The lights dimmed.
A hush fell over the auditorium, where tourists, students, and locals crowded the tiered seats of the Museum of Intergalactic Curiosities. The main screen flickered to life, its edges buzzing with static like distant thunder. Anticipation thickened in the room.
A countdown appeared on-screen:
"ARCHIVAL RECORDING // YEAR: 2010 — TRANSMISSION CODE: FIRST CONTACT"
Then, a voice—layered, resonant, unmistakably alien—began to speak.
"People of Earth—
You are not alone.
Your storms reach beyond your skies.
Your wars echo in silence.
You've been seen.
Prepare to be counted.
Welcome to something more."
The screen went dark.
A beat of silence.
Then the projection burst to life again: images of Earth suspended in space, spacecraft carving paths through clouds, monuments bathed in ethereal light. A thousand silent moments of contact between human and alien eyes played in sequence.
Gasps rose from the audience.
A tour guide stepped into the glow of the overhead spotlights, her posture practiced, smile polished.
"And just like that," she began, her voice amplified and steady, "humanity joined the galactic community. Not through dominance. Not through invitation. But through recognition. That moment redefined everything."
She paused for effect.
"Some say it wasn't about inclusion," she continued. "They didn't come to welcome us. They came because they heard us. We were too loud, too fast, too war-hardened to ignore."
In the museum's east wing, beneath a domed ceiling carved with constellations, the Combat Evolution Wing unfolded in dim, echoing corridors. Glass cases displayed preserved weapons, while holograms reenacted battles long past.
A new group entered, led by the same guide. Her boots clicked against the polished floor as her voice cut through the ambient noise.
"This section traces Earth's fighting history—Spartans, samurai, Zulu warriors, cybernetic operatives, and yes—ninja. Combat is a throughline in our species' evolution."
As she passed a column of suspended armor and animated duels, several teens paused to watch. Others fidgeted with wrist-comms, half-engaged.
"All of this," she gestured, "represents Pre-Contact warfare. Our finest tactical minds. Enhanced soldiers. Remote strike systems. And still—when the aliens arrived, none of it mattered."
They moved to a new display where sleeker equipment shimmered under pale lights.
"This is where things changed. We didn't just fight. We negotiated. We adapted. New professions emerged—ambassadors, code-arbiters, zero-grav specialists. We stopped fighting each other… and started fighting for Earth."
Her tempo increased. Excitement entered her tone.
"And now—" she raised her hand toward a sealed case with a black-and-chrome exosuit inside, "we highlight the first combat career formed after Contact—"
The floor groaned.
A tremor passed beneath their feet.
The guide faltered, one hand bracing a nearby rail.
Then—without warning—the floor cracked open. A sound like splitting stone tore through the hall. Lights flashed wildly. Screams surged through the chamber as the world gave way.
Rubble.
Dust hung heavy in the air, coating lungs, eyes, skin.
A boy's voice—raw, panicked—broke through the settling silence.
"Help! Someone—! My brother's trapped! Please!"
His hands—bleeding, frantic—dug through broken concrete and shattered glass. Below him, a younger boy whimpered.
"It hurts... I can't move..."
Tears blurred the older boy's vision, but he kept digging. His voice cracked.
"Why isn't anyone helping?! Don't you dare die on me!"
Then, amid the ruin, a strange glint caught his eye.
A small object—glowing softly, pulsing like a heartbeat—lay half-buried beside his brother's leg. He had no name for it, no recognition of its material or function. Yet something in him shifted, a deep instinct overriding reason. He reached out.
His fingers closed around it.
Warmth surged through his palm. A sensation beyond language—electric, ancient.
He didn't hesitate.
He pressed the object gently against his brother's side.
Light burst from the point of contact. A radiant wave swept over the wreckage, illuminating every jagged edge in color not found on any spectrum chart. For a moment, there was no sound—only stillness.
Then, nothing.
High above, in the cracked rafters of the ruined wing, three figures crouched in shadow.
Between them, a scroll glowed—no paper or ink, but something older and far more advanced.
"He didn't hesitate," whispered Solin, her voice barely audible. "It wasn't for power. It was for family."
"He used alien tech like it was part of him," Glitch said, eyes narrowed. "And that fusion? We've never documented anything like it. He's worth studying."
"The scroll responded," said Boomslang, firm and even. "First time in six months. We report. Then we choose."
Later that night, the NGN's headquarters pulsed with data. Screens flickered. The scroll hovered in containment, its surface ever-shifting.
Solin and Glitch stood before it, arguing.
"He acted out of empathy," said Solin. "He needs guidance. Let me train him."
"He triggered a transformation," countered Glitch. "That decision created fusion. We study it—we evolve."
"He's not a specimen, Glitch. He's a person."
"Enough," said Boomslang, entering. "Echo isn't here. Veil decides."
Moments later, Veil entered the room, his presence silencing the argument.
He studied the scroll, then the holograms of the boy.
"Solin sees the heart. Glitch sees the edge," he said quietly. "We'll need both. Observe the boy. See what else the scroll sees in him. If it chose, there's a reason."
News outlets replayed the event endlessly.
"Investigators continue their search for answers after a sudden collapse at the Museum of Intergalactic Curiosities," a newscaster intoned. "One child remains in critical condition."
Drone footage displayed emergency crews pulling debris away. Eyewitnesses stood stunned, staring at the hole in the earth where wonder had become tragedy.
"The cause remains unclear," the broadcast continued. "But many ask: was this an accident—or a signal?"
In the background, raw audio played. A single voice, hoarse and cracked, screamed from beneath the stone.
The broadcast ended. But something lingered beyond the headlines:
A brother calling out into the void.
And something—something old and listening—answering back.