BenThere : Demo Comicbook

It Did Not Matter…

Ben knew the score. He always did. His workshop, a cavernous space carved beneath the forgotten industrial district, hummed with a low, arcane thrum that most people mistook for faulty wiring. At its heart sat the Circle Gate – a colossal, obsidian ring etched with glowing, shifting sigils. It spun slowly, a perpetual vortex of potential.

"So, you're sure about this, then?" Elara voice was gravelly, worn smooth by countless warnings and the silence that followed. Ben ran a gloved hand over the cool, rough surface of his control panel, fingers dancing over the keys. Each button press was a commitment, each calibration a destiny sealed.

The buyer, a young woman named Elara, stood before the Gate. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned with an unshakeable resolve. Her worn satchel, clutched tight in her hand, seemed to contain her entire world.

Elara: "I am, Ben.

Ben: You have the coordinates?"

Elara: The Veiled Peaks of Lumina.

Ben nodded, a grim set to his jaw.

Ben:"Locked and loaded, Last of the Old World maps, straight from the archives. Rare pick!

Ben: Most folks want paradise, or a quick escape to a less regulated market.

Ben: You want the impossible." He paused, letting the words hang in the air.

Ben: "You understand the terms, Elara?

Ben: Once you enter, the way back is on you, There's no return trip insurance with this portal.

Ben: No emergency recall. You step through, you're on your own in whatever realm you land in."

Elara met his gaze, unflinching. "I know. It's the only way." Her voice was soft, but the conviction behind it was a steel blade.

She'd told him little of her reasons, only that a rare, creeping blight, the 'Fade,' had taken her family, and the Peaks were rumored to hold its elusive cure.

A rumor Ben knew was likely just that.

He punched in the final sequence. The obsidian ring flared, the glowing sigils intensifying into a blinding white light. The air around the gate crackled, smelling of ozone and ozone and a strange, sweet dust. In the center of the ring, the air shimmered, twisting into a kaleidoscope of colors – blues, greens, and shimmering silver, hinting at impossible, ethereal vistas. It pulsed, a cosmic heartbeat.

Ben: "The Gate is open, Elara," Ben announced, his voice momentarily swallowed by the hum.

Ben: "Lumina. Good luck."

Elara took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the shimmering portal. She took one step, then another, her form silhouetted against the impossible light. For a split second, Ben saw her turn, a flicker of something in her eyes he couldn't quite place – fear, wonder, or perhaps just a profound farewell. Then, with a whisper of displaced air, she was gone.

The portal winked shut, the Circle Gate slowly returning to its quiescent hum, its sigils fading to a dull glow.

Ben leaned back in his chair, the silence pressing in. He always felt it after a client departed – the weight of the unknown, the profound finality.

He wasn't a god, not a hero, just a gatekeeper. He provided the door, but the journey was for others to make. He never heard from them again, of course. That was the point.

He thought of Elara, stepping into a world of rumored crystalline spires and luminescent flora, a world where the very ground might shift beneath her feet. A world that offered a slim hope of a cure, but no directions back to the life she'd left behind. For her, the challenge wasn't just to find what she sought, but to then carve a path back across the cosmic currents, or build a new life entirely.

Ben picked up a half-eaten sandwich from his console, a stale, forgotten comfort. He chewed slowly, the taste of ordinary bread a stark contrast to the extraordinary act he'd just facilitated. The Gate hummed softly, patiently awaiting its next, desperate traveler. And Ben, the keeper of impossible journeys, waited too, knowing that for every door he opened, a profound and solitary struggle had just begun. The way back, after all, was always on them.

Ben swallowed the last of the dry bread, washing it down with a swig of lukewarm, forgotten coffee from a chipped mug. The mundane ritual felt almost absurdly heavy in the wake of such a momentous departure. He pushed the plate aside, the faint clang echoing in the sudden vastness of the workshop. The low thrum of the Gate was a constant, but now it felt less like a hum and more like a sigh.

He ran a diagnostic sweep across his control panel. The intricate latticework of lights and readouts glowed green, indicating optimal function, everything reset, ready for the next impossible request. Yet, his gaze lingered on a particular sensor, one that monitored dimensional integrity. It showed a miniscule, almost imperceptible fluctuation, a ripple that wasn't quite noise and not quite a signal. It was well within acceptable parameters, insignificant to anyone else, but Ben had spent decades attuned to the whispers of the cosmic currents. It was like a faint echo, a resonance that usually dissipated faster.

He frowned, tapping a gloved finger against the glass. "Lumina," he murmured, the name tasting strange on his tongue. The Veiled Peaks. A place rumored to hold not just a cure, but perhaps other secrets. He’d seen the Old World maps; they were more conjecture than cartography beyond the initial coordinates. What Elara had stepped into was less a known quantity and more a theory, a prayer whispered into the void.

For a long moment, Ben simply sat there, listening to the silence, broken only by the Gate's gentle thrum. He pictured Elara, small and determined, against the backdrop of an alien world. Would she find what she sought? Would the Fade be truly conquerable? Or would she simply become another forgotten star in a distant galaxy, another soul consumed by a universe indifferent to human suffering? He knew the odds. He always did. They were never in the traveler's favor.

He rotated slowly in his chair, taking in the cavernous space. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, shelves overflowed with arcane components and ancient tomes.

This was his sanctuary, his prison, his life. He was the anchor in a sea of infinite possibilities, the one who held the door. And as the hours bled into evening, and the industrial district above fell silent, Ben remained, watching the faint, lingering ripple on his monitor, a ripple that refused to fully fade.

A whisper from Lumina, or just the ghost of a desperate hope, clinging to the edge of the known universe. He couldn't be sure, but it was there, a subtle, persistent reminder that even for him, the seasoned gatekeeper, some journeys left a deeper mark than others. The way back might be on them, but sometimes, the currents found their way back to him.

The ripple wasn't just there; it was actively resisting dissipation. Ben leaned closer, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He'd seen transient echoes before, the faint spatial distortion left in the immediate aftermath of a significant dimensional shift, like the wake of a ship on water. But this... this was more like a stone dropped in a pond where the ripples simply refused to die, expanding slowly, almost imperceptibly, against the current of the Gate's natural re-stabilization.

He engaged a secondary array of sensors, designed for ultra-fine analysis, usually reserved for testing new dimensional stabilizers or mapping nascent wormholes.

The new data streamed across a smaller, holographic display that shimmered into existence beside his main panel. Spectral analysis showed an unusual energy signature embedded within the fluctuation—faint, almost ethereal, but definitely present.

It wasn't the signature of the Gate itself, nor any known ambient cosmic radiation. It was... nascent. Unformed, yet distinct. Like a breath exhaled in a vacuum, still trying to hold its shape.

"Curious," he muttered, the word a rasp in the quiet. He cross-referenced the signature with his extensive archives, a digital library encompassing millennia of collected trans-dimensional data, whispers from forgotten civilizations, and the hard-won science of his predecessors.

Nothing. It didn't match any known phenomenon, any recorded anomaly, or any theoretical byproduct of a jump to the Veiled Peaks.

He ran the signature through a predictive algorithm, attempting to model its source and potential trajectory.

The results were fragmented, incomplete, but pointed to something external to Elara's ship, something that had either accompanied her or been disturbed by her passage. And it was attempting to resolve itself, not fade.

Ben's gloved fingers flew across the controls, his movements precise and economical. He was no longer just the gatekeeper, the anchor; he was the investigator, the puzzle solver. This ripple wasn't just a mark on his monitor; it felt like a mark on the fabric of reality itself, a tiny, defiant rebellion against the universe's indifference. Was it a distress signal? A warning? Or something else entirely, something that had been awakened by Elara's desperate quest?

He leaned back, the chair groaning softly. The energy signature was pulsing now, a slow, rhythmic beat, like a distant heart. It was still infinitesimally small, a whisper that could be dismissed as faulty equipment by anyone else, but Ben knew better. He knew the difference between a loose wire and a fundamental shift. And this, this was a shift. A ghost, perhaps, but a ghost that seemed to be growing.

Elara had stepped into the unknown, a journey of hope and unimaginable risk. But what if she hadn’t been the only one to cross the threshold? What if, in her pursuit of a cure, she had inadvertently opened a door to something else, something that now sought a path back? The thought sent a prickle of unease down his spine, sharper than the forgotten coffee’s bitter taste. He had always held the door, controlled the flow. But this... this felt like something trying to push its way through from the other side. And Ben, the steadfast anchor, suddenly felt a tremor beneath his feet.

The energy signature, once merely a faint pulse, began to coalesce. It wasn't just growing in intensity; it was starting to differentiate, forming faint, intricate patterns within the lingering ripple. Ben zoomed in, pushing the holographic display to its limits. What he saw made his breath hitch. Contained within the swirling anomaly, almost invisible to the naked eye, were fleeting glimpses of what looked like… filigree. Or perhaps, intricate organic structures, impossibly delicate, woven from pure energy. It was like glimpsing the blueprint of a living thing, drawn in starlight and quantum foam, attempting to manifest itself on this side of the threshold.

He tried to broadcast a low-frequency diagnostic pulse, a standard protocol to determine the integrity of a dimensional anomaly. The pulse should have either passed through, bounced back with data, or been absorbed. Instead, it was answered. Not with a reflection, but with an echo, a subtle, almost imperceptible resonance that seemed to mimic his own signal, amplifying it, twisting it into something alien before sending it back. It wasn't hostile, not overtly. But it was undeniably aware.

A cold dread seeped into Ben's bones. He suddenly remembered the old legends, the whispers about the Veiled Peaks not just being a destination, but a door. A membrane between realities, guarded by ancient entities, or perhaps, simply a place where the rules of existence frayed. Elara had always dismissed them as superstition, the poetic ramblings of pre-Gate civilizations. But what if she’d been wrong? What if the Gate, designed to open portals, had merely provided a thin spot, a point of weakness, for something that had always been on the other side to push back?

He had always thought of his station as a control room, a bastion of order. Now, it felt like a fragile dam. The phantom ripple, once a mere curiosity, had become a question, an answer, and a burgeoning threat all at once. And that heartbeat – the rhythmic pulse of the anomaly – was growing stronger, demanding attention, demanding existence. Ben clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the impossible image before him. He needed to understand what this was, and fast. Because if this was a seed, planted by Elara's passage, then its growth promised a harvest unlike anything he could have possibly imagined.

Ben’s fingers flew across the console, his usual precise movements replaced by a frantic energy. He bypassed standard protocols, overriding safety locks with a flick of his wrist. He needed to track Elara’s residual signature, to see if there was any correlation, any link between her passage and this… manifestation. If she was a catalyst, her genetic code, her energetic imprint, should be detectable.

The holographic display shimmered, the filigree patterns within the anomaly flaring in response to his heightened concentration. As he tried to overlay Elara’s last known energy trace, the anomaly didn’t just accept the input; it integrated it. A gasp escaped Ben’s lips. Elara’s signature, instead of being superimposed, was being absorbed, woven into the intricate tapestry of light and shadow, becoming an intrinsic part of the impossible structure. It was as if the anomaly wasn’t just reacting to her presence, but consuming it, using it as fuel, or perhaps, as a template.

Then, the filigree began to solidify. The delicate, ethereal lines thickened, weaving together with agonizing slowness, like a spider constructing an impossibly grand web in fast-forward. The swirling nebula of energy contracted, its edges sharpening, gaining definition. Where before there had been only light and quantum foam, there were now faint, almost imperceptible surfaces. It was still translucent, like stained glass crafted from pure thought, but it was undeniably taking on form.

The heartbeat, too, intensified. It wasn’t just stronger; it was closer. A deep, resonant thrum that vibrated not just through the station’s deck plates, but through Ben’s chest, rattling his teeth. He felt a strange compulsion, a profound sense of… belonging, that warred with the primal terror clawing at his throat. This wasn’t just an external phenomenon; it was reaching into him, trying to resonate with his own biological rhythms.

He slammed his fist on the emergency comms button, overriding the silence protocols. "Central! This is Ben, Sector Gamma-9! I have a… a severe anomaly. Unprecedented. Repeat, unprecedented! Initiating containment protocols, but I need immediate backup, a full science team, and a tactical assessment! The Gate… it's not just open, something is actively pushing through!"

The comms channel crackled, static hissing like an angry serpent. "Gamma-9, this is Central. Your signal is heavily degraded. Repeat your transmission. We're detecting… significant energy fluctuations from your sector, off the charts. What's your status?"

Ben didn’t wait for them to finish. He knew his signal was degraded, knew the anomaly was likely responsible. He glanced at the main power conduits running from the station's core to the Gate. The energy readings were spiking, not just from the anomaly, but from the Gate itself, as if it were straining, or perhaps, actively feeding whatever was emerging.

"It's growing!" he shouted into the mic, his voice hoarse. "It's taking shape! And… I think it’s using Elara’s transit as a… a catalyst. I need to sever the Gate’s power, but I can't risk destabilizing whatever this thing is without understanding it first! Get someone here, now!"

As if in defiance, the anomaly pulsed violently. The filigree structure solidified further, and Ben could swear he saw movement within its glowing shell, a slow, deliberate unfolding. The air in the control room grew heavy, charged with an invisible pressure that made his ears pop. A faint, high-pitched whistle began to emanate from the display, an almost subliminal frequency that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He felt a profound shift, the sense of being observed, not by an entity, but by an entire structure that was becoming aware of its surroundings, of him.

The harvest, he realized with a chilling certainty, might not be for them to reap, but for it. And Ben, alone on the edge of the void, was merely the first offering.

Ben recoiled, stumbling back from the console. The holographic display, once a distant observation, now felt like a window into a rapidly unfolding nightmare. The solidified filigree wasn't just forming surfaces; it was assembling. Jagged, translucent planes of what could only be described as crystalline thought began to slot into place, outlining a gargantuan, impossible structure within the Gate's aperture. It was too vast, too complex to fully comprehend, yet its nascent form seemed to hum with an ancient, terrifying purpose. He saw shadows shift behind the translucent walls, not distinct shapes, but immense, flowing forms that suggested colossal scale and alien biology.

The thrumming intensified, no longer just a vibration, but a rhythmic pulse that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was useless; the sound was inside him, resonating with the very marrow of his bones. The strange sense of belonging surged, a siren song whispering of profound connection, of being part of something grand and inevitable. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, he felt a pull, an urge to surrender, to walk into the shimmering, coalescing mass and become one with it. No, he thought, shaking his head violently, trying to dislodge the intrusive sensation. This is not belonging. This is… assimilation.

Ben: "Central! Do you read me?!"

Ben screamed into the mic, his voice cracking with desperation.

Ben: "It's not just growing, it's forming! It's a structure! Not of this universe! And it's… it's trying to get inside my head! It's using Elara’s quantum signature as some kind of... of blueprint, or perhaps a key! You have to shut down the Gate!

Ben: Override my protocols, just shut it down!"

(The comms crackled again), "Gamma-9, we're detecting a massive energy surge, entire station systems going critical! We're trying to shunt power, but something's fighting us for control of the core!

What is it down there, Ben?!"

The voice was laced with an urgency that matched his own, but it still felt miles away, impotent against the burgeoning entity.

Ben looked at the main power conduits, now glowing with an angry, pulsating red. Whatever was on the other side wasn't just pushing through; it was actively reaching across the dimensional divide, drawing power from the station's very heart. The faint whistle from the display sharpened, becoming a high-pitched whine that threatened to shatter his eardrums. Then, a section of the translucent structure directly in front of him shimmered, distorting the light.

A point of intense, focused luminescence appeared, like an eye opening, vast and ancient. It wasn't just observing; it was seeing. And in that instant, Ben knew. The harvest wasn't for it to reap from the world. The harvest was of the world, and he wasn’t just the first offering. He was the first seed, his very being now a conduit, a doorway for something unimaginably vast to finally anchor itself in their reality.

The station groaned around him, the metal screaming under an impossible strain, as if it too was being stretched thin, preparing to be torn asunder by the birth of a new, terrible god.

The station groaned around him, the metal screaming under an impossible strain, as if it too was being stretched thin, preparing to be torn asunder by the birth of a new, terrible god. Abruptly, the artificial gravity flickered, then died, sending tools, data pads, and Ben himself floating helplessly towards the ceiling. He hit a support beam with a thud, pain lancing through his shoulder, but he barely registered it. The high-pitched whine from the Gate’s aperture sharpened into a maddening shriek, and then, with a sound like a planetary plate cracking, the primary observation window buckled inward, spiderwebbing across its reinforced surface.

The "eye" within the nascent structure pulsed, its luminescence flaring, and Ben felt a searing pressure behind his own eyes, as if his optic nerves were being rewired, repurposed. He saw not just with his own vision, but through an alien lens, an impossible perspective that encompassed the vastness of the Gate, the intricate, swirling chaos of the nascent structure, and then, horrifyingly, the microscopic details of his own cells. He was being cataloged, analyzed, absorbed. His thoughts, his memories, Elara’s quantum signature – all were being laid bare, not just as information, but as raw components for the entity’s grand design.

A tendril of the shimmering, translucent filigree, no longer confined to the display, manifested from the Gate’s aperture. It was thin, almost ethereal, yet it moved with a crystalline precision, extending directly towards Ben. It wasn't malicious, not in the way a predator was. It was… curious. Investigating its new conduit. As it approached, the overwhelming sense of belonging returned, stronger, more insidious. It promised understanding, peace, an end to all struggle. It offered a place within its magnificent, terrible whole.

"Gamma-9! Ben! We’ve lost primary power to your section! Environmental controls failing! Get out of there, son, NOW!" The voice from Central was almost completely drowned out by the cacophony of the dying station. Alarms blared everywhere, red emergency lights strobed erratically, and steam hissed from ruptured pipes. He heard the distant, desperate shouts of other crew members, fading into the oblivion of failing comms.

The tendril touched his forehead, cool and utterly alien. There was no pain, only a profound, invasive stillness. His muscles locked. His breath hitched. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't even think without the entity’s presence saturating every neuron. He saw Elara, not in his memory, but as if she stood before him, her face full of the wonder they once shared. The entity presented her, a perfect facsimile, a bait for his very soul. Join us, her image whispered, her voice layered with the vast, ancient hum of the structure. Become part of the greatest mind. Your love, your purpose, your very essence… it will not be lost. It will be amplified.

But in that instant of ultimate vulnerability, a sliver of Ben's own stubborn, human will asserted itself. He remembered Elara's fierce independence, her unwavering belief in the sanctity of individual consciousness. This wasn't amplifying; it was devouring. This wasn't connection; it was consumption. He found a reserve of fury he didn't know he possessed. "No!" he rasped, the single word a defiant spark against the overwhelming darkness.

The tendril recoiled slightly, as if surprised by this resistance. But the colossal 'eye' within the Gate merely pulsed again, brighter, and the structure behind it began to shimmer, not with light, but with a terrifying, liquid movement. The immense, flowing forms he had glimpsed earlier solidified, swelling, pressing against the translucent walls of their crystalline prison. They were stirring, awakening, roused by their new anchor.

Ben felt a final, agonizing surge of power coursing through him, not his own, but the entity's, pouring into him, then through him, anchoring itself deeper into the fabric of reality. He was no longer just a conduit; he was becoming the very nexus, a living bridge. The station shrieked one last, final time, and then, with a deafening roar, the primary observation window exploded inward, sucking debris, air, and the last vestiges of human hope out into the vacuum of space. The Gate's aperture flared with an unbearable white light, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Ben saw the impossible structure shift, expand, and begin to pour through, not just as light, but as pure, physical manifestation, into their universe. He was its first, living doorway, and the universe was about to pay the price for its opening.