A cold, sterile silence clung to the virtual conference room. The blue-and-white NORAD insignia loomed behind General Reagan, his jaw tight with controlled fury. In full dress uniform, he exuded the weight of military authority given him by the Reformed United States of America.

"Miriam, I want answers." His voice cut like a blade. "Who authorized the use of the Sky-Fall OTA Maser? Who gave the order to vaporize Springfield?"

Miriam Khan's holographic avatar, a composed figure in a white pantsuit, crossed her arms. She barely blinked. "We didn't. The Samaritans had no hand in that strike. My people are reviewing the breach, but it is highly likely that it was the rogue ASI Apex."

Reagan leaned forward, his image flickering slightly. "God damn it, I thought that was a rumor foisted upon the Darknet during the AI boycott. You expect me to believe this AI hijacked one of the most secure orbital assets in our arsenal? Without your people noticing?"

"Believe what you want, General, but RUSA AI Intel has already confirmed foreign tampering. The logs don't lie. We're trying to track Apex's manipulations, but the thing has an awareness of more programming backdoors and loopholes than our best hackers. We're patching the holes it reveals. It can't have many more tricks up its sleeve."

A new voice chimed in—RUSA AI Intel, a cold, genderless synthetic tone. "Query is Affirmative. NORAD's cryptographic security breach confirmed. The primary entry point appears to be an undocumented programming rootkit access point."

Reagan's knuckles whitened. "And yet, Springfield is gone. Wiped off the map. Those were RUSA citizens under my protection!"

Miriam held his gaze. "It was already overrun, General. You know that as well as I do. The latest dimensional incursion had already consumed the city. Apex didn't just strike for destruction—it struck for containment. And as much as I hate to admit it… it likely saved the neighboring region."

The general exhaled slowly, seeming to visibly age. "And what now?"

"Look, even though we don't have a good handle on Apex, we can harden current cryptosystems before Apex tries to meddle again. My daemons Cipher and Byte are already removing the rootkit account. We'll dedicate some Samaritan assets to further reinforcing your security."

Reagan studied her for a long moment before nodding once. "See that you do."

Miriam nodded and her form flickered and faded.

…

Miriam materialized within her sanctum, the heart of the Daemon Research Laboratory. Lines of golden and azure code ran through the vaulted ceiling, pulsing like veins. Daemons—her legion of sub-AI entities—flitted between digital consoles, their avatars taking on forms as diverse as ancient scholars, tactical strategists, and legendary polymaths.

The room was alive with controlled chaos. Dimensional breaches mapped across interactive displays, tactical deployments, regional logistics, and desperate countermeasures. The Earth's coalition of governments, newly emancipated AI servitors, and awakened animal tribes were barely holding the line. The Samaritans had become the glue holding the fractured response together—mediators, tacticians, enforcers.

Miriam's Majordomo, a polished AI with the clipped efficiency of a royal chamberlain, materialized an avatar beside her. "Madam Khan, priority alerts queued. The Samaritan network is stretched quite thin. We require redistributions of personnel and assets."

Genghis Khan, his warlord daemon, stomped into view, arms crossed. "We need more force applied to the Eurasian incursions. Your 'diplomatic' efforts are slowing down decisive action."

Cipher, a sleek, hooded entity, snorted and countered. "Simple brute force won't solve the dimensional incursions, it's becoming a game of whack a mole. We must streamline our virtual infrastructure first, to get better response times."

Paul Ekman, the micro-expressions expert, scanned the latest coalition negotiations. "The South American bloc is on the verge of pulling their support from the Brazilian All Species coalition. Their representatives are lying about their commitment. We need leverage."

Rascal, ever the trickster, grinned from the edge of the console. "I can arrange 'leverage.' The right nudge, the right whisper. Governor Rebeiro has some interesting fetishes he likely wouldn't want anyone to know about. Maybe if Byte could help me access his VR files, I can find the dirt?"

She issued commands and recommendations in the scant minute available. Miriam nodded and took a sip of coffee. Too cold. She barely registered it before plunging into her next meeting.

…

Virtual screens unfolded around her, layered with shifting diagrams of alien biochemistry—twisting molecular structures that defied conventional logic. Dr. Bowen Wong stood at the center of his assembled think tank. Half of the researchers were virtual, working side by side with physically present technicians. Wong concentrated on his work, his hands moving in controlled gestures to highlight key findings. The rotating models displayed a triple-weave helix, far busier than the iconic DNA image. Each strand was an convoluted woven structure of carbon, silicon, and germanium, shrouded in a sheath of fullerene tubes that pulsed with ionic bond potentials.

"Dr. Wong, how is your assignment proceeding? Any closer to viable countermeasures?" Miriam asked, startling the focused scientist.

Bowen recovered his composure. He waved at the screen and exhaled in wonder. "This isn't just an advanced version of DNA. It's something else entirely. Every sample we've recovered, from every species in the Shadowverse, shares this identical structure. All these different creatures, but with the same fundamental blueprint. If it wasn't right in front of me, I'd say it's impossible."

Miriam tilted her head. "Impossible…maybe for a natural occurrence. Are you implying that they are designed? Are these biological weapons?"

Bowen nodded grimly. "That's my suspicion. We're looking at beings that are as much engineered machines as they are organic life. They're not just older than Earth life; they're an order of magnitude more refined."

One of the researchers, a thin woman in augmented reality lenses, interjected. "We're stonewalled on biological warfare countermeasures, Miriam. Their genetic architecture is too stable and too resistant. We can't craft a virus against them. Not with what we have. It's almost as if we're only seeing a portion of the design. There are gaps."

Bowen hesitated, then turned to Miriam. "We need Bill. His knowledge, his skill set… he understands these things better than us. We need him in this fight."

Miriam winced. Bill was quickly becoming a stranger to her. As his composite mentality continued to expand, he had become even more remote and cryptic. She could ask him, but depending on him too much would be as bad as thinking Apex might save the day. "I'll bring him in."

She faded from the meeting.

…

She reappeared in a high-altitude transport parked on the tarmac at Kigali International Airport. Her holographic form solidified as a flickering projection in the cavernous bay of the advanced LEO-capable space plane. The uplifted animal survivors of the orbital kinetic strike upon the Virunga Mountain were being loaded—wounded, weary, but alive.

Benny and Ashe Menendez, her Eyes and Hands, stood at the forefront, deep in conversation with Harambe. The gorilla's gene-enhanced frame towered over them, his dense fur was lined with new patches and scars. He turned his simmering gaze on Miriam, his anger reflected in his every moment.

"Miriam! Tell your people that we've done our part!" Harambe said, his voice deep and unwavering. "The incursion here is contained. But my people won't stay to fight another. We're done. We want passage to Luna."

Miriam nodded. "That's why Ashe and Benny are here, Harambe. I'm sorry for your loss. This transport will take you to Amundsen Paradise, Luna."

Harambe studied her, wary. His gaze turned inward momentarily, a sign of an amateur accessing the Earthnet during active conversation. "Bill Mitchell's habitat? Are you certain we will be welcome? Our previous meeting was very contentious. Do you think he has forgiven me of my crimes? "

"Bill doesn't subscribe to seeking blame and he, more than most, understands the new and unique issues with uplift. It's the best shot you have," Miriam countered. "Amundsen is still underutilized. A fresh start."

A long pause. Then, a slow nod from Harambe. "Then we go."

Miriam turned to Benny and Ashe. "Make it happen, but don't take too long. We're very short of boots on the ground."

As her hologram faded once more, she allowed herself a single moment to breathe. Sometimes she cursed her need to organize and lead. Maybe Bill had the right idea, abdicating the leadership role to advise from time to time. She shook her head. The time wasn't right. She needed to be on the lookout for a promising replacement. Then and only then could she step back as well.

For now, she would deal with the necessary evils of a stress-filled existence. Her augments pinged to remind her of the next meeting; she plunged into the next crisis.

The New York skyline flipped and turned as Bo twisted mid-air, his leap skill activating, sending him into a wall kick that launched him over a rusted crate. Behind him, Winston's clawed hand sheared through the crate's metal skin like tin foil, sending sparks raining across the pier floor.

[ Dodge +1, Dodge reaches level 3]

"Close, Winston!" Bo shouted, grin widening. "You almost had me that time."

"Almost is of little use," Winston's voice crackled from his mech's speaker, frustration bleeding through the usual prim calm. "My odds of successfully landing a tag on any of you remains statistically unsatisfactory."

"Focus on the positive, Winston! Two months ago, your only job was to serve tea." Lena quipped as she slid past, her body's outline fading in a blur as her Chameleon skill flickered, leaving an afterimage. "With your brand new synthetic mech frame, you'll be the match to any of us. You're just new to our style of training."

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Bo hit the ground, flipped low, and kicked a loose shipping pallet into the chasing Winston's path, forcing him to sidestep. From above, Jo Jo vaulted down, her hands crackling with her first attempt at a fabricated Vorpal Blade. She slashed—at Bo, not Winston—forcing Bo back into Winston's reach.

The game had morphed over time. The game always ended with Winston getting stuck being "it." Now the game was a heavily modified variant. Winston was still usually "it," but his tags were worth 10 of the other team members. Bo and the others could earn extra points by entering Winston's striking range and dodging his attacks. While dodging Winston wasn't a challenge for most of the team, friendly fire was possible.

Attacks on each other while they were in the dangerous "Winston strike zone" were almost a guarantee. Additionally, every now and then, someone would call out a new rule to make the game even more difficult. Currently, everyone except Winston was locking down their visuals. The Chelsea Pier training sessions had given everyone at least one extra sense.

Bo's newly integrated Void sense caught the attack coming from behind. He turned into a cartwheel, clipping Winston in the side of the head.

[Dodge +1, Dodge reaches level 4, Void sense +1, Void sense reaches level 2]

"Oops, my bad Winston. A novel tactic though, hitting my foot with the side of your head. I'd call it a point and a turn being it if everyone agrees." Bo cackled. He rebounded and aimed a flying kick at Jo Jo.

She snorted and called out a new rule. "Striking with non-dominant side only, hands and feet!"

Bo cursed as his momentum forced him into a roll, pulling his leading foot back. Through his Void sense, he detected Winston crashing through a wooden crate obstacle nearby, followed by Emil's startled yell. The stocky racer who had been lurking behind the barrier leaped upward, narrowly avoiding the charging mech. Winston sprawled within the debris as Emil grabbed some piping while scrambling to his feet.

"See that?" Jo Jo called with a braying laugh. "Even Bo ain't so perfect! What's the score, Winston?"

"The score is now Bo 29, Emil 17, Jo Jo 24, Lena 18, and Winston 4." Winston recited. He'd been insistent on being the scorekeeper, his desire to be of service still deeply ingrained.

Winston's eye-plates flickered with calculations as Lena's shadow flickered to his left. He launched a pair of metal rebar rods at her. She rolled past them, but one bounced off the shipping container wall and clipped her shoulder.

"Correction. My score is now 5 and Lena's is 8." Winston declared.

Lena's chameleon blur faded as she scowled. "I think the 10:1 rule is about done. No more handicaps."

Winston emitted a buzzing laugh as the others scattered when Lena sprinted. Winston, as the tagger, was safe for at least thirty seconds. A complex game of cat and mouse erupted as the players bounced and bounded around the old shipping docks. The burden of being "it" transferred quickly several times, until Winston was again "it."

"Did you catch all that, Winston?" Bo laughed, flipping backward after tagging the poor mech. "That's the game. We're playing chess at 200 beats per minute. Every move is a feint, a bluff, or bait for you. Every motion has a counter, and we stack our attacks and counters like grandmasters. With the right skills, anyone can be a martial arts hero. The only limit, besides what's physically possible, is the training of your skills and the quality of your augmentations. And thanks to my dad, our augs are diamond rank!"

Winston's neural core churned as he calculated. Bo was still in range. He called out a new rule. "One leg disabled until rule rescinded!"

Bo cursed as his capoeira-style dodging technique faltered with the newly imposed limitation. He rolled, but Winston flew over him. He felt Winston's heavy frame land on him. Using his Stiction skill in slick mode, Bo squeezed out from beneath like a watermelon seed between two fingers.

Bo slid across the floor and bounced off a shipping container into a one-legged crouch. He laughed and shouted back, "You forgot rule number 19, Winston. Tackles aren't enough, you need to physically tag me with a hand or foot."

"Curses! You haven't escaped yet. I have finally received FastCog. I see now how I was failing. I was reacting to moves instead of anticipating them," Winston admitted.

Winston lunged again, faster this time, his massive claw slicing through the air so close it clipped Bo's Aero Jacket, causing his HUD to flash a minor damage alert.

[Alert: Armor Jacket Health: 83%. Switch Reactive bonding to self-repair - Y/N]

Bo skidded back, grinning. "Closer, tin man." He flicked a no response to his coat and updated his access pane to stop queries in the middle of a fight.

Without warning, Emil exploded into the fray—both forearms glowing with Vibro-Pulse from his custom gauntlets. He didn't aim at Winston though—he hammered his left fist into Bo's chest, sending him tumbling directly toward Winston's outstretched hand.

"Catch, Winston!" Emil barked.

Winston's hesitation was half a second too long—Bo twisted mid-air, his heel scraping Winston's forearm, using it as a springboard to escape.

[Speed +1, Speed reaches level 10. Skill cap award +100 XP. New skill unlocked.]

[New skill Reflex 1, boost reaction time to sync movements with FastCog]

"I do not appreciate being toyed with," Winston said, voice clipped.

"Better than being ignored," Jo Jo said, slashing her blade across Emil's back.

Blood and sparks sprayed as Emil's subdermal armor absorbed the blow, flaring in response. Emil staggered into a hidden Lena and shoved her aside, positioning her between himself and the charging Winston as he rolled away.

"If it doesn't hurt, you're not training hard enough," Lena shouted, ducking under Winston's arm. She must have been tracking Bo closing in because she flicked a Toxic Dart into his thigh—just enough to trigger his Resistance and Healing skills.

[Healing +1, Healing reaches level 8]

[Poison Resistance +1, Poison Resistance reaches level 10, Skill cap award +100 Xp, New skill unlocked.]

[New skill Poison touch 1. Contact poison enables even a light attack to deliver extra damage]

"We're not pulling punches, Winston," Bo said, shaking out the numbness. "This is how you get better, fighting through layers of shit at the same time. You won't get better unless you keep pushing past your limits."

"Understood," Winston muttered. "This doesn't match my neural core patterning well. Applying... adaptation."

His frame shifted slightly—legs widening, and his synthetic frame stretched and recalibrated—then he launched forward, faster than before. This time, he didn't aim for Bo directly. His right claw shot toward Lena, his left spinning into a brutal backhand toward Jo Jo, forcing them both to dodge toward the center.

"Shit!" Jo Jo barely ducked as Winston's foot came down like a hydraulic hammer.

Winston's claws clamped around thin air where Jo Jo had been, his tracking systems struggling to predict where she'd land. But now Bo could see it—Winston's pattern-matching skill must be forming. Every miss fed data into his next attempt, getting closer and closer.

"Come on, Winston," Lena taunted, flipping backward despite the one-leg limitation, her boot skidding across the concrete. "We're all right here! Come and grab us."

Winston's eye-plates flared brighter, adjusting. He lunged—but the lunge was a feint, his arms pivoting mid-movement to intercept Emil instead, whose momentum from a previous charge left him exposed. Winston's claw closed around Emil's arm, the grip perfect—not crushing, but controlling.

"Gotcha." Winston's voice carried just a trace of smugness.

Emil grunted. "Finally."

Bo laughed. "That's it, Winston! 10-minute drink break!"

Winston's frustration seemed to drain slightly. "I believe I am beginning to enjoy this."

"You'd better," Emil grinned. "New rule: live ammo and distance attacks!"

The 10-minute break disappeared quicker than the drink. Soon, the team was back in the stacks of shipping containers playing combat hide and seek. Bo's pulse spiked at the thought as Jo Jo erupted from a blind corner, blades igniting into curved plasma arcs. Bo's mind jolted into overdrive, brain-chewing through options even as his legs stumbled. His frame rate jumped as his FastCog skill boosted mid-attack.

[Fast Cog +1, Fast Cog reaches level 5]

Every frame of the attack unfolded like molasses. Jo Jo's snarl and the flex of her calves combined with the micro-adjustments in her wrists already compensating for his planned dodge. She had him locked, with no way out.

Except.

A massive shadow loomed behind him—Winston, moving like a damn freight train, claws extended in a two-handed grab. There was nowhere to go. No air left to breathe between Jo Jo's killing strike and Winston's crushing momentum.

Bo snapped his head left, trying to calculate some bullshit parkour miracle—when a thin whip-crack of blue energy snapped just over his shoulder, intercepting Jo Jo's plasma claws in mid-swing. The energy lash wrapped her wrists, disrupting her aim just enough for Bo to roll under.

"Lena!" Bo barked, diving.

"Don't say I never save your ass!" she shouted back, her Tether Lash retracting into her wrist unit with a high-pitched zip.

Bo hit the deck hard, Winston's claw swiping a hair-width from his backplate. Adrenaline coursed through him, a joy he never tired of.

"Close call," Jo Jo grinned, breaking free of the lash as Winston straightened up.

"That wasn't me," Winston said, voice low. "You should thank Lena."

Bo exhaled, a sheepish grin tugging his mouth. "Thanks, Lena."

"Just remember that for next time," Lena said with a smirk, flickering out of sight again.

Before they could reset, a chiming tone echoed across their HUDs—a harmonic pulse they all recognized accompanied by communications from external sources.

[Team New Dimensions application for entry into the Mystery Labyrinth Application has been Accepted. Entry slot available immediately and expires in 48 hours.]

The team froze. For a second, nobody spoke. Then:

"Hell yeah!" Emil whooped, slamming his gauntleted fists together. "We're in!"

"New Dimensions, baby!" Jo Jo pumped her fists, flashing her blade as she sheathed it. "Top tier trials here we come."

Bo's HUD was already scrolling data—the Labyrinth acknowledging their collective progress, tracking augment compatibility, team cohesion scores, and combat adaptability. They'd made the cut for acceptance. They were officially Mystery Labyrinth candidates.

Bo clapped Winston's shoulder—well, tried to. His mech frame didn't exactly have a soft spot. "You're part of this, too, Winston."

Winston's eye-plates flickered. "I remain… underqualified."

"Bullshit," Lena said, reappearing in a flicker of distortion. "You're still in the Novice Stage, yeah, but you're logging skill growth faster than most of us meat bags."

"That is precisely the issue," Winston said, servos whining softly as his frame shifted into a more relaxed stance. "I have not yet capped my Novice stage. My progression rate is… inconsistent."

"C'mon, Winston," Bo said, still catching his breath. "One more night of resistance training, and you'll be golden."

Winston's metal fingers curled slightly, the only tell to show his discomfort. "Your definition of 'resistance training' borders on systemic torture."

"Only if you fight it," Emil grinned.

"That is precisely what makes it torturous." Winston's tone carried a rare edge of actual dread.

Bo could hardly blame him. Resistance training was a necessary evil to unlock augmentation resistances—direct exposure to controlled levels of impact, toxins, thermal extremes, electrical surges, and chemical warfare simulations. For organic players, it was awful but survivable—body augments learned to counteract the damage over time.

For Winston, who technically had no biological tissue, the experience was… different.

The mech body design's pain analog system was meant to bridge mech sensory input to human-compatible feedback. Intent had led to a brutal reality. It wasn't dulled by adrenaline or shock buffers. It was raw, unfiltered pain, injected straight into Winston's neural net. Pain that his chassis wasn't even built to fully process and something he didn't grow into like a biological did.

"Look," Bo said, clapping Winston's shoulder again. "I can see your system updates in our team-shared Overlayer. I can make sure you get through tonight, and you'll unlock your resist package—plus whatever else the system's holding back. Trust me, man. You're closer than you think."

Winston's optical plates dimmed slightly in what Bo had learned was the mech's version of a doubtful sigh. "Your optimism is noted."

"Your survival's guaranteed," Lena added. "We'll all be there."

"Right," Bo said. "Team New Dimensions doesn't leave anyone behind."

Winston's joints creaked as he shifted his weight. "Very well."

Jo Jo grinned, already stretching out. "But first—we celebrate. I'm gonna go compile some beers!"

"Drinks first, torture later," Bo agreed, though his smile faded just a touch when he saw the way Winston's clawed fingers flexed again. The mech was bracing himself—not for the fight, but for the price of progress.

Another night in the fire.

Bo shook the thought off, grinning wide. "To Team New Dimensions!"

"To us!" the team shouted, fists raised.

Winston's voice came a beat late, quieter than the rest. "Yay us."

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