The Antarctic Outpost - 00:12 Local Time
The wind shrieked across the frozen wasteland, battering the armored walls of Research Station Polaris with a ferocity that made grizzled researchers squint. But Winx Abara stood motionless at the window, his dark eyes reflecting the limitless white beyond. The station lights outlined his figure in sharp relief – tall, broad-shouldered, with close-shorn black hair powdered with premature gray at the temples despite his relative youth.
"Still communing with the ice, Abara?" Dr. Lindstrom's voice had a good-naturedly teasing tone as she approached, carrying a mug of hot coffee.
Winx did not glance around. "It speaks, if you listen." His voice was low, measured, with just a trace of his Nigerian origins coloring his impeccable English.
Lindstrom snorted. "Save the mysticism for the new recruits. Seasonal depression hits them hard enough without ghost stories."
A year ago, Winx would have smiled, would have played the old repartee that kept the loneliness at bay. But that was before the dreams began. Before the whispers that seemed to emanate from the ice itself. Before the growing certainty that he hadn't ended up in Antarctica by chance.
"You should get some sleep," Lindstrom said, her playful tone yielding to worry. "You've been on edge Winx… since the anomaly readings started spiking last week."
"I'm fine," he replied without thought, the same response he'd been lying to concerned colleagues for months now.
Lindstrom hesitated, then nodded and stepped back, leaving him alone with the screaming darkness once more. Winx exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the reinforced glass. The cramped living conditions of the research station had become increasingly difficult to bear. His colleagues' concern felt like scrutiny, their questions like intrusions.
He pressed his palm against the cold glass. Twenty-two years old and already feeling ancient. The move from Lagos to this frozen wasteland had been impulsive, inexplicable even to himself. A climate scientist specializing in desertification suddenly applying for an Antarctic posting? His professors had been baffled, his family devastated. But the pull had been irresistible, like a hook lodged deep in his consciousness.
And then it happened.
The hum began…. Subtly, "is it the station's heating system" almost subsonic vibration that bypassed his ears entirely and resonated directly to his bones. He gripped fist, not painful but overwhelming, like standing too close to massive speakers at a Travis Scott concert.
The ice beyond the window... changed. Not physically, but in his perception of it. The endless white glaciers conscious? pulsing with information, with patterns his conscious mind couldn't process but that some deeper part of him recognized.
"Do you see now?" a voice whispered, though he knew it wasn't audible, wasn't real in any conventional sense.
Winx staggered back from the window, heart hammering. The floor beneath him seemed to shift, not with movement but with possibility, as if reality itself had become temporarily fluid. The metal beneath his feet – cold, solid Antarctic-grade steel – rippled like water.
"What the hell?" he gasped, watching as his footprints appeared in the metal, then faded like marks in sand washed by waves.
The hum crescendoed, and with it came knowledge – not in words or images but in pure information downloading directly into his consciousness. The ice sheets. The ancient air trapped within. The planet's memories, suspended in frozen time. They were speaking to him, had always been speaking to him.
And with shocking clarity, he understood why he had been drawn here. Why all his life he had felt out of sync with the world around him. Why African heat had never felt like home despite his heritage.
The ice wasn't just ice. It was data. History. Memory. And somehow, impossibly, he could read it.
His knees buckled as the hum subsided, leaving him panting on the floor, hands splayed against metal that was once again solid and unyielding. The information overload faded to manageable levels, settling into his consciousness like sediment after a storm.
"Winx? You okay in there?" Dr. Peterson's voice came through the intercom, concerned.
Winx rose unsteadily to his feet. "Fine," he managed. "Just... slipped."
But as he stood there staring out at the Antarctic night, he knew nothing would ever be fine or the same again again. Something fundamental had changed. The ice had chosen him. And now he had to understand why.
Tokyo, Japan - 15:17 JST
"Ne-kun! I know you're up there!"
Neon sighed, sliding his phone into his pocket as the voice of Yamamoto-sensei echoed up the stairwell. The mathematics teacher had an annoying radar for finding his hiding spots, probably because he'd been a delinquent himself in younger days.
The plastic bottle cap sat innocently on the crate where it had fallen. Neon stared…, "Strange feely not working!! come on advanced rocket science is easier than this" he murmured. Focus. Visualize. Move.
Nothing.
"Three... two... one..." ba bang teach right on cue, the rooftop door opened, revealing his disturbed math teacher, breathing heavily from the climb.
"Seriously, Ne-kun? The rooftop again? In the rain?" Yamamoto-sensei's sighed and palmed his face. "How do you keep picking the lock? The maintenance staff changed it last week specifically because of you."
Neon shrugged, the picture of adolescent nonchalance. "Maybe they didn't change it. Maybe you just think they did."
"Philosophy won't save you from detention," Yamamoto-sensei said, though without real heat. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, we had this discussion. You can skip Takahashi-sensei's literature class all you want – even she's given up on you – but not math. Not my class."
"I was thinking," Neon said simply.
"You can think in my classroom."
"It's too loud."
"It's silent during tests."
"The silence is even louder."
Yamamoto-sensei sighed deeply, the sigh of a man choosing his battles. "The principal wants to call your uncle again."
That got Neon's attention. Uncle Kenji worked long hours at the tech firm and couldn't afford more time off to attend school meetings. The last time, he'd lost a day's pay and been visibly stressed for weeks afterward, though he never complained directly to Neon.
"I'll come to class tomorrow," Neon conceded, rising from his perch.
"You'll come now. We're doing vector calculus."
Something stirred in Neon at those words. Vectors. Direction. Force. Movement. The bottle cap. His mind made connections, synapses firing in new patterns.
"Actually... that might be interesting," he said slowly, surprising both Yamamoto-sensei and himself.
As they descended the stairs, Neon felt that strange humming awareness still lingering at the edges of his consciousness. Something had awakened in him, something that understood forces and vectors in a way that went beyond equations on a page. Something that might let him move objects with his mind.
Or maybe he was just going crazy. Either possibility was infinitely more interesting than his normal life.
"Hmmm" pausing at the classroom door, eyeing the students bent over working in their notebooks. His own desk, empty and waiting. For an instant, he saw it all differently – not as a prison of boredom but as a field of potential. Vectors and forces connecting everything and everyone. Subtle lines of influence that could, perhaps, be manipulated.
"Having second thoughts?" Yamamoto-sensei asked wryly.
Neon shook his head. "Just... seeing things differently."
As he slid into his seat, ignoring the curious glances of classmates who'd assumed he was skipping again, he felt the hum strengthen momentarily. The pencil on his desk rolled slightly toward him, unnoticed by everyone else.
Everyone except Hana Miyazaki, seated diagonally behind him, whose sharp eyes narrowed slightly at the movement. Neon didn't see her watching, didn't notice her hand trembling slightly as she clutched her mechanical pencil with white-knuckled intensity. Didn't realize that while he'd been on the roof experiencing his awakening, Hana had been in the bathroom, hands pressed against the mirror as frost patterns spread outward from her fingertips, her own encounter with the impossible just beginning.
Rome, Italy - Room 307, Hospital - 08:16 CET
"Physically, it's incredible," Dr. Valenti was explaining to the group of doctors standing around his bed. "Reversal of vegetative state symptoms, cognitive function seemingly intact, muscle atrophy not as extreme as would be expected considering the time."
Ranger Ikoo tuned them out, instead concentrating on wriggling his toes under the skimpy hospital sheet. Eight years. Eight years snatched from him. His body was both foreign and familiar, a sense of coming back to a hometown house after all these years, everything a bit smaller, a bit askew.
He insisted they sit him up, though they were worried. He needed to see, get his bearings. The private hospital room was crazy he thought. state-of-the-art medical machines way beyond his previous experience, windows looking out on Rome, designer decor even.
Who's footing the bill here? "The enemy," he thought. Why this base, though? Why Rome, when his accident took place in the U.S.? And most urgently -- what was becoming of his research?
The string partial divergence theorem. His lifetime project. The mathematical formulation that was supposed to reconcile quantum mechanics with string theory in a manner nobody ever had. The equations that had begun acting. oddly. in the period up to his "accident."
"Dr. Reyes," a new voice broke through his thoughts, firm and American-inflected. "Spencer Wells messiah, U.S. Embassy representative. Glad you're awake.. …"
Ikoo's gaze narrowed, assessing the stranger. Tall, blonde, early forties. Expensive suit, impeccable smile, dead eyes. Not medical. Not diplomatic, either, though he wore a title. Intelligence service, most probably.
"Where's my research?" Ikoo's voice was a bit raspy, but more confident in tone than it was sixty minutes before.
Wells's smile did not waver. "I believe we should concentrate on your recovery at the moment. You've experienced a truly remarkable—"
"My research!" Ikoo broke in. "The partial divergence equations. My notes. My computer. Where are they?"
Across his face, Grievance came before the smirk. "Everything was made secure after your accident. The personal belongings are in storage. Once stabilized, we can talk—"
"Who has been working on it?" Ikoo insisted. The humming sensation from before was back, but faintly, a resonance that seemed to sharpen his perceptions, intensify his focus. He could feel Wells's pulse rising slightly at his temple, the infinitesimal dilation of his pupils.
Dr. Reyes, if I might say so, theoretical physics is perhaps not your top priority at the moment. The medical staff—"
"They placed me here," Ikoo said bluntly. "Did they not? Someone understood what my equations were indicating. What they said concerning reality. Concerning manipulation of the quantum states."
The room grew silent. The medical staff exchanged uneasy looks. The smile from Wells completely disappeared.
"I believe Dr. Reyes should rest," he told Dr. Valenti. "The cognitive disorientation is normal in long coma patients."
"I'm not in a state of confusion," Ikoo said, the humming intensifying. "I see clearly for the first time ever." He raised a shaky hand, pointing it at Wells. "You are the one who stole my eight years from me."
There was a strange occurrence as his restlessness intensified. The water in the glass next to his bed started shaking, small ripples showing up on its surface. The lamps flickered ever so slightly.
Dr. Valenti moved forward, syringe in hand. Dr. Reyes, I'm going to administer a relaxation medication—"
"No!" Ikoo cried, the words ripping from his throat in a surprising burst of power. The water glass shattered explosively, scattering shards and liquid everywhere across the room. The medical machinery beeped frantically as readings spiked.
They all froze, looking at the broken glass, then at Ikoo, with his eyes wide in a blend of shock and growing understanding.
"Interesting," he breathed, glancing down at his shaking hand. "The frequency of resonance. The quantum fluctuations. They're no longer purely theoretical."
Wells recovered first, his hand edging towards his jacket. "Dr. Valenti, in my opinion, sedation would be a good idea."
Ikoo shut his eyes, controlling his breathing, the growing panic subsiding. The hum dissipated, was manageable. opening his eyes once more, he started calculating.
"I'm sorry for the tirade," he said quietly. "You're correct. I must rest. Recover."
The tension in the room relaxed somewhat. Wells nodded, apparently pleased but decidedly cautious.
"We'll pick this up when you're in better health," he declared, the veiled threat evident beneath the politeness.
As the room cleared, with a single nurse remaining to tidy up the shattered glass, Ikoo relaxed back into his pillows, his mind whirring. The equations revolved in his shut eyes – but this time with fresh variables, fresh possibilities. The hum made all the difference.
They would put him in a coma in order to shut down his research. What they actually did was give him the key to demonstrating it in the laboratory. Whatever occurred in those eight years -- whatever caused this awakening -- radically changed the dynamic between his consciousness and the quantum substrate of existence.
He had to get away from this hospital. Had to reclaim his research. Had to know what was occurring to him.
Most urgently, he required access to others who could also have experienced the same effect. For if his theories were correct – if the equations of partial divergence held true – then the resonance would not have occurred in just himself.
Italian National Olympic Training Centre - 08:44 CET
"Again!" Marco shouted, slapping his hands together briskly. "And get the landing this time!"
Tyzi ground her teeth, dust from the chalk surrounding her hands as she readied up for yet another vault attempt. Her body didn't feel quite right – unbalanced, overly sensitive, as if her nerve endings were rearranged. Ever since the fall on the floor exercise sixty minutes ago, she'd flubbed three vault attempts, routines she could do in her sleep.
"Concentration, Rossi!" Marco yelled. "There are two months till the European Championships. Do you believe Elena Volkov is breaking in two in Moscow? Do you believe the Chinese team is faltering in their first year?"
She suppressed a comeback. Marco's psychological games – constantly comparing, constantly pressuring her – normally stoked her competitive flame. Today, they just rubbed her raw nerves the wrong way.
The rest of the gymnasts had respectfully given her a wide margin after her unaccustomed errors. Whispers were exchanged, sidelong glances. Never before had they seen the national champion stumble this way. Tyzi herself could not say why – the peculiar humming in her body was no more, but something else was present, a sense of. forces. Gravity. Momentum. She could sense them pushing up against her skin.
She chalked her hands once more, pointless but giving her seconds in which to get her bearings. Something was different in her. Her body, once a finely-tuned instrument, felt as though it held too much power, too much potential, bucking her control.
"Today, Rossi!" Marco's impatience cut through her thoughts.
Fine. She would show him. Show all of them.
Tyzi stepped up to the runway, her jaw set. She imagined the sequence: the run, roundoff against the springboard, back handspring onto the vault table, flying into the double pike, blind landing. Her body was familiar with these in a most intimate way. But now, with this strange new sense, a new dimension was added to her visualization: she could see the vectors of force, the energy transfer, the precise angles required.
She took a deep breath, started running. The traditional beat of her feet, the gathering speed, the accuracy of her movements. but it was different. She thought she felt lighter, as if the pull of gravity on her was slightly reduced. The roundoff onto the springboard was flawless. The back handspring onto the vault table was flawless.
Then, as she launched from the table, the humming resurfaced for a moment, with a fierce intensity. Time slowed. During this protracted second, Tyzi experienced the impossible: felt as if she were pushing not merely against the table of the vault but against the air, against the nature of existence. Her body covered more ground in the air than it ever could before, the double pike rotation executed with supernatural control.
She could see the mat coming up in front of her and suddenly felt a panic rise up, realizing she had too much height, too much spin. She was going to over-rotate, hit her back, perhaps worse.
Her body responded involuntarily. The same strange push, but in a reverse motion – as if she could grasp the air next to her, hold on to it in order to stop her momentum. Her fall slowed, her body sliding into position.
She hit mat with a firm thump. No step. No wobble. Solidly stuck landing the most challenging vault in women's gymnastics – executed higher and more cleanly than ever before.
Silence descended in the training hall. Marco's jaw dropped, his stopwatch dangling in his loose hand. The rest of the gymnasts gazed, faces a mixture of amazement, disbelief, or envy.
"That's. not possible," her chief national-team rival, Giulia, breathed.
Tyzi was frozen in position, her heart pounding. What was this? The height she had gained - no less than 30 centimeters more than before. The control in the air - as if she had actually been able to control forces. The way she had landed - physically improbable under the speed she had built up.
"How did you do it?" Marco exclaimed, mustering his voice finally. He was not complimenting, he was accusing.
She held his eyes steadily, even if her thoughts were in a whirl. "I concentrated," she explained.
"No," Marco's eyes narrowed as he took a step forward. "That wasn't focus. That was. something more." He dropped his voice. "Are you on some new performance enhancer?"
The charge was hurtful, more so since she could not provide a logical explanation. "I would never," she spat, her voice full of genuine outrage.
Then tell me what I just witnessed.
She couldn't. Not with him. Not with anyone. Not when she didn't get it herself.
I've been training. Focused on explosiveness. It finally clicked. The fib sounded insincere, but she kept up her angry glare.
Marco examined her face, evidently displeased but not able to push further in the lack of evidence.
Tyzi faltered. Could she reproduce it? Harness it? The humming sense persisted, but fainter, less within reach.
"I'll just take a minute," she said, turning away from her original plan.
Walking back toward the runway, she noticed a flash of color from a notification light on her phone, perched beside her towel and water on the bench. She would usually ignore it during training, but there was something that made her go check
It was a breaking news flash, a story regarding a physicist regaining consciousness from a coma in a local hospital. She was ready to click away when a description within the article teaser struck her: ". unexplainable energy readings in the hospital room."
She sat frozen, her thumb poised above the screen. The energy readings. The hum. The unpossible vault. Were they related?
Rossi! Concentrate!" Marco's firm voice broke through into the present.
She placed the phone aside, her mind in a whirl. First, she would get this new skill mastered, whatever it was. And then, maybe, she would track down this awakened physicist. For something was telling her these things were not accidents. Something was occurring – in her, in others maybe – and she must comprehend it.
For the time being, however, she had a vault to refine. And if she could control this novel power in a consistent manner, the gold at the European Championships – and in the future, beyond – were as good as hers.
New York City - 02:50 EDT
A woman sat motionless in a modern penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park. On a wall of screens in front of her, four separate scenes were in real-time: a room in a Roman hospital, a gymnasium at the Italian Olympic Training Centre, a classroom in Tokyo, and a research station in Antarctica. She was a striking figure – silver-white hair cut short, her facial features angular and precise, her eyes a rare purple color looking somehow artificial in the monitor light. Her posture was impeccable, her black, tailored business attire uncreased even at the late hour.
She gently tapped a well-manicured finger against the desk, the lone indication of emotion while she sat observing the proceedings around the world.
"Protocol 10 initiation confirmed," she declared, as if addressing no one in particular. "Subjects in first wave showing anticipated manifestations. Tracked successfully at four primaries. Ongoing search for the last six."
A voice from concealed speakers, genderless and distorted, spoke up. "Timeline advancement unforeseen. Subject Ikoo's awakening was not due for three months from now."
"The resonance caused premature consciousness," the woman said. "The connection he has with the field is more potent than we anticipated. He's already showing rudimentary manipulation."
Containment protocol
Unessential at this point. Allow them the opportunity to find their limits in a natural way. The learning curve yields precious information.
She zoomed in on Neon's class, where the Japanese student was nonchalantly strolling his pencil back and forth across his table top, a bored-looking face hiding his total focus.
"The younger ones catch up more quickly," she noted. "Neural plasticity. Subject Ne is already trying things, however, he has no theory base."
"And Subject Rossi?"
Intuitive use. Amazing control for first manifestation. Her athletic training gives her a head-start – her body-mind connection has already been established.
The voice was quiet for a moment. Then: "What of Subject Abara? The Antarctic position makes it difficult to monitor."
The lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "His awakening is quite the most fascinating. The conditions involving the ice preservation are quite ideal for information transfer. The data absorption is unparalleled."
She struck a key, calling up a fifth display, a display of a young girl in Tokyo, a sheet of ice radiating from her fingers across a mirror in a bathroom. "Subject Miyazaki has also activated. Temperature manipulation. She was close to Subject Ne during resonance."
Proximity effect has been noted. This validates the resonance field theory.
The woman nodded. "Five confirmed. Five still latent or unconfirmed." She paused, a faintly satisfied expression crossing her face. "Phase One is moving according to plan."
"And Phase Two?"
The violet eyes of the woman mirrored the screen, where Dr. Ikoo, in his secret experimental phase, was testing his capability of shaking water in a new glass.
"They'll find one another," she said softly, with a calm conviction. "The resonance establishes a bond, a subliminal sense. Already, Rossi has picked up on the reports of Ikoo. Subject Ne and Subject Miyazaki are in the same school. Patterns emerging. Connections forming."
"And then?"
Her face grew stern, the only sign of the seriousness of her impending words.
Then we see if they become who we require them to be. What the world will require them to become. When the Breach actually opens.
On the screens, the awakened ones kept discovering their new realities, oblivious to the gaze, oblivious to one another, oblivious to their position in a design bigger in scope, more horrific in nature, than they could ever conceive.
Protocol 10 was underway.