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WILLOW

I spin on my heel the moment Raekon storms off, but by the time I reach the corridor, he’s already gone.

The hallways of Veritas Base Alpha are a labyrinth of glass walls and glowing panels, and I have no idea which way he went.

My heart pounds in my chest as I fumble for my compad, my fingers trembling as I pull it from my pocket.

“Captain Pyke,” I say the moment the call connects, my voice shaky but urgent. “I think Raekon’s about to do something stupid.”

Pyke’s deep, gravelly voice comes through, calm but tinged with tension. “Where are you, Willow?”

“I’m… I’m lost.” I glance around, helpless. “I don’t know where Raekon went, but he’s got a laser blaster, and he’s furious. I think he’s going to kill Malkus.”

“Stay where you are.” Pyke’s tone shifts, commanding now. “I’ll have the base guide you to the psycho-dive lab. Don’t try to stop Raekon yourself, understood?”

“Understood.” I nod, even though he can’t see me. The call ends, and a moment later, a soft chime echoes through the corridor. Holographic arrows appear on the floor, glowing a faint blue. I don’t hesitate. I take off at a run, following the arrows as they twist and turn through the maze-like base.

My lungs burn, and my side aches like someone’s driven a knife into it, but I don’t slow down. The arrows lead me deeper into the base, past startled Vakutan who step aside as I barrel past them. Finally, I burst into the psycho-dive lab, skidding to a halt just inside the doorway.

The scene before me is chaos. Raekon stands in the center of the room, his laser blaster aimed squarely at the cryo tank holding Malkus. Pyke and Winn are on either side of him, their voices raised as they try to reason with him.

“Raekon, think about what you’re doing!” Pyke’s voice booms, his red scales flushed darker with frustration. “You’ll destroy any chance we have of stopping the Grolgath!”

“He’s a monster!” Raekon snarls, his golden scales gleaming under the harsh lab lights. “Letting Willow dive into his mind is suicide. I won’t allow it!”

“And what if she’s stronger than you think?” Winn interjects, his cybernetic eye whirring as he adjusts its focus. “What if she’s the key we’ve been waiting for?”

Raekon’s grip on the blaster tightens, his knuckles white against the golden scales. “I said no.”

I don’t wait for them to notice me. My eyes land on the chair beside the cryo tank, the one Winn must have set up for the psycho-dive.

The skullcap with its web of electrodes sits on the seat, waiting.

I move quietly, slipping past the arguing Vakutan and sliding into the chair.

My hands are shaking as I fit the skullcap onto my head, the electrodes cold against my scalp.

“Willow, don’t!” Winn’s sharp cry cuts through the room as he spots me. “The failsafes aren’t active yet! You’re not ready!”

“Turn it on,” I say, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my chest. “I’m doing this.”

“Willow, stop!” Raekon’s roar is filled with desperation, but I don’t look at him. My fingers hover over the control panel on the armrest.

“I’m sorry, Raekon,” I whisper, and I press the button.

The machine hums to life, the sound low and resonant, like a plucked bass string.

The electrodes buzz against my skin, and suddenly, the world around me dissolves.

The lab, the Vakutan, the cryo tank—it all fades away, replaced by a swirling void of color and sound.

I feel myself being pulled, like a leaf caught in a whirlpool, and then I’m falling, tumbling, diving into the darkness.

“Willow!” Raekon’s voice echoes in the distance, but it’s too late.

I’m in.

The air smells like burnt plastic and despair.

I take a step back, my boots crunching on shattered glass.

The wailing grows louder, and I realize it’s not the wind—it’s them .

Dozens of alien figures, their bodies nailed to the sides of crumbling skyscrapers.

Some of them are so high up they’re just specks, their cries echoing down like some sick symphony.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The voice comes from behind me, smooth and mocking.

I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs. Malkus stands there, his grin stretching unnaturally wide, like a predator who’s already tasted blood. His eyes gleam with a malice that makes my skin crawl.

“Not real,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “This is a mindscape. None of this is real.”

“Not real, is it?” Malkus echoes, his laugh a low, guttural rumble. He steps closer, his shadow looming over me. “Yes, I can read your mind, what there is of it, puny insect. Tell me, if this isn’t real, then why do you feel… pain?”

Before I can react, a shard of glass rises from the ground, spinning in the air like some macabre ballet. It flies straight for my calf, embedding itself deep. I scream, the pain sharp and immediate, blood soaking through my pants. I stagger back, clutching at the wound.

“It’s not real,” I chant, my voice trembling but defiant. “It’s not real.”

“I am god here,” Malkus says, spreading his arms wide. More shards of glass lift from the debris, glinting in the sickly green light. They hover in the air, aimed directly at me. My stomach churns.

I turn and run, limping as the pain radiates up my leg. The streets are a maze of twisted metal and shattered buildings, and I have no idea where I’m going. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my ears.

“You can hide, but you can’t run,” Malkus calls after me, his voice dripping with amusement. The sound echoes off the walls, bouncing around me like a predator toying with its prey.

I duck behind a crumbling wall, pressing my back against it as I try to catch my breath. My leg throbs, l the warm stickiness of blood soaking through my boot.

“Shall I give you a… what do you humans call it?” Malkus’s voice is closer now, and I can hear the crunch of his footsteps. “Ah yes, a head start. Shall we say thirty seconds?”

I don’t wait. I’m already moving, forcing myself to ignore the pain as I push off the wall and stumble down the street. The glass shards whiz past me, one grazing my arm and drawing another cry of pain.

“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” Malkus’s voice follows me, taunting. I don’t look back. I can’t. I just run, my mind racing as I search for a way out, a way to fight back.

But in Malkus’s mindscape, I’m just a mouse caught in a maze with no escape.

The dilapidated house looms ahead, its sagging roof and shattered windows like a beacon of desperation. My lungs burn as I scramble toward it, the crunch of glass under my boots grating against my nerves. Malkus’s voice echoes behind me, low and mocking, but I don’t look back. I can’t.

I dive through a busted window, shards of glass scraping my arms as I tuck and roll onto a dusty hardwood floor. The air inside is thick with the smell of mildew and decay, but something about it feels… familiar. Too familiar.

“Wait a minute,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I push myself up, my eyes darting around the room. The cracked wallpaper. The threadbare couch. The old recliner that always smelled like cigars.

“No, this can’t be right.”

But it is. I’m standing in my childhood living room, down to the chipped coffee table and the outdated TV in the corner.

A cold laugh cuts through the silence. “Where have you been, Willow?”

My stomach twists as I turn to face the voice. There he is, sitting in his recliner, puffing on a cigar like he never left. My father. His face is exactly how I remember it—sharp, disapproving, and utterly indifferent.

“Out whoring around like your mother?” His voice is bored, almost casual, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of eviscerating me.

“You’re not real,” I say, my voice shaking. “You died five years ago.”

He leans forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “I’m real, Willow.” He takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curls toward the ceiling. “I just faked my death because I was so ashamed to have you for a daughter.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stumble back, my hands trembling.

“At least you could have been pretty like your mother.” He waves the cigar dismissively. “Smart girls are worthless.”

“Shut up!” My scream echoes through the room, raw and guttural. I spin around, my heart pounding as I bolt down the hallway. The walls seem to stretch and warp around me, the familiar corridors twisting into something darker, more oppressive.

I don’t look back. I can’t.

The hallway morphs as I run, the faded wallpaper peeling away to reveal cracked lockers and scuffed floors. My old high school. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering in time with my racing heartbeat.

The hallway stretches into a warped corridor of memories, the walls closing in as I run.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my legs aching, but I don’t stop.

I can’t. Up ahead, the doors to the school cafeteria burst open, and there they are: Jeanette McGurdy and her coven of mean girls.

They’re exactly how I remember them—perfectly coiffed hair, designer handbags, and smiles sharp enough to cut glass.

“Well, well, well,” Jeanette drawls, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “Look who decided to show up. Trashy Willow, the town drunk’s daughter.”

The girls giggle, their laughter echoing with a cruelty that’s all too familiar. My stomach churns, but I force myself to stand straighter, to meet Jeanette’s icy stare.

“Go to hell, Jeanette,” I snap, my voice trembling but loud enough to make her smirk falter for a second.

“Oh, honey,” she says, stepping closer. Her perfume is overpowering, a sickly sweet cloud that makes my nose wrinkle. “We’re already in hell. And you? You’re the entertainment.”

The girls circle me like vultures, their mocking voices overlapping.

“No mommy to wipe away your tears?” one sneers.

“No wonder your dad drank himself to death,” another cackles.

“Ugly and stupid. What a combo,” Jeanette says with a pitying cluck of her tongue. “Let’s make it official, shall we?”

Before I can react, they’re shoving me forward, dragging me toward a makeshift courtroom set up in the middle of the cafeteria. A folding chair serves as the judge’s bench, and Jeanette climbs onto it, gaveling a pencil against a textbook.

“All rise for the honorable Judge McGurdy!” one of the girls announces, and they all burst into laughter.

“Willow Christian,” Jeanette begins, her voice mock-serious. “You stand accused of the crimes of ugliness and stupidity. How do you plead?”

“This is insane,” I say, my voice shaking. “You’re not real. None of this is real.”

“Guilty!” the girls shout in unison.

Jeanette slams her pencil down. “Sentenced to death.”

They’re on me before I can move, their manicured nails digging into my arms as they drag me toward the basement stairs. I try to fight, kicking and thrashing, but there are too many of them. My heart pounds in my ears as the fluorescent lights flicker above, casting the hallway in sickly shadows.

“Dad!” I scream, the word ripping from my throat as I spot him at the bottom of the stairs. He’s just standing there, puffing on his cigar, watching as they drag me toward the roaring boiler.

“Should’ve been prettier, Willow,” he mutters, tossing the cigar to the ground and joining the girls in grabbing me.

The boiler looms ahead, its flames licking the air like hungry tongues. The metal face of it twists into a grotesque, demonic grin, the heat scorching my skin even from feet away.

“Let me go!” I scream, clawing at the hands holding me. But they’re too strong—Jeanette, my father, the girls, all of them laughing as they drag me closer to the inferno.

“Time to burn, little trash girl,” Jeanette whispers in my ear, her breath hot against my neck.

I catch a glimpse of the janitor leaning against the wall, his mop in hand. But his face—oh God, his face. It’s Malkus, his grin wide and cruel as he watches me struggle.

“Enjoy the show,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp.

I don’t know what’s worse: the heat of the flames or the cold, merciless laughter of my tormentors.