The corridor beyond the shattered White Room cell wasn't a corridor.
It was a wound in reality.
Pristine white walls bled into crumbling medieval stone. Neon Japanese kanji flickered across them before dissolving into swirling desert sand, then solidifying into dripping bioluminescent jungle vines. The air tasted of ozone, incense, gunpowder, and rotting fruit all at once. Gravity lurched, threatening to spill Juni and Hank's limp form onto surfaces that shifted from polished chrome to mud brick.
The Fracture Walk
Juni staggered forward, hauling Hank's dead weight. His blood, impossibly bright against the shifting world, left ephemeral trails that evaporated as realities bled together.
The only constant was the oppressive hum – no longer sterile, but the groan of stressed spacetime itself, layered with ghostly echoes:
German shouts. Swing music. Yoggy's guttural Nazi anthem. Sarge's fading bellow.
> ANALYSIS:
Multiversal bleed. Spatiotemporal fracture propagating. Probability of cohesive destination: negligible. Probability of molecular dissociation: rising.
Hank moaned, eyelids fluttering open to reflect a jungle canopy that wasn't there.
"M'lady... are we... holidaying?"
"Quiet, Rigby," Juni gasped, spotting a flicker of stability ahead – a stone archway. "Conserve energy. This is… suboptimal tourism."
Gateway to Bharat
They crashed through the arch.
The hum dropped to a low thrum. Humid air filled her lungs, thick with dust, spices – turmeric, cumin, bitter greens – woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of old blood. Hazy golden light filtered through high windows into a vast ruined hall.
Stone pillars carved with gods and demons rose towards a shattered roof. Tattered banners drooped. Broken brass vessels and shredded fabric littered the floor alongside bodies – men in turbans and dhotis, curved swords clutched in cold fingers.
> India. Mid 19th century.
Her training screamed it even as her soul recoiled.
"Sepoy Rebellion," Hank whispered. His voice was paper thin but lucid. Propped against a carved pillar, he scanned the scene with a sniper's weary gaze. "1857. Bad business. Saw… pictures… museum..." He coughed blood onto the dusty floor. "Lovely architecture… terrible interior design."
The Multiverse Ghost & The Greater's Whisper
Beside a shattered goddess statue, air rippled.
The gaunt Hank materialized. Not a hologram. A translucent, flickering ghost – his storm cloud eyes wide with desperation.
"Flux!" His voice bypassed her ears, vibrating in her mind. "Listen! They lied. The White Room isn't just for timelines – it's a prison for universes! I'm not your future. I'm your failure!"
He gestured at the ruined hall.
"This is another strand fraying because the Greater won't let things change. It enforces stillness. Death disguised as order!"
Shadows near the high ceiling coalesced into a vast, nebulous eye – impossible to focus on, radiating a chilling cosmic indifference.
The oppressive thrum intensified, vibrating Juni's bones. Her HUD flickered:
> ENTITY DESIGNATION: "GREATER"
NATURE: Cosmic Observer/Controller
OBJECTIVE: Stasis
THREAT LEVEL: OMEGA
The Hakim & The Bitter Chai
A gasp came from behind a toppled chest. A small, wizened man in a stained kurta crawled out, clutching a worn leather bag. Fear and fascination warred in his eyes.
"Angrez?" he whispered. Seeing Hank's wound, healer's instinct overrode terror. He scurried forward, ignoring ghost Hank entirely.
"Pagh!" he exclaimed, gesturing at Hank's rotting leg. He opened his bag – pungent roots, dried herbs, clay pots. Pointing to a small stove, he barked rapid instructions.
"He says… infection… very bad… death soon…" Hank wheezed, translating. "Needs… bitter medicine… fire. Learned… a phrase or two… sepoy… Calcutta pub…" He gave a weak smirk. "Told him… chai was… weak…"
The hakim didn't wait. He crushed roots into a tar black paste, chanting prayers to the shattered goddess. He gestured urgently for Juni to help prop Hank up.
The Greater's Test & Yoggy's Resonance
Above, the Greater's eye narrowed.
Dust motes froze midair. A dead sepoy's curved sword twitched, then rose, levitating towards the healer.
The ghost Hank flickered violently.
"It sees the deviation! The healing! It will erase this strand to contain the anomaly. You must stop it!"
But how?
Juni had no weapons. No functioning tech. Only rage and a dying poet sniper.
Then she heard it.
A faint, discordant hum.
From a shadowed alcove oozed a quivering blob of yogurt, glowing with temporal energy. Yoggy. Or a Yoggy. It pulsed, humming a mangled tune – half Nazi anthem, half Bollywood song.
The sword vibrated in resonance with Yoggy's chaos. The Greater's eye seemed to… stutter.
The Choice & The Chai of Defiance
The hakim thrust the brass pot of steaming, vile smelling brew towards Hank.
"Peevo! Jaldi!" (Drink! Quickly!)
Hank met Juni's gaze. His storm cloud eyes were dimming, but a spark remained – the spark that wrote fart haikus and kissed her in rain lashed foxholes.
"For science, M'lady?" he rasped, hand trembling towards the pot. "And… truly terrible chai?"
The ghost Hank watched, taut with desperate hope. Yoggy hummed louder. The Greater's eye pulsed.
> PURGE MODE: TRANSMUTED INTO RESOLVE.
Juni nodded, supporting Hank's head as the healer pressed the bitter brew to his lips.
"Drink, Sergeant Fartquake," she whispered. "Consider it… field research."
As the first drops touched his tongue, the levitating sword clattered harmlessly to the floor. The Greater's eye lingered, radiating cold cosmic disappointment, before dissolving into formless shadow.
The pressure lifted.
Only humid air remained. Blood. Herbs. And the faint, hopeful hum of a confused sentient yogurt from another war.
The healing had begun.
The deviation stood.
For now.
Somewhere in the multiverse, a ghost allowed himself a flicker of something that wasn't terror.
End of Chapter 9
[Next Time:] "The Last Chai & The Broken Observer" – The Custard Rebellion rises as the fracture consumes Bharat's blood soaked halls…