Round 01 - Future Tense

I dreamt of mists and shadows. I was hovering over a flickering fog that carried me through the infinite cosmos. My hand touched the tide of smoke, surrounded by electric reactions, and a feeling of peace washed over me. Somehow, I felt it was death—me becoming an artifact sailing through the boundless reaches of space, beyond time itself.

"I don't know who he is," I woke up to a conversation near me. I pretended to stay asleep, listening intently.

"He arrived last night. A good lad. He's integrated well with my team," Maxwell's voice. My identity was compromised; it was time to intervene and seek an exit.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes, stretching briefly before rising from the comfortable couch where I'd spent a good few hours of sleep.

"Good morning, Dante. Hungry?" Maxwell pointed to the bar counter, now laden with various types of food.

"Thank you, Captain," I stood up. "I think I'll grab something to eat." I started walking and then stopped, pretending to notice someone I hadn't seen before. A middle-aged woman, stern-faced, with piercing eyes behind golden-framed glasses. She was strikingly good-looking, dressed in what appeared to be executive attire. In her hand, she held a brown clipboard filled with papers. The use of such primitive tools amidst all this technology struck me as odd.

"Hello," I approached her, extending my hand. "I'm Dante. I believe the Captain mentioned I'm the medic here."

She returned my handshake, but her stern expression didn't waver for a moment. "Yes, Dante, my name is Aurora. I'm from Intelligence. I came to file a report with the Captain, and I can't find your name among the summoned." She gestured towards a panel near the elevator entrance. "I'd like you to accompany me to verify your credentials."

Not taking a second to think, I agreed and began walking beside her. "Of course, no problem." The Captain also followed us.

"I hope you understand, Dante. This is standard procedure in such cases. Due to the high mortality rate during the assaults, sometimes someone gets left out," she explained.

I didn't react to the news, at least not outwardly. Inside, my curiosity was consuming me even more. We walked up to the panel, about the size of a 42-inch screen, mounted on the wall next to the elevator entrance.

The panel lit up as we approached, its pale blue lights coming alive, and various symbols filled the screen. I couldn't read a single line or understand what any of the alien characters meant. I just watched. Aurora carefully took a sheet from the bottom of her clipboard and placed it on top. She looked at the sheet and the panel, navigating through the options. I quickly paid attention to any pattern and subtly moved closer, noticing that neither she nor Maxwell were watching me. Both were focused on the dance the characters performed on the screen with each option Aurora selected. I managed to memorize some patterns of characters that corresponded to words in our language—words I deemed most important, like "select," "identification," "user," and most importantly, "next."

  The characters had vanished, leaving only a small sphere at the bottom of the screen, similar to the one I had seen on the brown elevator door. Aurora had stepped aside, "Would you kindly place your finger on the sphere, Dante?" Her request had been polite, but her penetrating gaze never ceased scrutinizing every expression on my face.

"Of course," I had approached and confidently placed my index finger on the panel. A purple point had orbited around the sphere as it began to spin rapidly, shrinking in size to adapt to the shape of my thumb. Everything disappeared, and I had slowly withdrawn my finger. I had felt neither tension nor fear. Even if I were to feel fear, I wouldn't have known what it was like; it would have been a first for me. I remained, as always, indifferent to any outcome.

In the center of the screen, in soft neon green letters, it had read, "Lieutenant Marial, Brazilian Nationality - Russian Armed Forces."

Now in a language we all understood. What had surprised me the most wasn't the name that appeared on the screen—I had even been expecting something similar—but rather that I now had the perfect disguise.

"Very well, Dante Marial. It seems your identity checks out. I will register you as an integral part of Captain Maxwell's unit," Aurora had greeted both of us and exited via the elevator.

Maxwell had looked at me, squinting, his gaze mysterious.

"Now I get it, Dante," he had slung his arm around my neck, leading me back to the bar area. "The good looks are Latin!" He had burst into laughter.

We had eaten and talked. I had lied most of the time, crafting an entire narrative to fit my persona. Lying had been easy, and appearing convincing had been even easier. The identity on the monitor had been that of my father. Both my parents were originally from Brazil but had moved to Russia for work due to the friendly relations between the two countries. Over time, they had built brilliant careers within the official ranks. I had been just a child, barely past being considered a baby, when my parents told me about their life stories. But I remembered everything— even the weather at the time, the taste of the food as I listened, and I could hear the tone of their voices in my mind. So answering any questions about myself had been easy. What was hard to answer was why the panel had recognized me as my father. The only certainty I had was that it wasn't fingerprint recognition but something more related to DNA.

After a while, Alex had called Maxwell over. Maxwell had bid me farewell and walked over to his companion, heading toward the weapons arsenal.

I had finished eating and turned my attention to the hall. There in the middle had been Marie, beautiful and graceful, sitting on the floor with a massive disassembled gun in front of her. She had been slowly examining and cleaning each part of the weapon with some sort of brush. I had pondered whether to go talk to her or stay at the bar.

My thoughts were interrupted by Jack, who had suddenly sat down next to me.

Jack had started laughing as soon as he sat down, his voice deep and resonant, like that of a titan. "Forget it, Dante. Everyone falls for her the same way. You don't stand a chance," he had said, grabbing a bottle from a cabinet and pouring drinks for both of us.

"Why do you say that? Don't I seem like I have potential?" Strangely, once again, I had managed to talk to him. What surprised me even more was the natural, even charismatic, way I had been conversing.

"Do you know Valério Ferdinando?" He had placed a glass filled with what appeared to be vodka in front of me.

"The name sounds familiar," I had pondered whether I had ever heard the name on television.

"Yes, it should. He's a model, actor, singer, and athlete. A celebrity who's always on TV. He did that action movie 'Gunpowder on Valentine's Day,' you know?" He had given me a puzzled look for not knowing who he was talking about.

"Ah, yes," I had finally remembered the figure. "The handsome guy who visited the space station."

"That's the one," he had said, smiling satisfactorily. "Well, he was Marie's ex-boyfriend until a few months ago."

I had looked genuinely surprised, my eyes widening and almost choking on the sip of vodka I had been taking.

"Yeah, they were together for a few months. We're all pretty close in the outside world. The adrenaline of the job turns colleagues into real comrades," he had said, taking a deep swig of his vodka, while I had pondered his words.

"But here's the kicker, Dante. She's the one who broke up with him," he had burst into laughter as if he was about to tell the funniest joke ever.

"What do you mean?" I had turned my full attention to Jack, looking completely intrigued.

"So, a few days later, we were at a pub in London. During the conversation, I casually asked what had led to the end of their relationship," he had taken another long gulp of vodka, emptying his glass this time, and then stood up to head toward the arsenal. But not before adding, "She said he was too boring!" Then he had walked away, laughing hysterically, clutching his stomach.

I had thought to myself, "If that guy is boring, what does that make me?"

Throughout the day, more people had started to arrive, always in groups ranging from a dozen to nearly two dozen. They had introduced themselves to Maxwell, usually headed to the locker rooms, returned dressed in the same clothes I had picked, and then went to the arsenal for what they called equipment recognition. I had learned that I was dressed in relaxation or training clothes and that everyone would wear the heavily reinforced armors stored in the arsenal for combat, all adorned with mysterious characters.

I had gone to the arsenal at Maxwell's request to collect my medical equipment, which they called "Savior." Another guy who was also a medic had arrived; he had picked up his stuff and secluded himself in a corner, going through each item.

I had done the same, finding a corner and starting to explore what was in the case. Luckily, there had been manuals inside the case, relieving me from having to ask someone for help and risk sounding even more amateurish than I already did.

The case had contained a spray that, according to the manual, instantly sealed cuts and alleviated all pain. There had been a set consisting of a small pistol and a device that was an arch with three prongs, designed for removing lodged objects from the body. Various capsules and a gun, the size of a .32 with a needle attachment, had been there too. Each capsule had a different function, like temporarily enhancing senses, inducing coma, and even one that could bring a person back to life, like a defibrillator shock delivered directly to the heart.

Along with my kit, there had also been repair materials for protective items and even weapons.

I had spent some time memorizing the function of each item at my disposal, simulating each hypothetical situation where I might use them. Of course, without knowing what the enemy would be like, it had been difficult, but I had prepared myself for the worst my mind could conjure.

I had spent the day engaged in various activities, always keeping an eye on the large clocks scattered around the rest area and the arsenal. At one point, I had gone over to one of the computers, intending to clear up some questions about theories I had formulated while reading the manuals. Upon arriving, I had immediately noticed that the computers were unlike any I had ever seen. They made strange noises, and the software layout was different from anything I was familiar with. I noticed they only had games and books to read—no internet access.

That's when it had hit me. These were analog computers, not digital. I had glanced at the clock and quickly reached for my forgotten cellphone in my pocket. The screen displayed a distorted image, and the device was inoperable. Just as I had suspected, nothing digital worked here. That explained why Aurora had been using clipboards and paper, but it didn't explain how the panels worked.

When the clock had struck eighteen, I had been sitting on the sofa where I had slept, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling of the massive underground structure. Then I had heard, "Hey, looks like it's our time, Mr. Doctor," Marie had said as she approached me. My heart had raced; I looked into her eyes. Despite being covered in dirt stains from her intense weapon preparation activities, she had looked even more beautiful.

I had quickly stood up, assuming a somewhat mechanical, upright position, which had made her laugh. "Of course, I appreciate your attention," my words had also come out mechanically.

"Let's go to the arsenal," she had said, and we had walked side by side, chatting until we reached the arsenal.

I had explained that I had experience with firearms but not with high-caliber ones. So, we had gone through each of the heavy and precision weapons, her explaining each function.

Ammunition that reached Mach 10, guided shots, explosive rounds that emitted magnetic fields—things that seemed to come from the year 3000. She had explained that some creatures were vulnerable depending on the type of ammunition used, which was why everyone had to pay attention to the captain's commands for changing ammo types. The word "creatures" had struck me deeply.

After a few hours, which I had maximized for learning and staying close to Marie, we had returned to the relaxation area, now filled with people—at least 200 had arrived during the day. The space had accommodated everyone easily. I was told that further back in the locker room were dormitories for everyone; only the leaders of the incursion would stay up front for rounds. In one corner were the four friendly figures with whom I had formed some bond so far. Marie and I had joined them.

We had spent some time talking about mundane things, me cautiously trying to steer the conversation toward what the "effectives" would be, but to no avail. No one had wanted to talk about it. The topic had been life and laughter.

That's when it had happened.

"I imagine having a drink using..." Marie had suddenly stopped speaking. Her expression had turned serious in an instant. Blood had started to trickle from her nose, and her right eye had taken on a blood-red hue. Then she had coughed, splattering blood on the floor.

She had quickly stood up and left before I could say anything. The shock of the scene had left me immobile for a moment. I was accustomed to seeing blood and suffering; my career was essentially built on it. But seeing Marie like this had struck me in a way I couldn't explain.

No one had moved; I had only seen empty, hopeless expressions on their faces.

Before I could move, Maxwell had placed his hand on my chest. "Calm down, lad. You've probably never seen or even heard about this. Let me explain," I had looked attentively at the captain, my hopes shattered, bracing myself for the worst.

"As you know, this place has a time distortion that's hard to understand. It has something to do with the quantum entanglement of the gates. Because of this, we occasionally experience things that will happen in the future," he had looked away, this time with apparent sadness. "Marie will likely be injured tomorrow during the invasion. And for her to have felt this, which we call temporal spasms, it's going to be severe."

Visibly disturbed, I had asked, "But is it inevitable?" My question had sounded more like a plea than an inquiry.

"Yes, Dante," he had stood up and walked to the bar. We had sat in silence for a while; then, one by one, the others had left without saying another word.

I had been left pondering the captain's words, tormented by the phenomenon, thinking of a way to deal with it, to protect Marie. It couldn't be possible that I had found someone so precious only to lose her shortly after. There had to be a way to circumvent the situation. I had to do something. And I would do something.

I had resolved to find a way, even if it meant spending all the remaining time planning and studying cautiously. The problem was, what would I plan for? I didn't know what the enemy was or what they could do. But I would do something. I had to.

I stood up, my movements deliberate, and made my way to the bar. My fingers wrapped around a bottle of whiskey, and I began walking toward the enigmatic gate. The air was thick with the chatter of people, each one a tapestry of past experiences and future aspirations. But I was lost in my own thoughts, my resolve unwavering.

I took a deep swig from the bottle, the liquid fire reminding me of a painful memory. My father had accused me of theft, his arm marred by the telltale signs of needle marks. He had beaten me mercilessly that day, his screams filled with a mixture of rage and sorrow. The belt had left its marks on me, but what lingered was the image of him falling to his knees, his face buried in his hands, muttering "Why?" over and over. I had walked over to him, my skin burning like hot coals, and hugged him. He had clung to me, his apologies interspersed with calls for my late mother.

We had stood there, two broken souls mourning the loss of the woman who had been the center of our world. I thought of the Sundays when the smell of freshly baked bread, made from my grandmother's recipe, would fill the house. My mother would tuck my long hair behind my ears, her fingers gentle, her smile warm. I decided then and there that I would let my hair grow long again. I yearned for someone to touch me with the same tenderness, the same love.

Finally, I reached the towering gate. It stood almost 10 meters high, its surface etched with mysterious symbols. Strangely, the air around it was tinged with the scent of lavender. I stood there, drinking and staring into the abyss at the center of the gate, pondering what horrors or wonders would emerge from it at midnight the next day.

When the bottle ran dry, a sense of urgency washed over me. It was time to prepare, to rest. I needed to be ready for whatever lay ahead.

But as I turned to head back to the relaxation area, I stopped dead in my tracks. A realization, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, struck me. If we were subject to experiencing future events—these "temporal spasms"—then I had already been affected by one. The newfound ability to feel, to connect, to speak—it was too extraordinary to be mere chance. It had to be a glimpse of a future yet to unfold.

The intense connection I felt with Marie couldn't be anything else but a temporal spasm, a ripple from a future where emotions ran high. A smile broke across my face, obliterating any remnants of fear or sadness. I felt invigorated, filled with a newfound determination.

Everything was going to be alright. I could feel it in my bones.