In the north of The UK - Times Afterward
The place grows dim. Machinery hums louder. The septums themselves vibrate under the weight of the countdown. Eyes glued to flickering monitors. Sweat beads on a few foreheads, glistening under the arid glow of the displays. The breeze feels thick, bleak, indicted with anticipation, as if it might snap at any second.
"Adjust the trajectory!" The commander's speech slivers through the tense atmosphere, firm, clipped. No one dares look up. The pressure in the lobby rises. Every operator locked into their station. Fingers hovering over controls, waited for precision as if making a critical incision.
The hidden object materializes with the calculated stealth of a predator.
It's there, a vague, shimmering mold, a phantom taking shape in the void of orbit.
Lights in the auditorium weaken; the sheer presence of the thing demands all attention.
Its structure emerges, glowing against the deep black, expanding sinister and mechanical.
"Has air traffic control detected it?" The general's voice rumbles all over the hall, quieting the murmurs short.
"Yes, sir," an officer snaps. "They've picked up the sat."
A hush.
The crackling order slices through the static, charged with electricity: "Deactivate camouflage."
On the screens, the satellite at the end reveals itself, no longer cloaked—a hulking beast drifting in space. Its obscure form looms against the endless stars, a technological behemoth, its surface scarred with panels and antennae. It hovers, waiting, poised for destruction, cool and unfeeling. The supervisors stare, faces washed in the pale light, jaws tight. No doubt, pure intent.
Return to the Desert - Minutes Later
The wasteland stays silent at first. Then a piercing screech tears through the ether, a scream of metal splitting apart. The satellite's detached section, massive, five tons of cold, unforgiving iron, falls free. It tumbles, then catches the wind. Fires boom from its propulsion system, devouring the vault of heaven in smog and fire as it rockets toward the planet.
The fire-hammer blazes across the heavens, a furious inferno streaking against the expanse of sand. It flashes, an omen in the firmament. Heat pulses ahead of it, warping the sphere. Below it, the land trembles.
For a moment, there dominates silence again—a pregnant pause before the clash.
Then …
Cataclysmic impact.
The world erupts.
An explosion shatters the stillness, tearing asunder the landscape.
A shockwave punches through the abandon, rippling the soil with an invisible fist.
The fireball crashes into the simulated city, a storm of amethyst flames and flying debris swirling through the empty streets.
Steel crumples, buildings collapse, everything obliterated in an instant.
The roar deafens an unrelenting thunder that seems to roll on forever, shaking the very bones of the Earth.
Smoke billows into the sky, dark and choking. The ground beneath the wildfires cracks and groans. The leave-behind screams in agony.
Back to Scotland - Moments After
The supervision lounge explodes into chaos. Operators spring to their feet. All tension breaks into wild cheers and laughter. Hands clap backs, and fists pump the high. The sterile walls of the control room bounce with the echoes of triumph. With a wave of rhapsodies and relief, they let go of their breath. Shoulders drop as if a collective weight lifts.
"Bloody brilliant!" someone shouts, their voice rising above the din. That becomes a party, adrenaline still surging through their veins.
But then …
An air traffic control officer interrupts, his face bemused. "Sir, the US, China, France, and Russia redirect their surveillance satellites to Western Australia."
The room quietens. Astgill turns, brow furrowed in curiosity, the euphoria evaporating into a thin mist of focus. "And the Germs?" His voice calms, but the edge of suspicion cuts through.
"They're sending a space capsule to North America, sir. Targeting Area 51."
For a beat, the general stops still. Then, Ordlaf of Astgill's lips curl into a sardonic grin, slow, dangerous. His eyes flash with something between amusement and contempt.
"What idiots."
The room doesn't quite know how to react. A nervous chuckle from somewhere, but the tension remains. Because everybody knows, the actual game begins.
Recording studio, New York, next day
Her voice, rich and soulful, filled the studio with a sound that felt the same as velvet on the skin. Rachel stands in the dim glow of the studio, headphones resting soft over her dark curls, her voice flowing through the mic like honeyed silk. The room pulses with a quiet energy, the kind that makes the air feel charged, alive. Wesley watches from the booth, his eyes locked on her, the beat in his veins matching the rhythm of her voice. He nods to the groove, a subtle, unspoken communication passing between them with every note.
Wesley sat just outside the booth, his eyes locked on her every move.
Her voice rises, powerful and pure, filling the space with a warmth that seems to wrap around him, drawing him closer even as glass separates them. Wesley's fingers tap out the beat on the soundboard, his lips curling into a smile, pride and admiration mingling in his gaze.
He bobbed his head to the rhythm, his fingers tapping the armrest of his chair, in sync with the beat. His presence was magnetic, a quiet force that seemed to pull the very air towards him.
The dim lights cast a golden glow over her, highlighting the sweat glistening on her brow from the intensity of her performance. Every note she sang seemed to pulse with life, echoing through the room like a heartbeat.
There was a fire in his gaze, admiration mixed with something deeper, something unspoken.
As Rachel sings, pouring her soul into the music, Wesley watches from the booth, but his mind seems elsewhere. His smile is proud, but his eyes are distant, almost distracted. The producer's compliment doesn't register with him, and when Rachel finishes the take and looks to Wesley for validation, his delayed response—just a fraction of a second too late—casts a shadow over her smile. The magic they created feels less like a shared triumph and more like Rachel's solo victory, with Wesley struggling to stay present in the moment.
The producer leans back, eyes wide with awe. "This is fire," he murmurs, but Wesley barely hears him. Rachel, her passion, her presence, the way she transforms the air around her into something electric, something that crackles with life. Wesley's focus is elsewhere.
The room was thick with creativity, with passion, with the kind of magic. Rachel doesn't need to hear the producer, she knows that the recording is a success. Joy overwhelms her, she smiles dreamily, looks for Wesley and finds him paying no attention to her. Her smile dies and her eyes search for something to hold on to.
Rachel finishes the take, her eyes meeting Wesley's through the glass. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Wesley acts pleased and applauds. Rachel is sure he is just acting.
The door burst open.
Manager Bill Devaney and PR chief Sy Spector stormed in, their faces a mix of urgency and determination. Wesley Black and Ivy Reed followed, curiosity etched on their faces.
Bill glances at his superstar as he strides to the modest settee, tossing his expensive-tech cell onto the table before energy loaded tapping its screen. Sy Spector, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, flings a journal upon the countertop.
"You seen this?" the public relations man snaps.
A hologram springs from Bill's mobile, flickering light splashing across the room. The harsh chatter of media reports invades the space, quick and dissonant.
The magazine headline blares: DADDY OF 'THE VOICE' MURDERED IN LONDON TERROR!
Rach's eyes widen, her surface altering into shock, dread creeping into every area of her face.
Ashley clings to her, trembling, her slight frame rigid with dismay.
Wes moves in fast, his palm finding her shoulder, offering a wordless consolation.
Editha Burruss, standing still as stone, wears a mask of panic, her breathing shallow.
Before the Queen of the Night processes the news, the holograph flickers, shifting to a new report.
The broadcast now speaks of high-ranking British military officials killed by separatists known as the Scaters Men.
The air stiffens with tension as the statement clarifies that Vice Admiral Gaderian Marron has survived.
UK intelligence operatives had rescued him.
Comfort washes over the pop star, her breath easing, but it's chased by fear and bewilderment. "Call Dover," she orders Eddi, her mood carrying the pointed edge of anxiety.
The personal assistant already has her phone out, fingers fumbling over the keys, hands shaking. Moments tick, each growing weightier until the line finally crackles to life.
The three-dimensional image refocuses, and sing-hero stares at her mother. Shelley, accommodated on a cozy sofa, exuding an unnatural calm as if naught had happened. She smiles with greetings at Rach and Ash, their faces pale with horror. "Are you excited for the trip to England, little one?" she asks, her sound unbothered.
Rache shoots her a sharp look, irritation spreading over her visage.
The brutal attack, the near loss of her father—and her mother's casualness only deepen her trouble.
"Mom, what about Papa?" Rachel's speech tightens, lines of fright deepening across her features. She can feel Wesley's hand on her bladebone, but she pays hard attention to it. "Is he okay?"
Shelley's tone remains steady, unwavering as if discussing the weather.
"Gaderian's quite alright, Rach," she says.
"A bit shaken, scratches, nothing to worry about." She let out a small chuckle. "He's even got a sun erythema."
Rachel blinks, her confusion grows, "A sunburn?"
"Yes, darling. The plasma explosion," Misses M explains, as if it were a mild inconvenience. "Not more than that."
The comments sink in, and the husband appears next to his wife, seated with ease, his speech relaxed. His presence seems to pull the breeze back into Rachel's lungs, her exhale long and shaky. Her body softens, and Wesley loosens his hold, sensing her relief.
Shelley struggles to continue, her emotions rising as tears well up. Though she tries to maintain her composure, the words falter, and her appeal cracks under the weight of her feelings. Misses Marron's aspect brightens, an expression warm with anticipation. "Rachel, when you and my granddaughter come to Dover, I have a big surprise. You're going to love it!" Tears spill, the news almost too much to bear.
Rachel shifts in her seat, her nails digging into the armrest as the vice admiral cuts in, his voice slicing through the wind and resembling the crack of a whip.
"Shelley!" His tone is firm and biting.
The pop star's brow furrows, a flicker of irritation passing across her face. Her body tightens, and for a second, she goes through a surge of frustration that prickles at her skin like static. "What now? Another surprise?" She forces out a laugh, dry and fragile, her eyes narrowing. "Hearing that my father was murdered is enough."
The room falls into silence, Rachel's words hanging as smoke in the air. Even the subtle hum of city noise outside seems to pause, waiting for the next beat.
Gaderian, unfazed, leans back in his chair, a sly grin curling at the edges of his mouth. His eyeballs glint with dark wit, the variety that makes the celebrity want to chuckle and cry. "Ah, the media," he murmurs, his statement thick with amusement that feels out of place but fitting in the same gasp.
Despite her parent's efforts to lighten the mood, Rach's mind buzzes, and her heartbeat races. She watches him, a wry smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She knows what he's doing—he's always done it. Cutting the tension with his absurd short quips, treating the tragedy as some cosmic joke.
He chuckles with a sour twist, views glinting with black humor. "They love to write a man's obituary before he's left the hall. You'd think I had died with all the fanfare. Can't say I didn't enjoy a moment of fame—rare to get celebrated in such grand style with no need of a casket."
The sing-star widens her eyelids, but a warped simper plucks at her cheeks.
The absurdity reduces the pressure in a blink of an eyelash.
"Well," she mutters, shaking her head, "at least you're getting the recognition you've wanted, Papa."
Her articulation is soft and teasing, but the edge remains like a knife half-buried.
Gaderian's cackle, "There I was, hoping to emulate my two daughters and make headlines, and then as what?" Low and rumbling fills the space, "Rach's Dad!" He sounds disappointed and makes his daughter cheerful.
Easing the matter just a notch. "Oh, don't worry, my ray of light. I'm going to stick around for a long. It is quite good to take glee on it. Maybe I'll lead the headers one time more!" His hand gestures towards an imaginary frame, the motion so exaggerated it almost pushes the Queen of the Night to giggle.
Close by a laughter!
The super celeb's smiling wavers, a bang on her calm exterior as she glances toward her mother. The concern about her ancestor churns inside her, but she takes a deep breath and seeks to keep things easy. "Has Nicki asked yet?" she asks, her speech strained, the attempt at normalcy brittle.