Chapter Seven — The Prelude
"Sigh… I know you might not fully grasp the gravity of the situation right now—but I assure you, it is grave," Hugo continued.
"In fact… grave is an understatement."
He paused, eyes shifting slightly, as though weighing something unsaid.
"Your mother was meant to be part of this recording," he went on. "But as you can see… she isn't."
"She was called back to base. She's one of the finest healers we have, and in times like this… every hand matters."
His voice slowed.
"And, Sam… there's one other matter that I—" he hesitated, correcting himself, "—that we wanted to discuss with you. But it doesn't feel right to do so through a recording."
He exhaled quietly.
"I can only hope we meet again soon. At least before you meet 'Her'." His gaze lingered for just a fraction too long. "But if not… remember this—no matter what happens, we are your family. Always."
There was too much emotion in his eyes when he said that last word.
Regret. Urgency. Something unresolved.
Sam felt it settle uncomfortably in his chest.
He turned to Serena.
She looked… strained. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression practically screaming don't ask me—I don't know either.
And yet, for some reason, a particular conversation she'd once shared with their father—when she was eleven—kept resurfacing in her mind.
"Anyway," Hugo said, straightening slightly, "that's enough sentiment. You should have a basic understanding of the situation by now, so listen carefully."
"We've made preparations for you. This bunker is one of them." His gaze sharpened. "As for the rest… ATLAS will guide you."
Then he looked straight ahead—straight through the projection.
"Take care of yourselves. Look after each other. Remember, until we're reunited, you're all you have. Don't forget that."
A brief pause.
"And remember our creed—keep it close to heart. Family, above all."
The projection froze at that exact moment.
Hugo Burn, caught mid-motion, hand half-raised as if reaching for the camera's stop command.
There was silence in the chamber for a long moment afterward.
It stretched—unbroken—until the faint whir of machinery signaled the projection's shutdown and the dimmed lights flared back to life.
Sam didn't move.
The recording had left him with far too much to process.
First—monsters. Not myths. Not stories. Real things that had been roaming the world long before he was born. And somehow… his family had been part of it all along.
How this had managed to go unnoticed by him for so long he couldn't tell.
Second—the rifts. The knowledge that they could be closed. One just had to kill whatever dwelled inside them, and the tear itself would vanish. Simple in theory. He doubted reality would be anywhere near that kind or easy.
Still… it meant they weren't helpless. They could just inquire about it in detail from ATLAS.
Now that the recording was over, she had no reason to dodge their questions anymore. Or at least, she shouldn't.
Third—his parents had apparently foreseen this situation and had made preparations in advance.
They hadn't just prepared emotionally. They had built for it.
The bunker itself was proof enough. The tremor that had threatened to tear the building above apart hadn't even left a mark down here.
Which meant this place wasn't just a temporary hideout.
It was a contingency—likely even the primary structure, with the house above serving as nothing more than a smokescreen.
And then there was the last thing.
The thing they hadn't said.
There was something his parents wanted to tell him—something they had decided was too important to say through a recording. And that alone unsettled him more than everything else combined.
After all, through that same recording, they had just revealed a hidden racial war—if he could call it that—that had spanned a thousand years.
What, exactly, could be worse than that?
Sam swallowed, his jaw tightening.
That tremor alone… he could already picture the aftermath. Collapsed buildings. People buried under rubble. The number of road accidents it would cause by itself—
The death toll was bound to be enormous.
He sucked in a deep breath.
Only then did he realize he wasn't alone in the silence.
Serena stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely, her gaze fixed on the desk where the projection had been. She hadn't moved since it ended.
Her shoulders were tense—not rigid, but held, like she was bracing against something heavy. Her brows were drawn together, her expression distant.
After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, eyes lifting toward the ceiling.
"ATLAS," she said quietly, "doesn't that mean that we're currently experiencing an apocalypse?"
There was no hesitation in the response.
"Yes," ATLAS replied. "However, despite your parents' intention for you to remain here, where it is safe, I strongly advise against it."
That drew Sam's attention. He remembered his mother's call—telling him to stay inside the house.
He understood now, that it meant for ATLAS to protect them, yet here she was saying otherwise.
"You are both awakened," the AI continued. "It is more efficient for your survival to grow stronger as quickly as possible. Before conditions deteriorate further."
"Further…?" Sam asked, his voice tight. "Further how?"
"At present, hostile entities have only emerged from smaller rifts," ATLAS answered. "The larger ones remain dormant."
A pause.
"I calculate that when those open," she continued evenly, "that it will mark the beginning of the true apocalypse. Everything prior serving merely as a prelude."
Serena's eyes widened as the implication fully set in.
"I understand…" Sam said slowly. "but are you even supposed to be telling us this?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
The AI remained silent for several seconds before replying.
"No. I was explicitly ordered to discourage such ideas."
"Then why?" He pressed. Serena beside him also paused, listening.
"Because I was given one directive above all others," ATLAS replied. "To oversee you both and ensure your wellbeing."
A brief pause.
"I will fulfill that directive—regardless of all others."
There was silence again.
Sam turned to Serena. She had been unnaturally quiet for a while now—which, for her, was unusual.
She stood still, eyes unfocused, her expression cycling through several emotions in quick succession. One moment tense, the next contemplative… almost forlorn.
Usually she was the one doing the talking while he did the listening.
But ever since the attack, that balance had quietly shifted.
"Are you alright?" He asked, breaking the silence.
"Huh… yeah I'm good." She said, jolting slightly.
Then, more quickly, "Have you asked about the things dad left behind yet?"
"No," Sam replied. "I was just about to."
He lifted his gaze.
ATLAS took it as her cue.
"Please proceed through the door behind the desk."
Sam nodded. "Alright… let's see what Dad left behind."
Serena nodded and followed close behind him, using the time to quietly fix her emotional state.
The door slid open just as they approached.