The Verse Anchor hummed to life in the central hub, its steady pulse spreading through the connected nodes like a ripple in still water.
Atlas stood at the console, arms crossed, watching the readouts stabilize. Clara was right beside him, shoulder brushing his. The rest of the team—Flick, Garran, Torval, and Kael—gathered around the main display.
"Connection confirmed across seventy-three nodes," Kael said, tapping through data streams. "The Anchor is broadcasting baseline history and principles. Should help coordinate relief efforts and trade routes."
It started small. A notification pinged on a side panel. Then another. Within minutes the console lit up with incoming transmissions.
Flick leaned in, eyes widening. "Uh, guys? We're getting... fan mail?"
The first holo-projection materialized in the public square outside the hub. A ten-meter tall statue of Flick appeared, frozen mid-leap with glowing cards exploding around him like fireworks. The plaque read:
