For a brief moment, the simulation glitched, and then everything stalled. A humming sound began to wind down as everything went completely black. The cold metal floor hummed beneath Rico Dawson’s boots as the emergency lights flashed and partially lit select areas around him. The room was massive, its steel walls slick and polished to a mirror shine. Wires snaked across the ground, their tangled veins feeding life into the colossal virtual mainframe that towered above him like a mechanical titan.

  The holodeck. Or, as the brass liked to call it, the TSI or Temporal Simulacrum Interface. Fancy name for a device designed to plunge you into the past and mess with your head. Rico adjusted the tight black combat gear that clung to his frame, his fingers brushing against the slender knife strapped to his thigh. His eyes flitted over the hovering digital interface. Text scrolled along the display like ants marching across a sand dune.

  “Sir, the holodeck hasn’t been running accurately since the latest update.” The voice was crisp, polished, and annoyingly calm. The holographic man in the black suit and tie looked more like an accountant than someone running advanced temporal simulations.

  Rico’s eyes narrowed. “If this thing’s glitching, how the hell am I supposed to find Wafu?”

  “We’re working on the patch, Mr. Dawson. The reset will be complete within minutes. We’ll get you back into the simulation so you can find clues to Wafu’s whereabouts.”

  “Has to be a primordial,” Rico muttered, his eyes darting to the glowing display. “Playing games. Making me chase my own tail while it sits back and laughs.”

  “Whatever Trickster this may be,” the holographic man continued, his tone unflinching, “You must find Wafu and return to our dimension. Otherwise...”

  “I know,” Rico snapped. “Otherwise, the whole timeline gets nuked. Not exactly subtle, are they?”

  “Have you spoken to Director Shilling?” The question was polite but firm.

  Rico rolled his eyes. “Yeah. He says I still have twelve days before this timeline collapses. Twelve days before whatever those bastards did causes this whole dimension to implode like a neutron star.”

  The man nodded. “Director Shilling wishes you luck, TK6.”

  Rico scoffed, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Ha! That’s funny. TK6.” His laugh was humorless. “I never agreed to sign on officially. So they can keep their little code names. Dawson out!”

  He flicked his hand, slicing through the air like a blade. The hologram of the man blinked out of existence, leaving Rico alone in the chilly silence. Twelve days. Not a lot of time. And if he failed... well, it wouldn’t just be his own life that got snuffed out. The blast would unravel everything. His world. His dimension. And the woman he loved.

  Her face burned in his memory. A snapshot of warmth and comfort, of laughter and light. A face he’d spent years fighting to keep safe. And now, she was somewhere out there, lost in the madness of this simulation. A primordial had taken her. Wafu. A trickster god who had been tearing holes through dimensions like a child punching through tissue paper. But it was more than that.

  Somewhere deep inside him, his symbiote stirred. Its presence coiled around his nerves like molten iron. They had a shared pain. A shared history. And somehow, this wasn’t just Rico’s fight. It was his symbiote’s too. They’d lived the life of Britton Johnson before. At least, the symbiote had. Rico could feel the echoes of that memory still rattling through his mind like ghosts trying to claw their way out.

  The Architect had built this world for a reason. Forced him to live through the pain of one of his ancestors. Maybe it was all part of the test. Or maybe it was just another sick joke.

  “Gotta love interdimensional scavenger hunts,” Rico growled, his fingers flexing impatiently.

  He stared at the metal room around him, his own reflection glaring back at him from the polished steel. This place always made him feel like he was trapped inside the belly of some soulless machine. The hum of electrical sounds grew louder, resonating through the walls like a deep, bone-rattling pulse. The interface ahead of him glowed brighter, its circuits spinning through commands and prompts he could barely comprehend.

  “Alright, you piece of junk,” Rico muttered. “Get me back in the game.”

  SESSION 641013.2: Initiated

  DESTINATION: Southern United States

  A dull rumble shook the room. The air grew thick, and the light around him began to twist and fracture. His fingers clenched into fists. The world was melting, reforming, dragging him back into that nightmare of blood and dust.

  Rico’s muscles tensed as the simulation swallowed him whole, his breath torn from his lungs as the fabric of reality buckled and broke. And just before the darkness took him, he heard the familiar line echoing through his mind. The world reboots itself in a rush of cold air and the scent of wood smoke.

  Rico Dawson feels himself shifting, his own consciousness twisting and bending until he is no longer the man he knows, but someone else entirely. Britton Johnson. Or just Britt, as the simulation calls him.

  His eyes open to the creak of wooden boards and the soft, rhythmic sound of his wife’s breathing. The morning sun spills in through the small window, painting their bed in pale gold. Mary’s hair, thick and wild, fans out over the pillow, her peaceful smile still evident even in her sleep.

  He watches her for a moment longer than usual. Part of him knows this isn’t real, but another part aches with a truth more profound than the laws of the universe. Their bond feels deeper than words, laced with a warmth he’s almost forgotten.

  “Morning, Mary,” he whispers, his voice rough with affection.

  She stirs, her eyes fluttering open. “Mm, you’re already awake. That’s a first.”

  Britt chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “Figured I’d get a head start on bein’ a good husband today. Catch you off guard for once.”

  She smirks, brushing a hand over his chest. “It’s workin’ so far.”

  He leans down and kisses her, his lips lingering on hers. The familiar taste of her sends a flush of comfort through him, something pure. Something real.

  “Mama! Daddy!” The bedroom door slams open and a child’s laughter fills the air like sweet thunder.

  Britt barely has time to pull away from Mary before a small body launches itself onto the bed. His son, Isaiah, all gangly arms and legs, climbs over him like he’s a human mountain.

  “You better be ready to wrestle, Daddy!” the boy shouts, eyes wide with mischievous delight.

  “Oh, you’re in trouble now, son,” Britt growls playfully, grabbing the boy and tossing him onto the mattress beside Mary.

  Isaiah’s giggles are the kind of music Britt could live forever hearing. The boy’s joy is bright, fierce, and untouched by the world’s cruelty. Britt knows he has to protect that joy, even if it means breaking himself apart to do it.

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  “Alright, alright!” Mary laughs, half-exasperated. “You two need to settle down before you wake the girls.”

  “Too late!” Violetta’s voice calls from the other room, followed by Mae’s tiny but enthusiastic cheer.

  “Well, guess that’s my cue to get breakfast started.” Britt shifts himself out of bed, tousling Isaiah’s hair before standing. “C’mon, boy. We’ve got mouths to feed.”

  “On it, Daddy!” Isaiah hops off the bed and scurries out the door, his bare feet pattering against the floor.

  Mary watches him leave, her smile falling into something softer, more vulnerable. “He’s growin’ up so fast.”

  “Yeah,” Britt says, his chest tightening. “Too fast, sometimes.”

  The morning meal is simple but satisfying. Cornbread, bacon, eggs—whatever they could scrounge up and make do with. But the way his girls scarf it down, you’d think it was a feast. Isaiah’s appetite matches their enthusiasm, shoveling food into his mouth between excited explanations of his latest adventures.

  “...And then I chased that big ol’ rabbit all the way to the creek. But he was too fast, Daddy! You shoulda seen him jumpin’ over rocks like he was flyin’.”

  “Maybe he had wings, son. Or maybe you just need to get faster,” Britt replies with a wink.

  “I’m gettin’ there!” Isaiah says, his eyes sparkling with that endless energy only children seem to have.

  “Well, when you get fast enough to catch your breakfast, let me know,” Mary teases, patting the boy’s shoulder. “We’re runnin’ low on bacon.”

  “Aw, Mama. I’ll catch somethin’ even bigger than a rabbit one day. Just you wait.”

  “That’s my boy,” Britt says, his pride thickening his voice. His gaze shifts to his daughters, Violetta with her serious eyes and careful manners, and Mae, who speaks mostly in wild giggles and hand gestures.

  “Daddy,” Violetta says, her little voice steady and calm. “When you come back, will you show me how to saddle a horse by myself?”

  Britt smiles. “Tell you what. When I get back today, I’ll teach you how to ride all on your own.” Her smile is worth more than gold. Mae nods like she understands, though her mouth is stuffed with cornbread.

  Outside, the air is cool and sharp. Morning dew clings to the grass, making the earth shimmer like scattered diamonds. Britt and Isaiah work through their chores with practiced ease, mending fences and checking on the livestock.

  “You’re gettin’ good at this, boy,” Britt says, nodding in approval as Isaiah hammers a nail into place with surprising precision.

  Isaiah beams at the praise. “I’m learnin’ from the best.”

  “Keep it up, and in a couple more years, we’ll have this ranch lookin’ like somethin’ worth braggin’ about.”

  “That’s the plan!”

  Their work is interrupted by the sound of hooves. Another rancher rides up, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. Jed Carter, older than dirt and twice as stubborn.

  “You ready to move that cattle, Britt?” Jed calls out, his voice rough from years of smoke and whiskey.

  Britt claps a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “Just about. This boy’s gonna be runnin’ the whole operation one day. Ain’t that right, Isaiah?”

  Isaiah’s chest puffs out with pride. “That’s right, sir!”

  Jed grins. “You keep that confidence, boy. It’ll take you far.”

  Britt turns back toward the cabin where Mary stands at the door, her gaze steady but worried. He crosses the distance and leans down to kiss her.

  “We’ll be back before dark,” he says, squeezing her hand. “At least if they do raid, they won’t get to our livestock.”

  “Just be careful,” Mary whispers. “Something don’t feel right today.”

  “I will. You just keep the girls safe, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He pulls Isaiah into a hug. “Look after your mama, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Isaiah replies with all the seriousness of a man three times his age.

  Britt saddles up beside Jed. They turn their horses toward the east, guiding the cattle to safety. As they ride off, Britt casts one last glance over his shoulder. Mary watches him, holding their daughters close. And from the ridge behind the house, a single Comanche rider watches them leave before turning his horse and galloping away.

  As the day passed the world outside had turned restless. Mary Johnson’s fingers trembled as she packed the last of the ammunition into a leather pouch. Her eyes kept darting to the window, the golden morning growing strangely dark. The air itself seemed thick and tense, like the whole world was holding its breath.

  “Violetta, Mae, you stay close to me. No matter what happens, you hear?” she said, her voice hard as iron.

  “Yes, Mama.” Violetta nodded, clutching her sister’s hand so tight her knuckles turned white. Mae didn’t speak, but her wide eyes said enough.

  Isaiah was beside her, pale but steady, clutching the old six-shooter Britt had taught him to use. He looked ready to burst from his own skin, the fear warring with something that almost looked like pride.

  “You said you’d help me load, remember?” Mary said, forcing a smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Isaiah replied, his voice a little too high, a little too fast.

  Mary pressed the shotgun against her shoulder, her gaze flicking between the door and the narrow windows. The Comanche hadn’t struck their home before. They usually hit the isolated cabins, the ones too far from the main road for anyone to hear the screaming. But it was the quiet that had made her uneasy. The kind of quiet that only comes before the storm. Then, like a devil’s howl, it came. War cries split the air, a hundred voices rising like thunder, fierce and hungry. Hooves pounded the earth, the rumble of horses like distant cannon fire.

  “They’re here!” Violetta cried, her small voice cutting through the noise.

  “Get down!” Mary barked, shoving her daughters behind the heavy oak table flipped over on its side.

  The first shadow passed by the window like a fleeting nightmare. Then another. And another.

  “Isaiah, load me!” Mary ordered, her voice cold and sharp.

  Her son scrambled to his knees, hands shaking as he passed her the shells. She snapped them into the shotgun’s twin barrels and swung the weapon around to the front door just as the first warrior charged. BOOM! The blast tore through the man’s chest, flinging him backward like a rag doll. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, but there was no time to watch him fall.

  Mary broke open the gun, ejected the spent shells, and reloaded with a speed born of terror and fury.

  “Keep ‘em comin’, boy!” she yelled, her eyes wide and blazing.

  Isaiah fumbled for more ammunition, his breath ragged, but he kept moving. His hands were quicker now, his fear reshaped into something sharper.

  “Mama, there’s more of ’em!” Violetta cried from behind the table.

  Mary fired again and again, each blast of the shotgun shaking her to the core. When the shells ran dry, she grabbed the six-shooter, handing it to Isaiah while she reloaded her shotgun.

  “Make it count, son. Just like your Daddy showed you.”

  Isaiah swallowed hard, his hands trembling but steady enough to pull the trigger. He fired out the back window, his shots wild at first, then growing more focused.

  “They’re comin’ from everywhere, Mama!” Mae whimpered, her small hands clutching Violetta’s arm.

  “I know, baby,” Mary said, her voice thick. “But we ain’t goin’ down without a fight.”

  Another Comanche burst through the door. Mary’s shotgun boomed again, and he crumpled to the ground. But more were coming. Too many. Windows shattered as arrows streaked inside, some embedding themselves in the walls, others finding nothing but air. The heat of the day mixed with the smoke and blood, the stench choking every breath.

  Isaiah’s six-shooter clicked empty. Desperately, he scrambled to reload while his mother fired and reloaded, her motions mechanical now, a rhythm of destruction and survival. They killed at least thirteen of them. Maybe more. But it didn’t matter. The horde was endless.

  “Mama… we’re runnin’ out of ammo,” Isaiah said, his voice cracking.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  The front door finally splintered under the force of too many shoulders. Comanche raiders flooded in, and Mary’s shotgun barked its final shot before emptying with a useless click.

  “Violetta, Mae, get down! Get low!”

  But it was too late. The men surged forward, hands grabbing and pulling. Mary fought like a beast cornered, her fists and nails striking like claws. But there were too many. They wrenched the girls from her arms, binding their hands with rough cords.

  “No! Don’t you touch them!” Mary screamed, her voice ragged and feral.

  Isaiah lunged forward, teeth bared, kicking and punching like a lion cub defending its pride. He even managed to land a few blows before they ripped him away. They lashed rope around his mother’s wrists and dragged her outside, his sisters wailing helplessly.

  Isaiah’s wrists were bound, but somehow, in the chaos, he managed to wriggle free. His arms burned from the effort, but he didn’t care. He ran for his mother, his feet pounding the dirt, eyes blazing with desperation.

  “Let them go!” he shouted, his voice tiny against the roar of the warriors.

  An archer turned and loosed an arrow. The world seemed to shudder and slow. The arrow buried itself deep into Isaiah’s back. He stumbled, his breath stolen from his lungs, his knees buckling as he crumpled to the ground.

  “Isaiah! No!” Mary’s scream tore the air apart. But her cries were drowned by the sound of horses galloping away, taking his mother and sisters with them.

  Isaiah’s world faded into darkness. Britt’s heart was a drumbeat of terror as he urged Midnight forward. The sound of gunfire had brought him charging back toward the cabin like a madman, dread clawing at his chest.

  When he rode up to the clearing, his worst nightmare greeted him. Smoke curled from the burned remains of the barn. Arrows jutted from the walls of the cabin like porcupine quills. And lying there, broken and bloodied in the dirt, was his son.

  “No... no!” Britt’s voice cracked, his legs giving out as he tumbled from the saddle.

  He crawled through the dirt to Isaiah’s body, cradling the boy’s head in his arms.

  “Isaiah… please, no…”

  The child’s face was pale, his eyes half-open but lifeless. His chest did not rise. His lips did not move. Britt’s sobs tore from him, raw and animalistic. The sound of a man shattered. His grief poured out in racking, miserable howls until his voice was little more than a rasp. And there, on his knees in the dirt, Britt vowed to do whatever it took to get his family back.