The broadcast of the "CRY.MP4" video by Mothman420 hit the global network like a dirty bomb, immediately triggering the digital defense mechanisms CENO had woven into the infrastructure.
At first, the world laughed. The video—titled "THE LUNAR CRY: 58 HOURS TO DOOM (UNEDITED CENO FOOTAGE)"—was immediately flagged as a "deep fake" and "viral terror bait" by corporate media outlets. Mothman's notoriously erratic history and the sheer absurdity of the "Lunar Ribbon" made it easy to dismiss. Social media was flooded with satirical edits of the clip, dubbing the phantom swarm a "cosmic wormhole" or a "bad Photoshop."
However, the file's metadata, though stripped of source identity, contained precise astronomical coordinates. Independent observatories and major international astronomical research centers—operating outside of CENO's immediate control—began to receive frantic requests to check those coordinates.
Within the next hour, observatories from Chile to Hawaii and the European Southern Observatory began focusing their most powerful telescopes on the specified region of the Moon.
At first, even their high-resolution images returned nothing conclusive—just a vast, dark, cloud-like anomaly. But as the technicians refined the focus, eliminating atmospheric distortion and zooming in on the edge of the supposed "black ribbon," the data violently contradicted the consensus.
The dark mass wasn't a cloud, a shadow, or a tear in space. It was a dense, living collection.
As the image quality peaked, the technicians saw it: a black ribbon. With millions of uncountable, crimson Lunar Beasts, moving in a terrifying, cohesive mass. What had been casually dismissed as "red string" or light refraction suddenly resolved into rivers of feral Lunar Beasts—organic, life forms teeming across the lunar surface, all flowing toward the massive, swirling singularity of the mysterious ''black Ribbon.'' The black ribbon itself resembled the type of ribbon placed on a Christmas wrapped present. It had many bows to it. The exact function this ''Ribbon'' played for now was a mystery.
The official reports came fast and cold. The raw telemetry, spectral analysis, and visual confirmation from multiple global sources were undeniable.
The Lunar Cry was real.
Mass panic ensued. News anchors—who minutes earlier were mocking Mothman—were replaced by specialists stammering apologies and survival advice. Stock markets evaporated. Government officials, already reeling from the televised, controlled demolition of the CENO Tower (now widely attributed to the "tiger-striped terrorists", struggled to issue coherent orders.
The world suddenly understood the urgency of Mothman's final warning: 58 hours to seek deep shelter. Airports clogged. Freeways became solid blocks of metal. The illusion of safety provided by a generation of corporate control instantly shattered, paving the way for the chaos Ash had counted on. The surface world was dissolving into terror, exactly as planned.
Above ground, amidst the collapse of global order, a new, cold voice cut through the panic—the voice of authority, of technological certainty.
A high-definition broadcast, somehow overriding all existing networks, filled every screen that hadn't been smashed in the initial panic. Stepping out into the spotlight, impeccably dressed and showing no trace of the brutal helicopter crash, was Mya Tarq. The remnants of CENO were with her, positioned in a secure, undisclosed command center.
"Citizens of Earth," Tarq stated, her voice calm, powerful, and utterly devoid of fear. "The anarchy you witness is the result of the terrorist attack on CENO Tower by a bio-terrorist group."
She projected a massive, clean graphic of a satellite orbiting the Earth.
"CENO is here to reassure the world. We confirm the existence of the extratidal swarm. However, the one and only viable counter-strategy has already been initiated: the Cryo-Geo Containment Proton Array."
Tarq looked directly into the camera, seizing the narrative that Ash had gifted her. "This orbiting system—our most powerful defensive asset—is activating now. We will stop the Lunar Cry before it reaches atmosphere using a massive cold laser. Humanity has been delivered from the darkness. CENO is your shield. Remain indoors. Obey local authorities. We are in control."
Tarq's message provided the single sliver of hope the world was desperate for, instantly reframing Ash as the reckless terrorist and CENO as the capable, if ruthless, saviors.
Back on Level 1 of The Vein, atop the massive Hand, I was just turning to address Marla and Koba about the clan strategy when the full weight of the past few days—the rush, the fighting, the sheer, crushing existential terror—collapsed into a single, terrifying realization.
Doctor Syn!
I slapped myself hard across the cheek with my tiger-striped hand, the sound echoing sharply off the damp tunnel walls. The image of the Iron Root Jiujitsu Academy—the agreed-upon, safe rendezvous point—flashed in my mind. Herja's mother was still there, waiting. I had been so consumed by the Bonekin Engine, CENO's fall, and the Lunar Cry countdown that I had completely forgotten about picking up Doctor Syn! Herjas Mom!
"Dammit all," I snarled, the planned speech to Marla and Koba evaporating. My political leverage, the immediate threat of the Sex Pistol—it all instantly became secondary to this critical personal mission.
I threw my head back and sent a concentrated burst of psychic will toward the gigantic machine beneath me.
"Hand, return to the gutter with Marla and Koba, I have an errand to run."
I looked to my two assets, "Koba, Marla, hold fast. I have to go to the surface. I have to haul tail to go get Herjas mom! Allow no one inside the gutter while I'm away."
I didn't wait for the Hand to turn. I leapt from its knuckle, landing hard on the ground. My immediate priority was now getting to the surface, finding Doctor Syn, and getting her into the relative safety of the Gutter Nest before renewed CENO forces made their move.
I was running on pure adrenaline and the desperate knowledge that I had forgotten the single most important person in my life. I burst out of The Vein's upper tunnels and scrambled into the grimy cabin of my loyal, beat-up '97 Jeep Grand Cherokee. The 4.0L engine roared to life, a comforting, familiar brute force that contrasted sharply with the smooth bio-mechanics of the Hand.
The surface was pure, chaotic gridlock. Highways were non-existent; every main artery was a solid block of abandoned cars and panicked looters. I drove the old Jeep like a tank, using its heavy chassis and high ground clearance to cut across medians and over curbs, ignoring the blaring sirens and the stench of fear.
I finally reached the Iron Root Jiujitsu Academy—a small, nondescript storefront nestled between a defunct laundromat and a vape shop. I threw the Jeep into the alley behind it, barely braking, and kicked open the steel backdoor.
The familiar scent of sweat, chalk dust, and old mats hit me. The academy itself was dark, but a sliver of light emanated from the tiny back office where I handled the books.
Doctor Syn—a woman whose small, wiry frame concealed the focused intensity of a world-class biochemist, sat calmly on an overturned plastic bucket. She was watching a small, battery-powered television. She looked up at the sudden intrusion, her expression one of immense relief, which quickly turned to stern disapproval.
"You're late, Herja," she said simply, using her daughter's name. "You left me to listen to conspiracy theories about giant moths and lunar invasions."
I didn't answer. I leaned against the doorframe, trying to catch my breath and regulate the crashing adrenaline. Then, my eyes fell on the news broadcast Syn was watching.
The screen was filled with the composed, unblinking face of Mya Tarq.
"...We will stop the Lunar Cry before it reaches atmosphere using a massive cold laser," Tarq's voice rang out, confident and controlling. "CENO is your shield. We are in control."
I stared at the screen, my chest tightening into a knot of disbelief and rage. The wreckage of the CENO Tower flashed in my mind, followed by the memory of the chopper exploding.
"No," I whispered, the sound raw and broken. My Genome Beast senses had confirmed the absolute destruction of that crash. "No. I saw you burn. I watched you die."
The shock was a physical blow. Mya Tarq—the true architect of the Genome Beast program, the woman I had thought vanquished—was not only alive, but had already seized the global narrative, transforming my moment of necessary terror into CENO's triumphant return.
My one victory had been a lie. My one moment of personal relief, coming to rescue Syn, was immediately overshadowed by the chilling realization that my primary, most dangerous enemy was still operating, and was now poised to leverage the Lunar Cry itself.
"Ash," Syn said, her voice dropping. "We need to go. Now."
I finally tore my eyes from the smug, triumphant face of Tarq. I had lost the moral high ground, and now Tarq knew exactly where to look for the "terrorist" who had tried to take her out.