had known even then it was beyond saving, but he still spent hours taking it apart, spreading the pieces around him, trying to understand how something could once hum with life and then simply stop. He never expected praise for fixing things; he never asked for anything, really. He only wanted to see how things worked, to make sense of the broken pieces.
The dream shifted.
He was older now, standing in the kitchen, the overhead light flickering erratically, casting long, shuddering shadows. His mother was at the sink, her shoulders tight, scrubbing dishes with an intensity that made him nervous. The air was thick with the remnants of an argument that had ended the way they always did—his father storming out, his mother cleaning up whatever mess was left behind. Erik stood by the fridge, its motor clicking in uneven bursts, on the verge of failure. Everything in this house was on the verge of failure. He placed a hand on the handle, feeling the hum of the machine struggling to keep up. He felt the weight of it, the exhaustion. He understood it.
Another shift.
Now he was in the back of a junkyard, his first job at sixteen. He had never officially been hired, just showed up and started sorting metal scraps until someone decided to pay him for it. He remembered the smell of rust, the way the discarded pieces of machinery stacked around him like gravestones for forgotten usefulness. He had liked it there, among the wreckage. There was something comforting about the predictability of broken things.
He walked between the towering heaps of discarded appliances, dragging his fingers along dented car doors and shattered television screens. It was quiet here, save for the occasional groan of shifting metal. No one expected anything from him in this place. There were no fights to avoid, no demands to meet. Just the endless task of sorting the worthless from the salvageable, deciding which pieces had a chance at new life and which ones would be left to decay.
And then, as dreams do, it twisted.
He stood in the middle of the desert, the sun bleaching everything a dull gold. His car—or what had once been his car—was in pieces around him, laid out in a pattern he didn't understand. He reached for one of the scattered parts, but the moment his fingers touched it, the metal turned brittle and crumbled away. Panic climbed his throat. He tried another piece. The same thing happened. He was losing everything, piece by piece, disintegrating at his touch.
A familiar voice echoed in the distance.
"You're just like the junk you bring home."
It was his father's voice, but Erik couldn't see him. The words sank deep, settling into the hollow spaces inside him that had been carved out long ago.
The pieces around him weren't just parts of a car anymore. They were fragments of himself, of every time he had been told he wasn't enough. Every time he had been reminded that he was disposable. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the dust, surrounded by what remained of him.
Then came the static.
It started soft, like the hum of an old television left on in the next room. But it grew, rising to a sharp, almost electric whine. It filled the space around him, vibrating through his bones. The air shimmered, and through the haze, a shape began to emerge—tall, imposing, shifting like liquid metal.
"You are more than this," the figure intoned, its voice reverberating inside his skull. "But you must choose to be."
Erik gasped as the words slammed into him, and suddenly, he was falling—through the desert, through the past, through every moment of quiet acceptance, every time he had swallowed his worth along with his father's contempt. He fell, deeper and deeper, until he hit something solid.
His eyes snapped open, the cold desert air biting at his damp skin while the still warm sand embraced him. His heart pounded against his ribs, the echo of that voice lingering in his ears. He pressed his palms against the ground, grounding himself in the present. The thought of sinking into the sand was soothing, disappearing from the world and its trivial complications. "Must go deeper...", he thought as he continued to drift in & out of his dreams.
The desert pulsed. The grains of sand around Erik's body shimmered, vibrating in erratic patterns, as if responding to an unseen frequency. Diệu skidded down the dune, half-running, half-sliding, her breath tight in her chest. The sun hung low, stretching long, fractured shadows over the barren landscape.
"Erik!"
He lay in the center of the pit, still and impossibly pale. The sand beneath him had darkened, thickened—almost glass-like. But worse than that was what surrounded him. A husk of something, something that looked like skin but wasn't. It was rough, papery, thin as a brittle shell, cast off in irregular patches around his body. It shimmered faintly, the color of scorched metal.
Diệu dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his chest. The sand quivered one last time, a final breath exhaled from the earth itself, before it stilled.
Then, with a sharp gasp, Erik woke.
His whole body convulsed, his eyes flying open as he sucked in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His fingers clawed into the ground, gripping handfuls of the strange, glistening sand. His pupils dilated wildly before locking onto Diệu. For a long moment, there was nothing but breath and heartbeat between them.
"I thought—" Diệu's voice cracked. "I thought I lost you."
Erik tried to speak, but his throat was raw, parched, as if he hadn't drawn breath for days. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Me too."
Diệu helped him sit up, her fingers brushing against the remnants of his old skin. It crumbled at her touch, disintegrating like ash. Erik stared down at himself, at the flecks of silver lining his hands, his forearms—this wasn't just sand. This was him. The person he had been, sloughed away like a snake shedding its skin.
He shivered despite the heat.
"We need to get out of here," Diệu whispered.
Erik nodded again, but as he pushed himself to his feet, a dizzying sensation washed over him. It was like falling, but not physically—falling inward. A sensation of slipping, deeper and deeper, as if he were being swallowed by something unseen.
He could barely feel his legs moving, barely register the sand beneath his boots. He felt weightless, like his body was carrying itself forward while his mind drifted elsewhere. He was sinking.
But then, Diệu's hand found his.
The warmth of her fingers, her grip steady and unshaken, tethered him back. She was the light above the surface, the only thing pulling him upward. Every step forward was a fight, but the thought of her—of them—became the only thing keeping him from disappearing into whatever void had nearly consumed him.
The horizon blurred in the heat haze as they trudged forward, their bodies running on sheer willpower alone. But they had barely made it a few miles when the deep, guttural roar of engines shattered the silence.
Diệu stiffened. Erik's vision snapped into focus just in time to see the black shapes crest the ridge above them.
Five off-road vehicles descended upon them in a formation so precise it could only mean one thing—this wasn't some wandering group of desert nomads. The blinding glare of headlights flooded their vision, and behind them, dark figures moved with the efficiency of professionals. Then came the unmistakable click of safeties being flicked off.
"Stay behind me," Erik murmured, his body shifting instinctively, ready to fight despite his exhaustion.
A voice cut through the night air. "No sudden moves. Bag and tag them both."
Diệu's fingers dug into Erik's wrist, her pulse thrumming under her skin. The figures moved in, swift and seamless, their weapons trained with an unsettling calmness. Erik clenched his fists, feeling the remnants of static still lingering in his fingertips, but his body was drained. Whatever had happened to him in the sand pit had left him hollowed out.
The last thing he saw before the burlap hood came down over his head was the insignia on one of their vests—a coiling dragon, its mouth open in a silent roar.
Erik and Diệu were jostled violently in the back of a vehicle, their hands bound, the scent of gasoline and sweat thick in the enclosed space. The drive was long, twisting through paths Erik couldn't map in his head. He tried to track time by the vibrations beneath them, the sharp turns, the altitude change—but exhaustion won out, and eventually, he let the darkness take him.
When the hood was yanked from his head, the first thing he noticed was how cold it was.
They were inside a massive structure, the walls carved from the very rock of the mountain. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating a cavernous hideout fortified with steel doors, weapons racks, and rows of monitors displaying satellite feeds. It was a fortress, embedded deep within the heart of Long's Peak.
Diệu stood beside him, her expression hard, unreadable, but the moment she turned to face their captors, her body went rigid.
A woman stood before them, flanked by two armed guards. She was older, her sharp features lined with experience, but her posture held a regal authority. She regarded Erik with the cool scrutiny of a scientist inspecting an experiment gone awry.
But then her gaze shifted to Diệu.
Something passed between them—something heavy and unspoken.
Diệu's breath hitched. "Mẹ?"
Her mother's expression didn't change.
"Welcome home, Bông hồng nhỏ."
Diệu had always been good at putting others first. It was a skill, a quiet art she had perfected over the years, one learned from a childhood of toeing the line between expectation and desire. She was the peacekeeper, the bridge between opposing forces, the one who smiled through the weight of responsibility. But here, now, in the belly of a mountain carved into a fortress, she felt the limits of that balancing act begin to crack beneath her feet.
The air inside Long's Peak was thick with the scent of metal and stone, the hum of distant machinery thrumming through the walls. Resistance members moved with measured efficiency, their boots echoing against the rock floor. Diệu barely noticed them. Her mother's presence loomed before her, rigid and unyielding, a woman who had built herself into something unshakable.
Diệu should have been relieved to see her. But relief was the last thing she felt.
"Mẹ," she whispered again, and her voice sounded too small in the cavernous space.
Her mother didn't respond right away. Instead, she studied Diệu with an expression that was impossible to read—calculated, almost clinical. It wasn't the look of a mother reunited with her daughter. It was the look of a leader assessing a variable in a mission.
"You're safe now," her mother finally said. "That's what matters."
Diệu swallowed, glancing at Erik. He was still reeling from their capture, his muscles tight beneath his worn shirt, his gaze flickering between her and the guards flanking them. He had no idea what was about to unfold here. Neither did she.
She took a slow breath, willing herself to steady. "What is this place?"
"A sanctuary. A stronghold." Her mother's voice was even, unwavering. "It has been here longer than you can imagine."
Diệu narrowed her eyes. "And why are we here?"
Her mother's gaze shifted to Erik, then back to Diệu. "Because things are in motion that you do not yet understand. Because you needed to see what is at stake."
Diệu's pulse quickened. "And what exactly is at stake?"
Her mother hesitated, just for a breath, but Diệu caught it. That sliver of uncertainty, of careful calculation. She had spent her whole life watching for those tiny moments in her mother—proof that she was human beneath all that discipline.
"You have a choice to make," her mother finally said. "One that will determine not just your fate, but the fate of everyone you love."
Diệu exhaled, a slow and measured thing, though inside, her stomach was twisting. She had spent years building a life for herself, one that balanced the weight of motherhood, of sacrifice, of love. Her daughters were her world. And Erik… Erik was something she had never expected, something raw and real and entirely imperfect.
She loved him. But love wasn't simple.
She turned to look at him now, at the way he was watching her, waiting. He didn't say anything, but she could feel his unspoken words pressing against the air between them. He knew her. He knew the war inside her better than anyone, and yet he wouldn't demand anything from her. He never had.
But her mother would.
She always had.
Diệu's throat tightened. She had spent her whole life living in the space between two worlds—the obedient daughter, the independent woman, the mother who did everything for her children, the lover who wanted more. And now, here she was, standing in the center of something far greater than herself, something ancient and terrible and powerful.
She had thought this fight was Erik's.
But what if it had always been hers?
The realization slithered through her, quiet but undeniable. A feeling she couldn't name, but one that rooted deep inside her bones.
Her mother spoke again, cutting through her thoughts. "You must decide, Diệu. Will you stand with us, or against us?"
Diệu's fingers curled into fists. There it was. The ultimatum.
And for the first time in her life, she wondered if she had ever truly had a choice before now.
She thought of her daughters, of the world she wanted for them. She thought of Erik, of the way he had fought to survive, of the way he had fought to be something more. She thought of herself, of the girl who had spent so much time making herself small, fitting into the space others carved for her.
No more.
Diệu lifted her chin, her voice steady when she spoke. "I think I need to hear everything before I decide."
Her mother studied her, her sharp eyes narrowing just slightly, as if she had been expecting something else. But Diệu held her ground. She wasn't going to be pushed into choosing sides—not yet.
The war inside her had just begun.
The voice came in waves, creeping into Erik's thoughts like a tide reclaiming the shore. It wasn't the first time he had felt it, but it was the first time he could hear it.
You are breaking, Erik. That is good. That is necessary.
Erik staggered as he walked, his legs sluggish, the world tilting around him. The sands beneath his feet still bore the traces of his old skin, long swept away by the desert winds, and with every step, he felt less and less like the man he had been.
Why do you resist? The voice was neither kind nor cruel—it was vast, stretching across the cosmos, folding into itself like the echoes of a thousand forgotten stars. You know what they are, these humans. You know what they have done. They poison the air. They scar the land. They feast upon their Mother without remorse. They cast out their own.
Erik clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if that would be enough to silence the voice. But Arkinet did not relent.
They cast out you.
He winced, his breath shallow. Memories crashed into him, one after the other—his father's disappointment, the whispers of classmates as he sat alone in the cafeteria, the quiet nights spent in scrapyards with nothing but the hum of discarded machines for company. He had always belonged among the broken things, the unwanted things. Even now, his body was something that no longer made sense, something transforming into something else entirely.
You were never one of them, Erik. You have always been something more. They feared you before they even knew what you were. You call this a burden, but it is your liberation. Let go of what you were. Let go of the illusion of belonging.
Erik stumbled, dropping to his knees. The heat of the desert bore down on him, but inside, his body felt cold, detached. His fingers dug into the sand, but he could no longer feel its texture. Was this what it meant to shed his human form? To lose his senses, his pain, his need for connection?
The idea should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like an answer.
You could be so much more. No hunger, no sorrow, no loneliness. You could become what you were meant to be.
For the first time, Erik did not recoil at the thought.
When he awoke from the half dream / half memory of his time in the desert, he was next to Diệu in an impossibly large cavern, with artifical light and heavy machinery juxtaposed upon its raw natural canvas.
They were both bound but they could still speak. Diệu hadn't noticed his return to consciousness and it took so much effort for him to vocalize loud enough for her to hear. "Mi Amor," he rasped, barely finding the strength to call out to her. She didn't hear him.
He tried again, but his voice felt distant, like he was calling out from beneath an ocean's depths. Diệu was there, just a few feet away, but she may as well have been a world apart. She had her own battles to fight, her own burdens to bear. She couldn't see him slipping. She didn't see him fading.
You are waiting for her to save you, Arkinet mused. But she will not. She cannot. You are alone, as you have always been.
Erik's vision swam. He felt his body lurch forward, then stop, then tilt sideways. The world blurred into streaks of flourescence & stone & metal.
Enough struggle. Enough pain. Let go, Erik.
For the first time, he considered it.
The thought was peaceful. No more weight to carry, no more waiting for acceptance, no more chasing after something always just out of reach. He could shed the last of this body, surrender to the current pulling him deeper.
He took one last look at Diệu. The curve of her back, the set of her shoulders. He wanted to call to her one last time, but his voice was gone.
A final whisper curled through his mind.
Embrace me.
Erik exhaled, his body collapsing into the sand, his consciousness folding in on itself.
And then, there was nothing.
Ms. Chien stood at the highest overlook of the Sentinel's stronghold, gazing at the endless mountain ridges stretching beyond the stone walls. The fortress, carved into the heart of Long's Peak, was a sanctuary for those who had seen too much, lost too much. For those who had chosen to fight instead of fade.
But as she watched Diệu and Erik — both so lost, so unaware of what was coming — she felt something she had not allowed herself to feel in decades. Regret. They had no idea.
Diệu, her brilliant, stubborn daughter, had spent her life trying to carve her own path, but she didn't know the weight of her own bloodline. She didn't know what lay dormant inside her, coiled like a sleeping dragon, waiting. And Erik—poor, broken Erik—he had already begun to slip into something else, something ancient and unrelenting. They were both spiraling toward a truth neither of them was ready to face.
Ms. Chien closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of stone and cold air filled her lungs, but as she exhaled, the past slipped through the cracks of her memory, pulling her back.The jungles of Vietnam had been thick with the scent of burning metal, smoke curling into the sky like the breath of something monstrous. Chien had been just a girl then, barely old enough to understand the weight of war, but old enough to see its horrors. The US military had come with their guns and their planes, their promises and their destruction. Villages burned. The ground trembled under the weight of marching boots. Families disappeared overnight, swallowed by the endless cycle of conflict. She remembered the night the sky turned red.
The Americans had dropped a bomb, something larger than anything before, something meant to wipe away resistance in a single breath. The jungle itself had shuddered under its force. But then, the impossible happened.
The earth answered.
A force older than any war rose from the mountains, from the rivers, from the very bones of the land. Chien had seen it — Long Việt, The Great Equalizer, the dragon that slept until the world was pushed too far out of balance. It had swallowed the fire of the bomb as if it were nothing more than an ember in the wind. The explosion had disappeared within its massive form, snuffed out as if it had never been. And then, with a single, piercing cry that shook the heavens, Long Việt had turned its fury upon the invaders.
The war had not ended that night, but something had ended. The Americans no longer fought the land as they once had. They feared it. And for the first time in her young life, Chien had understood the power of her people.
But then she had left.
She had left her homeland behind, taken by opportunity, by the dream of something better in America. She had raised her family in a world of convenience, far from the blood-soaked jungles of her childhood. And yet, she had never truly escaped.
How could she, when the same government that had burned her villages now called itself her home? Ms. Chien opened her eyes, her grip tightening against the stone railing.
She had spent years trying to reconcile the two halves of herself—the child of Vietnam and the woman of America. She had fought for the safety of her people, of her family, in ways they would never fully understand. The Sentinel had become her new village, her new battleground. But now, Diệu was here. And Diệu had a choice to make.
Would she embrace her birthright? Would she fight for balance, for justice, for something greater than herself? Or would she, like Chien once had, turn away, seeking comfort in a world that would never truly be hers?
And Erik. Erik, who now carried something within him that even she did not understand. He had always been drifting, always been cast aside by the world. He was a man of discarded things, of forgotten pieces. He had spent his whole life searching for something—acceptance, purpose.
And now, something ancient had found him instead.
Ms. Chien exhaled slowly. The choice was coming. She could feel it, hanging in the air like the moments before a storm. The Sentinel was prepared for battle. The world was shifting again, just as it had in those burning jungles so many years ago.
- tests conducted on Erik activates Arkinet defenses
- Diệu stops seeing Erik and starts seeing Arkinet and becomes angry - atomic breath intro?
- cut to gov't spook org getting word from an asset inside the compound that all three targets are together: Long Viet, Arkinet, The Foundation for a Kinder Society