Omnium's Fables

Omnium 21300:The Beginning

The silence of space enveloped the SS Ouroboros like a shroud, a vacuum so profound it stifled every sound save for the low thrum of the engines—a mechanical lament vibrating in their very bones. Five days of travel had dragged Michael and his crew away from the golden warmth of Axis, their homeland, toward the hostile abyss of the Meyneth Papacy system. Wasteland, their destination, was a distant shadow, an ochre dust mote suspended between the stars, indifferent to their arrival. The Treaty of Bramah, with its clauses etched like runes on stone, promised peace in that fragment of Omnium: no war beyond Osiris’ borders, no conflict that could ignite the galaxies. But Michael knew that peace was an illusion, a thin veil stretched over an chasm of ancient grievances, ready to tear at the first misstep.

​The SS Ouroboros slid through the shadows of the cosmos, a small but vital ship, its metallic walls etched with scratches and memories of past voyages. The six crew members found refuge in their private corners, but Michael sought out the common room, a sanctuary of normalcy where the world seemed less vast, less suffocating. Here, the acrid scent of synthetic coffee mixed with the hum of neon lights, and the cold surfaces reflected fragments of tired faces. Here, he could observe Commander Erick Huy, his long red hair falling like liquid flames over his shoulders, his butterfly wings—fragile mosaics of azure and gold—trembling under the artificial light, as if dreaming of a lost wind. And then there was Nicky Von Lenz, the Draconian whose golden horns gleamed like beacons, his blonde hair tousled by an enthusiasm that defied the darkness of space, a sun that refused to be extinguished.

​Michael ran a hand over his face, his skin rough under his fingers, the fatigue pressing against his temples like a nail. It wasn't just the medication, that chemical flow coursing through his veins to slow the decay of his mutilated body. It was the weight of what he had lost, an echo that never quieted. His wings, torn away twenty years earlier on Osiris, when he was just a child with eyes full of dreams. A Meynesian with no black feathers to dance in the wind, a shadow of what he should have been, a stranger even among his own people. His face, too human, with sharp cheekbones and blue eyes that seemed stolen from another world, made him an enigma to anyone who looked at him. And then there was the Imprint, that latent power that should have ignited within him, but which remained a silent void, a closed door. Without it, his desire for vengeance—the thought of facing Him—was a fire that burned without consuming, a dream that tormented him every night.

​That morning, waking up was a battle. Michael’s cabin was a rebellious chaos: workout weights scattered on the floor like wreckage, crumpled notes cluttering the desk, the unmade bed smelling of sweat and relentless days. The communicator shrilled, a sharp sound that pierced his thoughts like a blade. With a groan, he rose, his body heavy, every muscle protesting as if bearing the weight of an entire galaxy.

​“Nicky again. What could he want at this hour?” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the screen pulsing with green light. “Might as well go see. Maybe there are orders from the Maverick government.”

​He stepped out, the ship’s corridor wrapped in a metallic gloom, the walls seeming to whisper secrets of forgotten journeys. The doors of Niles and the Lone Soldier were closed, sealed like tombs. Those two were wraiths, enigmas moving in the shadows. Michael knew little about them: humans, or so they said, with stories no one dared to tell aloud. The Lone Soldier, however, was a legend sculpted in blood. A pilot who had danced with death, surviving impossible missions, like the one five years ago when he had snatched a commercial fleet from the jaws of Chaos on the route between Wasteland and Osiris. But in his eyes, Michael saw no glory, only cracks, like fractured glass ready to shatter.

​The common room was an oasis of life, a stark contrast to the void beyond the portholes. Commander Erick was deep in conversation, his Bot—a rectangle of polished metal—floating beside him, emitting blue flashes like a beating heart. Outside, space yawned open like a black ocean, interrupted only by the distant profile of Wasteland, an ochre wound silhouetted against the infinite.

​“Hey Michael, come here, hurry!” Nicky's voice sliced through his thoughts, an explosion of energy that seemed out of place in the cosmic silence. The Draconian was glued to the porthole, his eyes gleaming like his horns, a smile that defied gravity. Michael approached, the cold floor biting his bare feet. Fragments of Erick’s conversation reached him like shrapnel: a name, Saul, and the dull weight of Pain and Gain, a corporation that held Omnium in its grip of steel and ambition. It was not his world, that of intrigues and blood-stained coins, but the name Saul planted itself in his mind, an echo that promised trouble.

​Outside the porthole, Wasteland slowly revealed itself, a mottled sphere of shadows pulsing with buried secrets. Michael had been there, years ago. He remembered the wind howling across the endless deserts, grains of sand stinging the skin like needles, the rare oases where life clung on with desperate claws. All thanks to the O-Stones, crystals that bled oxygen, so scarce they made the planet a battlefield for air. Lost City, the only stronghold, was an experiment of the Papacy, a tangle of squat towers and opaque domes, built around a heart of O-Stone that struggled to maintain breath. But even there, every day was a gamble with death.

​“It's all right, Nicky, but getting excited about a planet that’s little more than a desert seems excessive to me,” Michael said, an ironic smile crinkling his lips, an attempt to chase away the shadow weighing on his chest.

​“Well, it reminds me of home. And the desert has its own charm,” Nicky replied, his voice loaded with a warmth that seemed impossible in that cosmic cold, his eyes still fixed on the planet approaching like fate.

​Michael watched him, a moment of quiet in the storm of his thoughts. Despite the golden horns and the absence of wings, Nicky wasn't so different from him. Meynesians, Draconians, Venasians—the species of Omnium were closer than their wars cared to admit. Yet, every difference, however small, was a pretext to divide, to hate. Michael, without wings, felt more human than Meynesian, an outsider everywhere. Perhaps that was why he found comfort in Nicky, in his past as a refugee, in his smile that never wavered, like a star refusing to die out.

​“Have you ever been to Lost City? They say it’s the only livable place on the whole planet,” Nicky asked, breaking the silence, his voice betraying a childlike curiosity.

​“Yes, I have,” Michael replied, his tone flat, as if reading a report etched in memory. “They're not doing well. Since the Papacy ceded the city to Pain and Gain, things have improved, but oxygen is scarce. The O-Stones aren't enough to keep the air stable, despite everything they do to collect them.”

​Nicky turned, his expression more serious, his horns catching a reflection of the neon light.

​“What do you think, Michael? Do you really believe the O-Stones can lead to a vaccine for the V?”

​The V. That name was a blade that cut across every species of Omnium, a shadow that did not forgive. Michael remembered the stories, whispered like prayers: an ancient evil, born two thousand years ago, that strangled the lungs, broke the body, dragged people into coma and death. No cure, only vaccines that bought time, fragile as promises in the wind. And then there were the Forsight, warriors who immolated themselves to the V, exploiting its visions—fragments of past, present, future—to fight Chaos and the Faceless. Michael was an exception, a body without symptoms, a miracle that weighed like a curse.

​“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tinged with skepticism, his eyes lost beyond the porthole. “Pain and Gain talks about a substance in the O-Stones, activated by the Imprint, that slows the V better than current vaccines. It’s not a cure, but it’s something. But trusting a company that lives off war to make medicine… it doesn't convince me.”

​Nicky sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of distant worlds. “You’re lucky, Michael,” he murmured, his voice fragile as cracked glass. “It’s not bad to dream, sometimes.”

​Michael felt a pang, a mix of guilt and brotherhood. “Come on, Nicky, you know we're in the same boat,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Finding a cure is my first thought too.”

​“Hey, guys!” Erick’s voice cut through the moment, sharp as a blade. “I’m done with Saul. Once we’re at Lost City, we’ll head to the Papacy embassy for mission authorization with Pain and Gain.” He closed the Bot with a sharp gesture, his wings folding slightly, as if bearing an invisible weight. Erick was an enigma wrapped in silk. A Venasian, with wings that looked painted by the breath of a god, commander of a Maverick division at an age that defied all logic. Michael wondered what had driven him to leave the Venas matriarchy to climb a world of steel and fire. A powerful Imprint? A hidden wound? Whatever the truth, his presence filled the room with an authority that needed no words.

​“What’s the mission, Commander?” Michael asked, as Niles, Phase, and the Lone Soldier entered, shadows moving with unsettling precision. Niles, his black helmet swallowing every facial feature, looked like a living void. Phase, the pilot unit, moved like a perfect gear, his eyes hidden behind opaque lenses. And the Lone Soldier… a scar twisted his lip into a perpetual sneer, his ice-blue eyes seemingly seeing beyond the flesh.

​“It seems terrorists have attacked the Pain and Gain trains,” Erick replied, his voice calm but sharp. “The administrator’s nephew was aboard, kidnapped to blackmail the company. They’re not Faceless, so it should be a simple mission.”

​“Nephew?” Nicky interjected, his eyebrows arched, his horns catching a gleam. “Isn’t Saul a Silvalian? I thought they didn’t have families.”

​“You’re right,” Erick said, a shadow of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps he used that term for us, or to hurry us along. Anyway, they are armed terrorists. In the next two days, before arrival, prepare the Mechs. Phase, you’re in charge. The rest of you, weapons and rest.”

​Michael left the room, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He was on cannon duty, a monotonous task that chained him to a screen in search of shadows. And, as if that weren't enough, he would share the shift with the Lone Soldier. That man was an abyss, a mosaic of scars and silences, his face marked by wars Michael could only imagine.

​The cannon room was a stifling cubicle, lit by a cold light that made everything sterile. The SS Ouroboros was not a warship; its two squat, rusty cannons were an illusion of defense against meteors or sudden threats. Michael sat down, his eyes scanning the radar, a sea of green dots that promised boredom. Next to him, the Lone Soldier cleaned his sniper rifle with almost sacred care, his curly blonde hair falling over his pale face, the scar dancing with every movement.

​“Hey, LS, how did you survive Chaos that time?” Michael asked, his voice breaking the silence like a stone in a pond. Curiosity burned him, stronger than the discomfort. “I mean, no one else made it alone, without a Mech. Does your Imprint have something to do with it?” The Lone Soldier stared at him, his eyes like ice blades cutting the air. Then he returned to the rifle, the silence closing in like a door. Michael felt like an intruder, but he didn't give up.

​“Your name is Michael, right?” the man finally said, his voice cold as the void outside. Michael nodded, surprised. “Don’t believe the government stories. They paint me as a hero to hide the truth. Good people died that day. My colleagues, the civilians… almost no one made it.”

​The words struck Michael like a wave, cold and heavy. There was no pain in that voice, only an echoing emptiness. Michael had heard war stories on Osiris, laden with tears and regret, but from the Lone Soldier, he felt nothing, only a distance that made him shiver, as if the man were a shell speaking without living.

​“You still survived,” Michael insisted, looking for a crack in the wall. “How did you do it?”

​The Lone Soldier smiled, or at least it seemed so, the scar twisting the gesture into something wrong. “I know you’re from Osiris. There aren’t many humans there,” he said, dodging the question.

​“I’m a Meynesian,” Michael clarified, used to correcting people. “I lost my wings in the war, as a child. They always mistake me for human. I’m used to it now.”

​“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” the man said, but his voice was flat, devoid of warmth, as if the words were an automatic response.

​“Don’t worry,” Michael replied, a tense smile. “I imagine your scars come from your missions.”

​“I suppose so…” the Lone Soldier murmured, his gaze distant, as if searching for a memory buried under layers of ice. Michael opened his mouth, but the arrival of Nicky and Niles stopped him.

​“Hi Michael, we’re here for the shift change,” Nicky said, his eyes still clouded with sleep, his horns shining faintly. The Lone Soldier rose, silent, leaving the post to Niles, whose figure, hidden by the black helmet, seemed to swallow all light.

​Michael returned to his cabin, his mind troubled. The Lone Soldier was not just an enigma: he was a walking void, a man who spoke without feeling, who remembered without regretting. Even his apologies, even the story of that mission, were wrapped in a coldness that made him alien, as if his soul had been trapped in another time. The cabin welcomed him with its disorder: weights scattered like wreckage from a personal battle, notes piled up like unfinished thoughts, the unmade bed smelling of days without care. He sank onto the mattress, his body exhausted, every muscle screaming under the weight of the training. Without an Imprint, he pushed himself beyond the limits, studying weapons, combat, even the religions of Omnium, as if knowledge could fill the void left by his wings. But his goal was not strength, nor wisdom.

​From the porthole, a violet light pulsed, a glow that clutched at his heart: Osiris, so near, so unreachable. Michael clenched his fists, his teeth gritted, his breath breaking. The memory of that day, twenty years ago, was a wound that still bled: his family, reduced to ashes, and Him, the man who had orchestrated everything.

​“I swear I will have my revenge, Marco,” he whispered, his voice choked, a fire burning his chest. Marco the Executioner, Maverick general, a shadow haunting his every dream. He couldn’t shout, he couldn’t let the others hear. But inside, the oath was a storm, a vow that kept him alive, a beacon in the darkness of Wasteland.