The air in Paleview City felt different now.

It wasn't the lingering stench of smoke or the quiet that came after violence. It was something less tangible—an undercurrent in the silence, a weight in the atmosphere that told everyone the world had changed. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a reddish-orange glow over buildings that still bore scars from the earlier chaos. Streets were quieter than they should've been at this hour, with civilians either tending to the injured or mourning those who wouldn't return.

Derek sat alone in the small, reinforced living room of his mansion—one of the only luxuries awarded to him by the system. The large monitor, mounted above an empty shelf, flickered to life.

A static screen snapped into a government insignia. No build-up. No cinematic opening.

Just a voice.

"This is a national emergency broadcast from the Central Governmental Communication Network."

The voice was male, calm and trained. There was no panic behind the words, only a deliberate, practised pace meant to soothe, meant to lead.

"All citizens across Paleview, New Junction, Fenhold, and the surrounding Eastern Territories—please remain calm. We understand the confusion, the fear, and the losses you've experienced. We mourn them with you. And we want you to know this—we are not blind. We are not powerless. And we are not broken."

The feed cut to a studio—modest, yet reinforced, with a flag of the United Allied Republics hanging behind a polished steel podium. A middle-aged man in military uniform stepped into frame, eyes clear, back straight. General Marcus Halrow. Known for his decisive command during the Trident Crisis five years ago. Derek remembered him as the kind of man who never spoke unless he already had a plan.

"We now confirm the reality of what many of you have witnessed firsthand," Halrow said, voice steady. "This event is no act of terror, no rogue nation's weapon, and not a drill. This is, to put it plainly, a global event—a multidimensional incursion. An apocalypse, if you must name it."

He paused. Not for dramatic effect, but to let the words settle.

"Roughly 7 hours ago, rifts opened across the globe. These portals unleashed creatures, beings, and forces not of our Earth. While the exact cause is still under investigation, we can now confirm: these portals originate from non-Earth planes. They were not naturally occurring. This was orchestrated."

The camera cut to a map of the globe, with red pins blinking over hundreds of locations. A counter in the top corner ticked steadily downward—signifying that, at the very least, the number of active portals was dropping.

Halrow's voice returned, now overlaying footage.

"Our response was immediate, but not without cost. Thousands of soldiers, responders, and volunteers gave their lives within the first few hours to secure populated regions."

The footage shifted—streets strewn with debris, rescue teams guiding survivors, fireteams engaging monstrous silhouettes in shattered downtowns.

"Now," Halrow said, "we begin the next phase: Retaliation. And containment."

The screen shifted again—this time, to footage meant to inspire.

Derek nearly snorted at the first clip. There he was in Tempest Walker, mid-swing, drenched in monster blood, slicing through the heads of that multi-headed hydra.

Then the screen changed again—to the hulking silhouette of Phantom Cloud-1. A wide-angled camera caught the suit from above, launching a spear of concentrated plasma at the Broodmother Scarab. The explosion was captured in glorious, propagandised slow motion. The crowd of soldiers below cheered. The message was clear: we can fight back.

Derek leaned forward, watching the segment in silence. There was no credit. No mention of him by name. No consent form. No "used with permission" disclaimer.

They were using him as a symbol.

"Fantastic," he muttered to himself. "Do I at least get royalties?"

The footage continued, switching to other outposts across the Eastern Region. In one, a battalion of power-armoured troops marched through the flooded ruins of New Junction, guns lighting up creatures with glowing eyes. In another, a tactical airship strafed a mutated serpent in the heart of old Fenhold. Each shot framed the human fighters as coordinated, courageous, and unyielding.

Halrow's voice returned.

"We have already taken back over 85% of our territory. Portal sites are being secured. Bases have been reinforced. Scientists and engineers from across the globe are collaborating to understand the rift technology. Recovery has begun, and we're ahead of schedule."

Derek leaned back slightly. The message was clear: this wasn't the end. The government wasn't flailing or panicking. At least, not outwardly. They were digging in. Preparing for war.

The general now stood directly before the camera, hands clasped behind his back.

"We know many of you have lost someone. Family. Friends. Coworkers. Neighbors. Their lives mattered. And their loss will not be in vain. In every city, in every zone, recovery stations are being set up. Temporary housing. Medical centres. Hot meals. These are not just words. Their operations are already in motion."

The screen split into several smaller boxes—footage of mobile hospitals, food lines being managed, survivors being reunited. There were even small moments of children being cared for by relief workers. It was honest. Derek could appreciate that. They weren't hiding the horror, but they were showing what came next.

"We also understand that some of you may be experiencing strange symptoms," Halrow continued. "Fatigue, heightened senses, enhanced strength, changes in physical condition—these could be the result of exposure to rift energy or mutations triggered by contact with otherworldly matter."

Derek tensed slightly. The government acknowledging that was big. It meant they knew. That this wasn't just an invasion—it was a shift. In people. In biology. In reality.

"If you or someone you know begins experiencing such effects, do not panic. Do not attempt to isolate. Report to your nearest Command Observation Post or licensed health centre. We are collecting data. And we are prepared to offer treatment, containment, and—if possible—guidance."

He didn't say "arrest" or "quarantine," which meant the government was trying to keep things stable. At least in the public eye.

The camera cut back to Halrow one final time.

Lastly, let me be clear. This was not a natural disaster. Someone—or something—did this. We don't yet know who. But we will find out. And we will hold them accountable. We will rebuild. Not just our homes, but our confidence. Our unity. Our place in this world."

He paused for the first time with visible emotion.

"You are not alone. Not anymore. And we will not let this happen again."

The screen slowly faded to the UAR crest again, along with scrolling information on recovery zones, nearby shelters, and emergency contact networks. No dramatic music. No hero speeches. Just facts, and a quiet sense of resolve.

Derek sat in the silence that followed.

Outside, the city was still scarred. Fires still smouldered in the distance. But the panic was giving way to something else. Not hope—Derek didn't believe in that word. But structure. Direction.

He stood, stretched his shoulders, and walked to the monitor. The glow of the broadcast still flickered faintly in the glass.

He'd be seeing more of himself on screen soon. That much was clear. The government needed symbols. Soldiers needed rallying cries. And civilians needed to believe someone out there could punch a hydra in the face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Next time, I'm billing them."

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