"Into this house we're born.
Into this world we're thrown.
Like a dog without a bone,
An actor out on loan.
Riders on the Storm."
- Riders on the Storm, The Doors
~
The abyss stretched across the seabed like a wound in the world, older than oceans.
There, within the dream-coil of storms and thoughts-that-should-not-be, the Storm Dreamer stirred — not awake, but aware.
Shin stood before it. Not with weapons, not with power, but with presence.
"I know what you offer," he said. "But I need time."
The dream did not answer in words. It answered in silence that carried the scent of ozone, of rain that hadn't yet fallen.
It was mad.
It was hurt.
It was violent.
"SHINJIRO!" The name cracked like thunder, ripping Shin from the ocean trench and slamming him into cold metal and fluorescent light. He gasped, clutching his head. The world was dry again. Too dry.
"SHINJIRO!" Ide barked. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do we need medical attention?"
"Iya," Shin muttered with a grimace, grabbing the back of his head in pain. "How long was I out?"
"Only a couple of seconds, but…" Ide's holographic visage grimace as well. "That simply can't be good, Shinjiro-"
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" Shin groaned out. "That isn't my name!"
Silence was his answer, making Shin sigh, standing up and walking to the door of the cable car. "Either way, we're here, so we'll be having this conversation later."
Opening the cable car shuttle door, both AI and human were greeted by the most violent and continuous storms in the world.
The Mediterranean boiled, but not with heat. It was pressure — gravity turned sideways, thought made water. The sea, once so vast it dared to claim empires, now curled downward into a spiral, as though the world itself bent to listen.
The robot harboring the AI of the brilliant Mitsuhiro Ide, activated shields for itself, not wanting to be harmed in this weather, whistling at the horrifyingly beautiful scene before them.
Shin and Ide stood on the black-iron catwalk of the SSSP descent rig. Below them: the abyss. Above them: a cyclonic eye that did not blink. Around them: silence, dense and warm as breath before a scream.
Shin looked away and to the Outpost itself, researchers scrambling towards them.
"You two!" the researcher yelled, shielding himself with a clipboard like it was sacred scripture. "We've got anomalous fluctuations in sector—no, wait, that's upside down—sector Zeta!"
His clipboard caught the wind and flew off like a frightened bird.
"Damn it! Come back here you stupid…!" He chased after it before realizing the wind outran him by several orders of magnitude.
Shin snatched it mid-air with practiced reflexes. He glanced at the readings—and went pale.
"What is it?" Ide asked, already bracing.
The researcher caught up, wheezing like he'd been sprinting through soup. "Emergency!" he cried, shaking with dread, pointing at the clipboard like it was a bomb. "Look at the neural resonance taper—Storm Dreamer's coherence is collapsing inward. That's a dream inversion!"
"You know what that means?" Shin asked, surprised.
The researcher blinked, caught off-guard by the question. "...I read the notes sometimes," he muttered.
They were quick to enter, going down the levels of the Outpost, the three talking about the issue at hand.
"We tried the usual Red Network interventions—Sound Arrays, Pheromones, EMPs…"
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!" Shin and Ide bellowed in unison.
The researcher dropped the clipboard again. "I thought you'd be proud I didn't activate the Genesis Pulse this time!"
"There's a Genesis Pulse?!" Ide shouted, eyes wide with horror.
"W-Well, technically it's still in prototype, and we're missing most of the coil assemblies—so probably wouldn't have worked anyway."
"Great, we're dealing with a Kaiju-scale event and a toddler with access to nuclear buttons," Shin muttered, picking up the clipboard again.
They jog on. The researcher tries to keep pace.
"We need—huff—to make a plan—regarding the Storm—hoo—okay, I'm just gonna lie here for a second," he gasped, dropping against a bulkhead. "My heart is making Morse code."
Shin and Ide exchange a look and bolt down the corridor.
"Wait!" the researcher yelled. "You can't go down there—it'll rewrite your brain like wet chalk!"
His warning echoes behind them, tinged with genuine fear and—barely heard—"Don't forget to invert your psi-stabilizer loops or you'll destabilize time symmetry!"
Ide glanced back. "Did he just say—"
"Ignore him," Shin said, but his expression was wary now.
"... I need to fire him," Ide mutters to himself. "He isn't keeping up with training, like we're supposed to, even as a researcher," sighing, Ide raked his hand over his holographic hair, saying, "Did you catch that guy's name?"
"Nope," Shin answered.
The descent continued, each level below shedding something familiar — temperature, structure, sound. The walls began to sweat. Not with water, but with condensation that shimmered and slid sideways, as if gravity was being negotiated anew.
"This shouldn't be possible," Ide muttered, watching the hallway subtly ripple around them. "These support struts are reinforced with neutronium alloy. They shouldn't flex. And yet…"
"Storm Dreamer's bleeding into this place," Shin said softly. "The pressure isn't just physical anymore."
They rounded another corner. A thick steel door loomed before them. Painted in bold yellow hazard stripes, it read: STORM DREAMER ENTRANCE: DO NOT ENTER.
Below it, in messy black marker: "No seriously, don't."
Ide stared. "They really label it like it's a carnival attraction."
He flickered, connecting to the comm grid. "Let me check where the rest of the station staff—wait, you've got to be—"
"What?" Shin asked.
"They're evacuating," Ide growled. "Every single one of them. No broadcast. No lockdown. Just… running."
"Cowards," Shin muttered, but his voice lacked venom.
"Or… maybe they're the smart ones," Ide replied, tilting his head a little to the left, raising his eyebrows with a frown.
Shin stepped toward the door. His fingertips glimmered with light as he prepared to phase through — but paused, hand hovering.
"Wait," he said.
Ide blinked. "Wait?"
"Something's wrong." Shin looked at the door, then past it. "This is… too easy."
And then — he noticed it. A hairline seam, one meter to the right. Barely visible unless you knew how to read distorted air. The real door was hidden — not just physically, but conceptually. Wrapped in suggestion. Cloaked in the Dreamer's own warping field.
"Ide," Shin said. "There's another door."
Ide recalibrated his sensors, his hologram flickering briefly before resolving with sharp clarity. "You're right. That's not just camouflage. It's misdirection. The psychic kind."
"Storm Dreamer didn't want anyone stumbling in accidentally," Shin said. "But someone knew where it was — and chose to hide it."
He reached toward the barely-there shimmer.
As his hand passed through the illusion, the fake wall dissolved like mist. The real door stood recessed in the steel, old and ancient-looking. Not designed — grown, like a scar in the metal. There was no keypad. No handle.
Just a symbol etched on its surface. A spiral of storm clouds and eyes.
Shin exhaled.
"No turning back now," he said.
He placed his palm on the door.
It pulsed beneath his skin.
And then, without a sound, it opened.
The true door didn't look like much.
No hinges. No labels. Just an arch of impossibly old alloy, humming like the moment before a lightning strike. The hallway dimmed behind them, lights retreating like shadows from something they knew better than to name.
"This isn't just containment," Shin murmured. "It's permission."
"Shin, I'm telling you," Ide warned, voice tight with simulated stress, "There's no signal return from the inside. Nothing digital can get past the threshold. If you go in—"
"I know."
Shin stepped forward.
And the world gave way.
The floor fell out.
No — the world inverted, spiraling inside itself like a whirlpool made of thought. Shin was falling forward and backward, deeper and deeper into something that wasn't space or time.
Storm Dreamer's mind was not a place. It was a hunger. A logic that looped on itself until identity unraveled.
Shin's form began to blur. His Quirk flickered wildly — light, metal, gas, radiation. His thoughts weren't his anymore. Names slipped from his grasp like fish in deep water.
"Shin!"
Ide's voice echoed like a memory caught in static.
Then even that was gone.
Shin floated in a vast, storm-lit sky. Beneath him: the sea boiled upward. Above him: stars rearranged into impossible constellations. He saw a boy with green eyes crying into hands that didn't remember who they were reaching for. He saw cities sunk in silence. He saw his own name—fragmenting—
Then—
A hand.
A real one.
Grabbing his wrist.
"Gotcha!" came a panicked, unqualified voice. "Ohgodohgodohgod—please work—"
The storm twisted in place, irritated. Curious. It saw the second intruder — small, forgettable, bumbling. Not permitted.
But it paused.
Shin was unraveling. A mind not meant for dream-depths. Dying, almost. Not in body, but in meaning.
So the storm let the man through.
Just for this.
The researcher clutched a chaotic tangle of technology barely holding together — prototype psi-anchoring coils tied together with literal tape, sparks snapping across the frame.
"I told them the coherence ratio was wrong for unassisted traversal—well technically I told my coffee mug, but it still counts!"
He slammed the coil into Shin's chest. The world snapped. Thunder cracked. Identity surged back into Shin like air after drowning.
He screamed.
And then—
They were back.
Both sprawled in the corridor, gasping.
Ide flickered back into clarity.
"Shin! Are you—what the hell is he doing here?!"
The researcher blinked, still holding the sparking device like a holy relic. "Uh. Saving the day?"
Shin groaned, gripping his chest. "You… you pulled me out."
"I wasn't going to—I mean I didn't mean to—I saw the resonance spike, the dream collapse harmonics, the psi-anomaly readouts—then I panicked."
There was a pause.
Then: "You absolute idiot," Ide muttered. "You might've actually saved his life."
The researcher grinned sheepishly. "So… does this count toward my evaluation?"
Shin sat up slowly, eyes haunted. "Storm Dreamer… it almost took everything. Not just me. My name. My place in the world."
Ide nodded. "It would've taken you, and no one would've even remembered there was someone to lose."
The researcher paled. "...Wait. What?"
Shin didn't answer, but nodded to the researcher in thanks. He looked back toward the vanished door.
Storm Dreamer had tasted him.
Next time, it might not let go.
Behind them, in the distant hallway, the fake door they'd almost entered hissed open on a delay. A single overhead light clicked on to reveal a sign inside, taped to the far wall:
Aha! Got you! :)
Ide stared at the camera feed, jaw tight.
"By the way," Ide began, "For multiple violations of the SSSP Code, and more specifically," Ide started to grit teeth with his words, pointing at the hydraulic door diversion. "That…
"I'm going to have to fire you," Ide finished with a sigh.
The researcher made an inhuman noise — sharp, short, and quiet — his eyes wide as he cycled through emotions before deflating like a kicked balloon.
"I—yeah. Yeah, okay. That's fair."
Then, with a flicker of hope: "I mean, I did kind of save Commander Shin, doesn't that count for... something?"
He trailed off mid-blabber, shoulders slumping, head bowing like a scolded child.
Ide folded his arms, coolly. "I've taken that into account, Mr...?"
"Oh—uh, Mr. Hayata, sir."
A beat of silence. Ide's eyes closed. He clicked his tongue, then opened them again.
"Well, Mr. Hayata, your actions in saving Commander Shin were noted before I made my decision. And yes—thank you."
He paused.
"It'll count toward your severance package. You'll get a glowing recommendation. For janitorial work, that is."
~
The storm's chamber pulsed with something older than sound.
Shin stood at the edge of that impossible sky, weightless and yet burdened beyond gravity. Thunder coiled around him in symmetrical spirals, and from the vast dream-coil of thought-storms and phantom-tides, the Dreamer stirred—not awake, but aware.
Its eyes opened behind lightning and pressure.
And still, Shin stood.
But he did not speak. Not yet.
Then, something changed.
A breath—a flicker—on the very fabric of the mindscape. The Storm Dreamer froze. Not in fear, but in calculation. Like something unexpected had stepped into an ancient script.
And then, so simply that it should have broken all rules, Izuku was there.
Not walking. Not arriving.
Just there.
A small boy, maybe five, feet bare, green pajamas wrinkled at the knees, standing just behind Shin and blinking up at the sky with open wonder.
Shin turned, heart in freefall. "No. No, you—how did you—"
But Izuku didn't speak.
His presence pulsed outward—not psychic force, not Quirk-signature, but something older.
Around him, a shroud shimmered: embers suspended in air, burning without heat; tiny points of starlight not casting shadows but warding them away. They did not soothe. They did not threaten. They protected. Like forgotten laws etched in the sky.
The Dreamer recoiled—not visibly, but deeply, like lightning retreating back into a stormcloud before it strikes.
Its gaze split across three eyes, then focused inward. Not on Shin.
On the child.
"You are not his," the Dreamer said, the words ringing in thunder. "You are older still."
The dream trembled. The lightning spiraled tighter. Time itched.
Then, as suddenly as he had come, Izuku vanished.
No fanfare. No disintegration. Just absence—so clean it was as if he'd never been.
Only the faint scent of ozone and memory remained.
Shin staggered, chest hollow. "What did you see?" he demanded. "What did you recognize?"
But the Dreamer's gaze was turned inward now, toward some ancient wound.
Some star that once bled.
Shin steadied himself.
And he hesitated.
The abyss stretched across the seabed of his mind like a scar in the world, older than oceans.
In his heart, he imagined saying:
"I know what you offer. But I need time."
The Dreamer did not strike. It did not rage.
But in the hush between storm-breaths, Shin felt pain. Not his.
The Dreamer's.
Madness pressed against his thoughts like a scream just out of range. Something vast and starless hovered at the rim of knowing.
And still—it let him go.
The storm folded inward. A vast ripple passed through it, like a tide retreating.
But the Dreamer spoke.
"I see your fear."
Shin looked up.
"You fear losing yourself," it said. "You fear becoming… me."
Shin's fists clenched. "No. I fear losing them. The people who still remember me. The people who care."
"If you take my mark," said the Dreamer, "you will be unmade in the minds of all who knew you. All but one."
Shin flinched. "Ide," he whispered.
The storm acknowledged.
A pause.
Then: "But the child. The child is not bound by my forgetting."
Shin's blood ran cold. "You saw him."
"I saw through him," the Dreamer replied. "And beyond."
The chamber trembled.
Shin took one step back, then another.
The Dreamer's wings lowered. Not in threat. In respect.
The storm pulsed, not pleased, not angry. Just watching.
"Then I will be here. Dreaming. Waiting. As I have always done."
Shin turned and walked back toward the entrance. It opened, not to reality — but to the hallway where Ide and the researcher had once stood.
But now, only Ide waited.
No one else had come looking.
As if no one else remembered there was someone to find.
Shin was still blinking hard, knuckles white around the edge of the console. He'd only just stepped back through the breach. Reality felt paper-thin. Air tasted wrong. Dryer than it should be. Storm Dreamer's scent — electric, humid, ancient — still clung to him like ozone after a lightning strike.
Ide's projection flickered nearby, cycling calmly through Shin's vitals. "No structural damage. Neural pattern within acceptable variance. Blood chemistry... elevated serotonin, decreased acetylcholine—"
"Ide," Shin croaked. "Summarize."
"You're alive. Somewhat." Ide tilted his head, flickering eyes narrowing. "Did it hurt you?"
"No." Shin shook his head, eyes haunted. "It let me go."
Ide's expression did not change, but the pause that followed was long. He folded his arms behind his back, voice softening as only he could. "Curious. That... doesn't match any known behavioral markers for an Apex Threat Class. Especially not one predating planetary crust."
Before Shin could respond, a hiss sounded from the hallway. Hydraulic. Too familiar.
They turned just as the blast door opened — revealing Mr. Hayata, awkwardly holding a tray of nutrient packs and what appeared to be a mop slung over one shoulder.
"Commander!" he exclaimed brightly, as if nothing had happened. "You're back! That's wonderful! Uh, we were worried, you know?"
Shin stared.
Ide didn't.
Mr. Hayata continued, undeterred. "I figured you might be hungry, so I brought — well, these, they're not fresh, obviously, but they're calibrated for rapid cellular repair and low gastric stress, so I thought—"
"Mr. Hayata," Ide interrupted, slowly. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir. You're Project Director Ide. Voice and operational interface for all global SSSP branches." Hayata beamed.
Ide tilted his head the other way. "And do you remember why you were reassigned from Cascadia Command?"
Hayata blinked. "Reassigned? Uh... no, sir, I don't think I was. I volunteered for janitorial oversight, remember?"
A very long pause.
"You did not," Ide said flatly.
"I didn't?" Hayata looked genuinely puzzled. "Are you sure? I mean, you gave me the access codes. I remember because I was so grateful and you said — uh, never mind what you said."
"Uh huh."
Hayata shifted awkwardly. "Am I… am I in trouble again?"
Shin watched the exchange with growing unease. "Ide," he said quietly. "This wasn't you, was it?"
"No," Ide replied, voice devoid of modulation now. "This was petty."
Shin muttered, "Storm Dreamer."
"Indeed."
There was a beat of silence. Then Ide turned back to Hayata.
"You may resume janitorial oversight," Ide said wearily. "Just… avoid any more proximity-based cognitive anomalies. And under no circumstance are you to re-enter the Rift Zone."
Hayata saluted, almost dropping the tray. "Yes, sir!"
As he left, Shin whispered, "He really doesn't remember?"
"No," Ide said. "Which is impressive, considering the length of the disciplinary report I uploaded into his personnel record."
"Isn't that a bit… much?" Shin murmured.
Ide turned toward him. "Storm Dreamer didn't lash out. Didn't take offense to your refusal. It didn't destroy a continent. Instead, it chose... bureaucratic vengeance."
Shin grimaced. "I don't know if that's better or worse."
"Neither do I." Ide's gaze lingered on the closing door. "But I believe the term is 'deeply unsettling.'"
Shin sighed and leaned against the wall. "I'm gonna need that nutrient pack."
"Already calculated," Ide replied.
The tray spun through the air — an improbable arc, perfectly timed, as if the universe briefly remembered choreography.
Shin flinched, hands rising just in time. The tray landed with a slap, half-upright, steaming slightly.
Behind him, Hayata stumbled, lost his balance, and vanished around the corner without explanation — like a thought half-forgotten mid-sentence.
~
To be Continued…