NOVPUBDecember 16, 2025 — 3:02 AM
Southbound — 12 Nautical Miles from MOA Complex
The lights of the MOA Complex twinkled against the low-hanging mist like scattered stars fallen to earth. From a distance, the walled arc of Manila Bay shimmered with flickers of red, blue, and amber—security towers, navigation markers, and solar towers reflecting against water.
Inside the Sea Phantom, Thomas Estaris leaned forward in his seat, one hand resting lightly on the yoke while the other adjusted the comms frequency.
His muscles ached from hours of strain. The suit under his vest was damp with sweat and salt. The boat groaned softly beneath him—every kilometer a reminder of the punishment it had taken.
But it was still moving.
And so was he.
He flicked the long-range band again and keyed his mic.
"Sea Phantom One to Overwatch Command Center. Ten nautical miles and closing. Confirm status."
A few seconds of static passed.
Then—
"Sea Phantom One, this is Overwatch Command."
The voice was unmistakable. Marcus. Sharp. Professional. But this time—edged with concern.
"You're coming in cold, Thomas. We picked you up on radar fifteen minutes ago but couldn't raise you. What's your status? You're late."
Thomas managed a small, tired smile.
"Got tangled up with the locals."
A pause.
"Clarify."
He toggled the main screen, sending over a compressed version of his log. A few sonar files. A copy of the hull status. Partial footage from the rear cameras. The thermal bloom anomalies. A timestamped account of the encounter.
He didn't say anything while the data uploaded.
When Marcus finally responded, his voice had changed.
"Are you telling me the Bloom is in the water now?"
"That's right, and I'm already considering that we establish a new department, a naval force that will counter the threat living in the ocean."
Marcus didn't speak for a moment. In the silence, Thomas could hear the faint hiss of the comm line and the quiet beep of the Sea Phantom's navigation console adjusting course toward the southern inlet.
Then, finally:
"You think it's that bad already?"
"I know it is," Thomas replied. "These weren't just drifting husks. They were coordinated, fast, precise. And one of them—big. Bigger than anything I've seen in water. It had mass, awareness, and tactics."
He paused, then added, "We're not just looking at evolution. This was engineered. The Bloom's adapting to the sea like it was waiting for it."
Marcus muttered something under his breath on the other end. Probably a curse.
"I'll brief the others," he said finally. "We'll need to expand our doctrine if that's the case. And you are really right about us needing a navy."
"I know," Thomas said. "That's why I'm proposing a full division. Naval strike. Fast-response teams, seaborne drones, deep-sea sonar arrays. We'll need to rethink everything."
He glanced down at the console as the shore came into full view. The sea walls around the MOA Complex stood tall against the night, floodlights washing across the defensive towers.
"First step," Thomas added, "is upgrading everything that floats. The Sea Phantom barely survived. We'll need something bigger. Heavier. Long-haul capable."
"You thinking about tapping the system again?" Marcus asked. 𝖓𝔬𝔳𝔭𝖚𝖇.𝔠𝔬𝖒
Thomas exhaled. "Already did. Reviewing possible hull classes. I'll meet with Engineering after I get patched up."
Another pause.
Marcus's voice softened just a touch. "You sure you're okay?"
Thomas looked at his reflection in the dark canopy glass. Blood along his temple. Bruising across his jaw. Sleepless eyes.
"No," he said honestly. "But I'm not dead. That's enough for now."
December 16, 2025 — 3:26 AM
MOA Complex – South Dock Entry
The Sea Phantom entered the final approach vector. Twin pylons on either side of the channel began pulsing a soft green, recognizing the vessel's transponder. A boarding crew was already waiting on the dock, spotlights trained on the water.
The boat slowed to a crawl. Thomas tapped the console.
Auto-docking initialized.
Hydraulic arms extended from beneath the surface, guiding the battered recon craft into place with mechanical precision. As it eased into the cradle, Thomas reached for the emergency locker. He pulled out his sidearm, a folded data slate, and the blood-slicked impact stunner.
The canopy hissed open.
Cool night air rushed into the cabin.
He stood, blinking into the lights, and climbed down the side ladder. Two Overwatch engineers jogged forward. One carried a diagnostic wand, the other a sealed trauma kit.
"Sir, hull breach on port stern confirmed," one of them called. "Looks like multiple structural impacts."
"Can you fix it?"
"We will need specialized tools, which don't exist in our inventory."
"Then don't mind fixing it. We are going to scrap it anyway."
"But for now, we are going to keep it," Thomas said, his voice low but firm. "No one touches the underhull until we've done a full contaminant scan. If there's Bloom residue in the intake, I want to know."
"Yes, sir. We will move it."
Behind him, the Sea Phantom was towed down the dock, the worn jet trails still steaming faintly in the night air.
Thomas turned toward the Command Access Tunnel. Marcus was already there, waiting at the base of the stairs, arms crossed.
"You really look like hell," Marcus said, stepping aside as Thomas passed.
Thomas didn't smile. "I matched the boat this time. Anyways, I am going to get myself checked."
"The doctor is already here so…the medics will take you to the infirmary first," Marcus said, gesturing toward a pair of Overwatch personnel waiting by the blast doors in white-tagged vests. "I figured you'd refuse if I said anything earlier, so I told them to intercept you here."
Thomas gave a quiet grunt but didn't protest. His legs were starting to feel heavier with every step. "You know me too well."
Marcus shrugged. "I just didn't want you bleeding out in a hallway before giving that naval proposal."
Thomas followed the medics without argument. As he stepped past the security threshold, the hall lights dimmed slightly—Overwatch's power-saving protocol kicking in.
And as Thomas walked toward the medical wing, one thought stayed rooted in his mind:
If the sea wasn't safe anymore, then there was no place left to run.
Only places left to fight.
