Date: 12:35 AM, April 1, 2025
Location: Downtown Seattle, Washington
Sarah’s Honda fishtailed onto First Avenue, the rain-slicked streets reflecting the chaos in her mind. Her recorder sat on the passenger seat, still running, capturing her ragged breaths and the distant wail of sirens. The shelter’s jars—those floating horrors—flashed behind her eyes. Jake’s photo, smiling with that robed man. The Wyrm of Ascension. What had he gotten into?
She slammed the brakes at a red light, hands trembling on the wheel. The radio crackled, auto-tuning to a local station—KEXP, static cutting through a lo-fi track. Then it stopped, replaced by a deep, resonant voice that filled the car like smoke.
“Children of Earth,” it began, slow and deliberate, “the Day of Ascension is upon us.”
Sarah’s skin prickled. She turned up the volume, glancing around—empty streets, no one to hear this but her. The voice continued, smooth yet guttural, like it wasn’t entirely human.
“For too long, you have toiled in ignorance, blind to the truth. We are the heralds of the Star Children, the saviors who descend from the void. I am the Patriarch, father to the faithful, and I call you now: cast off your chains. Join us, or be cleansed.”
A chill ran down her spine. The shelter’s chants echoed in her memory—Star Children. The radio hissed, then a chorus of voices joined in, reciting: “The Wyrm rises. The Broodmind wakes. The sky will open.”
The light turned green, but Sarah didn’t move. Her phone buzzed—X was exploding. Posts tagged #SeattleChaos showed the broadcast hijacking airwaves, TVs, even streaming apps. A video from @DowntownEye panned across a bar: patrons staring at a flatscreen, the Patriarch’s voice booming from every speaker. Comments ranged from “April Fools’ gone too far” to “This is real. I’m scared.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
She grabbed her phone, thumbing through more—reports of the same message in Portland, Vancouver, even San Francisco. Power grids failing, riots spreading, that worm symbol spray-painted on buildings. A shaky clip from Tacoma: a mob kneeling before a figure in robes, its face hidden, arms raised as the crowd chanted back to the broadcast.
Her recorder beeped—low battery. She switched it off, whispering, “This is bigger than a story.” The Patriarch’s words replayed in her head—Join us, or be cleansed. Cleansed how? And where was Jake in all this?
The radio cut to static, then a new sound: a low, thrumming roar, like a jet engine underwater. Sarah looked up. The sky was black, rainclouds churning, but something flickered—pinpricks of light, moving too fast, too erratic for planes. Her breath caught. “No way…”
A text from Mara jolted her back: “Sarah, you alive? Broadcast’s everywhere. Military’s mobilizing—check Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Call me.”
Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Forty miles south. If the military was moving, they’d know something. But Jake—Pioneer Square was behind her, still crawling with those… things. She couldn’t leave him, not without knowing.
The lights in the sky grew brighter, descending. A crash echoed from the waterfront—metal twisting, screams cutting through the rain. Sarah gripped the wheel, torn. South to the base, or back to the shelter? The broadcast looped in her mind, a siren call to chaos.
Then her phone rang—unknown number. She answered, voice tight. “Who’s this?”
“Sarah Thompson?” A man, clipped, authoritative. “Colonel David Rodriguez, JBLM. We’ve got your byline on our radar. You’re in Seattle?”
“Yeah,” she said, stunned. “How—”
“We’re tracking this… whatever it is. That broadcast isn’t a prank. You’ve seen something, haven’t you?”
She swallowed. “The shelter. Pioneer Square. People—things—with claws. My brother’s caught up in it.”
A pause. “Get out of the city. Head south. We need intel, and you’re a witness. Things are about to get worse.”
“Worse how?”
“Look up,” he said, then hung up.
She did. The lights weren’t stars anymore—they were shapes, jagged, organic, dropping through the clouds. Bio-ships, straight out of a nightmare. The Patriarch’s voice had promised saviors. These didn’t look like salvation.
Sarah floored the gas, tires spinning as she turned south. Jake would have to wait. The sky was falling, and she needed answers—before there was nothing left to save.
