"Sonderism," I said, flicking a charged card between my fingers. The orange-magenta energy pulsed faintly with each rotation. "It's what I call that weird feeling when you're walking through a crowd and suddenly realize everyone around you has their own complicated life. Their own problems, memories, heartbreaks."
The card spun faster, energy crackling.
"Know what I mean?"
The homeless man huddled in the doorway alcove stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Fair enough. Most people don't stop to philosophize with street dwellers at 6 AM.
"Kid, I just asked if you had any spare change."
I pocketed the card and fished out three crumpled bills from my jacket. "Here. Consider it payment for enduring my early morning existential crisis."
His weathered hands snatched the money. "You hunters are all fucking weird."
"Not a hunter," I corrected automatically, then remembered my fake ID. "Well, technically I am. Just not the kind you're thinking of."
I left him counting the bills and continued down the grimy street, hands stuffed in my pockets. The Foundation level of Neo-Atlanta was waking up around me, vendors setting up food stalls, workers trudging toward the crystal processing plants. Unlike the pristine streets of The Meridian above us—and certainly nothing like the absurd luxury of The Crown hanging in the sky—The Foundation wore its neglect like a badge. Cracked pavement, flickering streetlights, the occasional maintenance drone buzzing past with a broken stabilizer.
Home sweet home.
A massive holographic billboard stretched across an entire building face, showing Dominic Hayes—my estranged brother, though nobody knew that—smiling with perfect teeth as he held up a crystal-infused energy drink. "AWAKEN YOUR POTENTIAL," the slogan read. His S-rank Essentia, a swirling vortex of blue-white energy, coiled dramatically around his muscular arm.
I gave him the finger as I passed.
"You too, buddy," a passing worker said, thinking the gesture was meant for him.
"Not you," I called after him. "The billboard. We have history."
The worker shook his head and kept walking.
A group of kids huddled around a street vendor, pooling their meager allowances to buy knockoff hunter action figures. I slowed as I passed, watching a boy with a missing front tooth clutching a miniature Dominic Hayes.
"My Dominic beats your Helena!" he shouted, smashing the figures together.
His friend, a girl with patchy clothes but immaculately braided hair, scoffed. "Helena would destroy him. She was National Authority S-rank!"
"Was," the boy emphasized. "Now she doesn't fight, and Dominic is number three in America!"
The narrow streets widened as I approached the northeastern barrier perimeter. Here, the towering energy barrier that protected Neo-Atlanta from gate incursions was visible as a faint shimmer in the air, stretching hundreds of meters upward. Near its base, a series of monitoring stations and deployment facilities housed the constant flow of hunter teams assigned to nearby gates.
My destination was Outpost 22, a squat, utilitarian building with the FBH logo emblazoned above reinforced doors. As a porter—officially a "resource extraction support specialist"—I'd be assigned to whatever team was short-staffed this morning. The pay was decent for Foundation standards, the danger considerable, and the chance of getting caught with my fake license terrifying.
But Mom's treatments wouldn't pay for themselves.
The lobby of Outpost 22 was busy as always. A mix of tired-looking D-rank hunters in various states of preparedness lounged on benches, some checking their equipment, others dozing against the wall. A harried dispatcher was shouting names into a communicator while simultaneously typing on a terminal.
I approached the assignment desk with confidence, sliding my counterfeit hunter's license across the surface.
"Pierre Hayes, reporting for porter duty," I said, leaning against the counter. "What's on the menu today? Something exciting, I hope."
The desk officer—a stern-looking woman with greying hair cropped military-short—picked up my license and held it to the light. Her eyes narrowed.
"New around here? Don't recognize you."
"Been working the southern perimeter mostly. Thought I'd change scenery."
She ran my license through the scanner. The machine beeped, showing green—thank whatever gods were listening that my forger had used actual crystal components from damaged licenses. The woman studied the screen, then looked back at me with lingering suspicion.
"Says here you've only been registered for three months."
"Late bloomer," I replied. "What can I say? Some of us take our time finding our calling."
She didn't smile back. "Gate 117-B. Tier 1. Standard extraction. Team's gathering in Bay 3."
I didn't bother hiding my disappointment. "A Tier 1? Seriously? I could clear that in my sleep."
"Then you should have no trouble carrying crystals back from it," she replied flatly. "Bay 3."
I pushed off from the counter with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But if I die of boredom, I'm haunting this desk."
"You wouldn't be the first," she muttered, already turning to the next person in line.
Bay 3 was a small equipment room with a loading dock that opened directly to the barrier perimeter. Inside, four hunters and two other porters were gearing up. FBH-assigned gates typically got the most random assortment of personnel—whoever was available and needed the work rather than elite teams. This group looked about as ragtag as they came.
"Morning, fellow adventurers," I announced, dropping my pack on a bench and rolling my shoulders. "Pierre Hayes, at your service. D-rank extraordinaire and porter extraordinaire-er."
A muscular woman with close-cropped hair and heavy gauntlets snorted. "Great. Another comedian."
"I prefer 'morale specialist,'" I corrected, pulling on my gloves. The crystal-infused palms hummed faintly as they connected with my Essentia.
The team leader—a tired-looking man in his forties with a patchwork of old scars across his face—looked up from his tablet. "Hayes? Not on my original roster."
"Last-minute addition," I said, pulling out my license again. "Dragon Lady at the desk can confirm."
He barely glanced at the ID before nodding. "Fine. We're short-handed anyway. Two porters called in sick. Tier 1 gate, standard clearance protocol. Should be in and out in three hours."
"Thrilling," I muttered, checking my equipment. "What kind of Tier 1 needs six people anyway?"
"FBH says this one's been fluctuating. Started as a minor manifestation but readings have been inconsistent. Better safe than sorry."
A flash of movement caught my eye as the final team member entered. She was maybe a year or two older than me, with tanned skin, short and layered black hair, and the most striking amber eyes I'd ever seen. Unlike the standard-issue gear the others wore, her jacket was customized with intricate patterns along the sleeves. D-rank, according to her shoulder patch, but something about her posture suggested she wouldn't be staying at that rank for long.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, voice clear and confident. "Monitoring shift ran long."
The team leader nodded. "Eliza, right? No problem. We're just about to head out."
I straightened up, suddenly finding this assignment much more interesting. "Well hello, Tier 1 gate. You're looking better by the minute."
Eliza glanced my way, one eyebrow raised. "And you are?"
"The name's Pierre." I performed a dramatic bow. "Professional porter and card-carrying member of the 'too talented for D-rank but stuck here anyway' club. Membership of two and growing, it seems."
She looked unimpressed. "Uh-huh."
"Don't mind him," the muscular woman said. "He thinks he's charming."
"I am absolutely charming," I protested. "Just ask my mother. She thinks I'm delightful."
"All mothers think their children are delightful," Eliza replied, checking her equipment. "It's a biological imperative to prevent them from abandoning their offspring."
I felt my smile falter for just a moment before forcing it wider. "Harsh, but fair. I like you already."
The team leader cleared his throat. "If the social hour is over, the gate's waiting. Standard formation. Hunters up front, porters in the middle. Hayes, you're with Eliza on the right flank."
"Universe smiles upon me once again," I murmured, earning an eye roll from my new partner.
We filed through the loading dock doors and out into the perimeter zone—a cleared area between the barrier and the city proper. About a mile ahead, shimmering in the morning light, was our Gate.
Unlike the massive, awe-inspiring permanent gates like The Maw, Tier 1 gates were typically modest affairs. This one was no exception—a rippling distortion in reality about three meters tall and two wide, hovering half a meter above the ground. Its edges pulsed with a faint blue-green light, occasionally sending small arcs of energy into the air. Standard containment pylons had been placed in a circle around it, projecting a thin barrier to prevent any unauthorized access.
But there was something odd about this particular gate. Most Tier 1s were stable, consistent in their energy output. This one seemed to... flicker, almost. Like a faulty light bulb threatening to go out—or perhaps, more worryingly, threatening to surge.
"That doesn't look like a standard Tier 1," I said quietly, earlier bravado temporarily set aside.
Eliza nodded. "Energy signature's all wrong. Too erratic."
"You can sense that?"
"Can't you?" She gave me a sidelong glance.
I shrugged. "My Essentia's more about changing things than sensing them. Transmutation primary."
"Ah." She nodded. "I'm Emission."
The team leader approached the containment pylons and entered a code, causing the barrier to part. "Alright, standard protocol. We go in, clear any hostiles, secure crystal formations, extract, and get out. Nothing fancy."
I pulled a deck of cards from my jacket pocket, letting a faint charge run through them. The familiar orange-magenta energy made the cards glow slightly between my fingers.
"What's with the cards?" Eliza asked.
"My medium," I replied, shuffling them. "Smaller objects hold charges better. Plus, I look cool throwing them."
"Function over fashion," she said, but I caught the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth.
"Says the person with the custom jacket," I countered.
Before she could respond, the team leader stepped through the gate, disappearing into the rippling surface. One by one, the others followed.
Eliza moved toward the gate, then paused, looking back at me. "After you, card shark."
"Such a gentlewoman."
I stepped forward into the shimmering distortion. The familiar sensation of passing through a gate washed over me—like plunging into ice-cold water while being stretched in all directions at once, followed by a sudden snap back to normal as reality reasserted itself on the other side.
Except this time, the sensation lingered longer than it should have. The stretching feeling continued just a fraction of a second too long, and when reality snapped back, it felt...wrong. Off-kilter.
I stumbled forward onto unfamiliar ground, my instincts immediately screaming that something about this gate wasn't what it seemed.
The landscape before me confirmed it wasn't a standard Tier 1 at all. Instead of the usual minor distortion of normal terrain—perhaps a forest with slightly too-bright colors or a meadow with oddly-shaped plants—we stood in what appeared to be the ruins of a massive crystal cathedral. Towering spires of blue-black crystal stretched toward a crimson sky, while smaller formations jutted from the ground like the teeth of some enormous beast.
"Well," I said as Eliza emerged from the gate behind me, "I think someone miscategorized this one."