The room was cold and sterile, its walls thick with reinforced steel and concrete, designed to withstand any attack that might come from outside. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, clinical glow on the faces of those gathered around the large, oval boardroom table. Men and women of power—presidents, prime ministers, generals, and diplomats—sat with grim expressions, their eyes fixed on the massive screen that dominated the far wall.

The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the projector and the flicker of images flashing across the screen. Each image was a nightmare made real.
Tokyo—its once glittering skyline now reduced to skeletal remains, skyscrapers toppled like children's blocks, their windows shattered and frames scorched black. Fires still smoldered in the ruins, casting a sickly orange glow against a sky choked with ash and soot. Streets that were once filled with life and noise now lay silent and barren, coated in a thick layer of dust that drifted like a ghostly shroud.

New York City—a wasteland of twisted steel and broken concrete, where the iconic silhouette of the Empire State Building stood like a tombstone against a backdrop of desolation. The Statue of Liberty, half-submerged and crumbling, stared out with empty eyes over a harbor filled with wreckage, the water dark and thick with oil and debris. A cold wind whipped through the ruins, carrying with it the distant sound of alarms that still blared in vain.

London—a city of fog and ruin, its landmarks barely recognizable beneath the layers of grime and smoke. The Thames flowed like a river of sludge, its waters poisoned and swirling with the detritus of a once-great city. Big Ben's clock face was shattered, its hands frozen at the hour of the attack, while the charred remains of Westminster Abbey stood as a silent witness to the devastation.

Sydney—its famous Opera House a fractured shell, its white sails blackened and broken. The harbor, once clear and blue, now swirled with a toxic mix of chemicals, dead fish floating belly-up in the water. The bridge was a twisted hulk, its steel girders bent and warped by unimaginable heat.

One by one, the images changed, each more horrific than the last:

Paris—the Eiffel Tower reduced to a skeletal frame, leaning dangerously over a city cloaked in smoke and ash.

Moscow—a landscape of shattered monuments and crumbling buildings, the Kremlin’s once-bright domes now dull and scorched.

Beijing—its vast avenues deserted, the air thick with a yellowish haze, and the Great Wall barely visible through the swirling dust and debris.

Rio de Janeiro—where Christ the Redeemer, the towering statue atop Corcovado Mountain, lay toppled, broken in half, amidst the ruins of favelas and skyscrapers alike.

The images moved faster now, showing scenes of natural beauty desecrated by human folly. The Amazon Rainforest, a charred and blackened wasteland, with smoke rising from the ashes of what had once been the lungs of the Earth. The Great Barrier Reef, a bleached and barren graveyard, its corals dead and lifeless, its waters a toxic murk.

The screen flashed to images of the skies—once blue and serene, now discolored in shades of sickly green and yellow, marred by swirling clouds of poisonous gas. The air itself seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, heavy with the residue of atomic fallout. Strange lightning crackled across the heavens, bolts of unnatural color arcing through the toxic clouds.

The oceans churned with filth and sludge, their surfaces slick with oil, chemicals, and the remnants of once-thriving marine life. Waves crashed against eroded shores, carrying with them the wreckage of ships, the bodies of the drowned, and the stench of decay.

In the mountains, rivers ran black with pollution, their banks lined with the twisted, deformed remains of wildlife that had once flourished there. Forests were reduced to skeletons of charred wood, their soil poisoned, the air around them thick with radioactive dust.

The images shifted one final time, showing scenes of nuclear devastation: cities scoured by atomic hellfire, their centers glowing with the dim, dying embers of radioactive fallout. Craters marked the places where bombs had fallen, gouging the earth with scars that would never heal. The land around them lay barren and dead, a desolate no-man's land stretching out to the horizon.

"And you say these images are of the future, Doctor Hawthorne?" said an American man, glancing at the figure presenting the slideshow of horrors.

Doctor Hawthorne stood at the front of the room, the flickering images of devastation casting shadows across his sharply defined features. He looked every bit the part of the adventurer-scientist he was—tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of a thousand lifetimes. His hair, a thick, dark mane flecked with streaks of silver, fell to his collar, hinting at the wisdom and experience of a man who had seen far more than his share of both wonder and horror.

He wore a rugged, well-worn leather jacket over a shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms that looked like they could bend steel bars. A faded bandana was tied loosely around his neck, the last remnant of his days venturing through jungles, deserts, and forgotten cities in search of ancient mysteries. Despite the anachronism of his appearance, there was a vibrancy, an energy about him that defied his age—or, perhaps, the conventional understanding of age itself.

Doctor Hawthorne had once been a legend of the pulp era—a man who had dived into the unknown with reckless abandon, driven by an insatiable curiosity and a refusal to believe in the impossible. But that was before the accident—before his experiments with temporal mechanics had left him unstuck from time, existing in a state that allowed him to move through the years as if they were mere pages in a book. Now, he was something beyond a man; he was a living paradox, a temporal anomaly with knowledge that stretched across countless futures and pasts.

He met the American man’s gaze, his expression grave. "Not exactly," he repeated, his voice carrying a slight gravel, the tone of someone who had seen too much but was determined to press on regardless. "This is a potential timeline, one that has been delayed, though I cannot say for certain how long it will remain that way."

He turned back to the screen, his eyes narrowing at the images of destruction. “The future is not a fixed point, not in the way many of us would like to believe. It's a multitude of paths, all intersecting, diverging, and converging at various points in time. What you see here," he continued, gesturing to the scenes of nuclear hellfire and poisoned landscapes, "is one of the worst possibilities—one that I’ve seen before, too many times to count."

A few murmurs ran through the room, some skeptical, others uneasy. Even among the seasoned diplomats and military strategists present, the idea of a man who could see through time, who could speak of future horrors as though they were memories, was difficult to grasp.

An older woman with the pinched expression of someone used to having to control rooms full of men cleared her throat. "Doctor Hawthorne, are you suggesting that this is inevitable? Or merely… possible?"

Hawthorne glanced at her, his expression softening slightly. "Possible," he replied, "but dangerously close to becoming reality. I’ve encountered many timelines, some where this is averted, others where it occurs, and even those where it is but the beginning of greater darkness. What makes this timeline unique is that, until recently, it had always been out of reach—always averted. But now..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Now, something—or someone—has changed the game."

The murmurs grew louder. The American, a senator by the look of him, leaned forward, his face etched with concern. "Who could do something like this? Who has that kind of power?"

Doctor Hawthorne nodded, as if anticipating the question. "A question I’ve asked myself many times. There are those in this world—those with powers that reach far beyond the scope of our understanding. Specials, as you might call them nowadays. But this… this is different. This isn’t just the work of one Special. It's an orchestration, a deliberate and precise manipulation of events, each one moving us closer to this… scorched earth."

He stepped back from the screen, folding his arms across his chest. "The question isn't just who could do this, but why. And how we stop them before this timeline becomes the only timeline."

The room fell silent, each person present grappling with the weight of his words. On the screen, the images of the devastated world continued to flicker, a grim reminder of what was at stake. All eyes turned back to Doctor Hawthorne, waiting for him to offer the answers that only a man unstuck in time could provide.

“I think it all started with the dropping of the atomic bombs nearly twenty years ago now,” said Doctor Hawthorne, letting his words settle into the room.

The weight of Doctor Hawthorne's words settled heavily over the room. The tension was palpable, like a taut wire stretched to its breaking point. Faces around the table were grim, eyes fixed on the man out of time with a mix of skepticism, fear, and a desperate hope that he might provide a way out of the impending catastrophe.

The American senator, a heavyset man with a stern expression, cleared his throat. “You’re saying that the arms race itself is the catalyst for this… this destruction?”

Doctor Hawthorne nodded, his expression unwavering. "The arms race is not just a catalyst; it's a fuse already burning toward an inevitable explosion. The Russians and Americans, and by extension, every nation that seeks to wield the power of these weapons, are racing toward a precipice, blind to the edge. The atomic bomb was only the beginning—a step onto a path that grows more dangerous with each passing day."

He paused, letting the room absorb the gravity of his statement. “In 1945, when the first atomic bombs were dropped, they yielded destruction measured in kilotons—thousands of tons of TNT. By the early 1960s, hydrogen bombs were developed with yields measured in megatons—millions of tons of TNT. Now, both sides possess weapons hundreds, even thousands of times more powerful than those first bombs. The scale of devastation you see on this screen could be achieved with a fraction of the arsenals currently held by the superpowers.”

A Russian diplomat, her face tense and lined with worry, leaned forward. "And you believe that these increased capabilities are what lead to this... scorched earth?"

Doctor Hawthorne’s eyes met hers, his voice calm but firm. "The greater the power, the greater the potential for catastrophe. The more advanced these weapons become, the less room there is for error, for miscalculation. And I have seen—time and time again—how a single mistake, a single misstep, can trigger a chain reaction that brings entire civilizations to their knees."

A murmur rippled through the room, a mixture of fear and disbelief. A tall man with graying hair, dressed in a crisp military uniform, spoke up, his voice gruff with skepticism. "Are you suggesting that we dismantle our defenses, Doctor? That we simply trust our enemies not to strike?"

Hawthorne shook his head. "No. I'm not naive. I know the world is far too complex for such simple solutions. But you must understand, this is not just about defense. It is about control, or rather, the illusion of it. Each side believes they can control these weapons, that they can wield them without consequence. But the reality is… they cannot. The more powerful the weapons, the more fragile the balance becomes."

He gestured again to the images on the screen. "This is what happens when that balance tips. This is the price of believing that we can control forces beyond our understanding. Forces that, once unleashed, answer to no one."

The room fell silent once more, the weight of his words sinking in. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, others stared down at the table, their faces drawn and pale. Doctor Hawthorne watched them, his eyes scanning the room, seeking out any sign of hope, of understanding.

The woman who had spoken earlier, her expression still firm, leaned forward again. "So what do you propose, Doctor Hawthorne? If disarmament isn't an option, and neither is continuing down this path, what is the solution?"

Doctor Hawthorne drew a deep breath, his gaze never wavering. "I propose we stop playing a game we cannot win. We need to find the root cause of this escalation, the ones who are feeding the fire, who have turned this into a race not for peace, but for absolute dominance. The ones who benefit from chaos."

The American senator spoke again, his tone cautious. "You still believe this is the work of S.W.A.R.M?"

"With a ninety-seven-point-eight degree of certainty," the doctor calmly replied.

The American senator’s face tightened, a flicker of concern passing across his features. “S.W.A.R.M.,” he muttered, the name carrying a weight that settled heavily in the room. “The Superior Weapons Armor Robotics Manufacturers… terrorists and arms dealers, built from the remnants of the Axis powers who craved world domination.”

The words hung in the air, charged with the dark history they invoked. The mention of the Axis powers brought to mind images of a world at war, of a time when the very fabric of civilization had been threatened by forces of unimaginable cruelty and ambition. The idea that such forces had not only survived but evolved into something even more insidious sent a chill through the room.

Doctor Hawthorne nodded, his expression grim. “S.W.A.R.M. is the bastard child of a nightmare that should have ended with the fall of the Third Reich and Imperial Japan. But instead, it lingered, mutated, and grew in the shadows. They took the knowledge, the technology, the ruthlessness of the Axis war machine, and repurposed it for their own ends.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “For decades, they’ve been perfecting their craft—creating weapons, armor, and advanced robotics far beyond what the rest of the world knows exists. They’ve infiltrated governments, corrupted officials, and manipulated conflicts to fuel their own agenda. And now, they’ve aligned themselves with the most dangerous and unstable elements on the planet. Their goal is simple: to bring the world to its knees, to reignite the flames of global conflict and emerge as the undisputed masters of the new order.”

A British diplomat, her voice edged with disbelief, spoke up. “They want to burn the world to ash and rebuild it all over again in their image, don’t they?”

Doctor Hawthorne nodded, his expression grave. "Yes," he replied, "that is precisely what they want. S.W.A.R.M. thrives in chaos. They seek to dismantle the existing world order and create one that operates on their terms—where they control the flow of technology, of resources, of power itself. They have no loyalty to any nation, no allegiance to any cause except their own ambition."

He continued, "They’ve taken the darkest lessons of history and weaponized them. They believe that through destruction, they can create a new hierarchy, one that places them at the very top. Every conflict they instigate, every proxy war they fuel, every act of terror they sponsor is a step toward that goal."

The French diplomat who had spoken earlier furrowed her brow, her voice low and thoughtful. "But they’re not just seeking power, are they? They’re using power as a means to an end. They see themselves as visionaries… as architects of a new world."

Hawthorne nodded again. "Indeed. They’re not content with simply ruling—they want to reshape reality itself. They believe that through technological superiority and strategic manipulation, they can create a world where they are the undisputed masters. And they are willing to burn everything to the ground to make that happen."

Doctor Hawthorne continued, his voice measured and deliberate, “Consider their iconography. It’s not just a branding choice; it’s a philosophy made manifest. They style their armor, their weapons, their code names, even their vehicles after insects and arachnids—creatures that embody their core belief in hierarchy and ruthless efficiency. But more than that, their chosen symbols are predominantly eusocial insects—ants, bees, termites—creatures that operate under a single directive, a single mind.”

He paused, letting the imagery settle in. "At the top of this bizarre insectoid hierarchy sits the one they call the Hive Master. No one outside their inner circle has ever seen their true face. A man, or perhaps a woman, who has chosen to conceal their identity behind a mask of chitin and steel. They are a shadow, a figurehead, but more importantly, they are the self-styled ruler of this dark vision—a leader who sees themselves as the undisputed monarch of a new world order."

A murmur spread through the room, the imagery evoking a visceral reaction from those present. The American senator frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “So they see themselves as the queen of a hive? The one who commands all others?”

Hawthorne nodded. “Exactly. The Hive Master isn't just a leader—they are the ultimate authority, the singular consciousness that dictates the actions of every drone in their swarm. They command with absolute authority, viewing each member of S.W.A.R.M. as expendable in pursuit of their greater goal. The individuals within S.W.A.R.M. are like the worker ants or soldier bees—faceless, nameless, driven by a single-minded purpose, ready to sacrifice themselves for the colony, or rather, the new world order that the Hive Master envisions.”

A Russian general leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought. "And the drones? What are they? Mercenaries? Fanatics?"

"A bit of both," Doctor Hawthorne replied. "S.W.A.R.M. is composed of a strange mix of individuals: former soldiers, disgraced scientists, disillusioned spies, rogue Specials—all brought together under the Hive Master's command. They’re drawn in by different promises: some by wealth, some by ideology, others by a sense of purpose or belonging. But once they’re in, they are stripped of individuality and made to adopt new identities within the hive. They become, quite literally, drones—each with a role to play, each dedicated to the Hive Master’s vision."

The French diplomat, her expression a mix of revulsion and fascination, asked, "And what is this vision? What does the Hive Master hope to achieve?"

Doctor Hawthorne's face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "The Hive Master envisions a world where chaos is extinguished by order—an order they control. A society that functions like a hive: efficient, hierarchical, without dissent. A world where every person has a role, a place, determined by the Hive Master and enforced by their drones. They believe that humanity's greatest weakness is its individuality, its freedom of choice. And they seek to eradicate that weakness by any means necessary."

A hush fell over the room, a collective unease settling in at the thought of such a twisted, totalitarian vision.

The British diplomat spoke again, her tone sharp. "So they aim to destroy the very concept of individual freedom, to replace it with a single, rigid order dictated by this Hive Master."

Doctor Hawthorne nodded. "Precisely. They view themselves as the cure for a world they see as sick with chaos, division, and freedom. They want to be the architects of a new reality, one where they dictate every facet of existence, where they alone hold the power over life and death, over the fate of nations, of the world itself."

An American intelligence officer leaned back in his chair, his voice low. "This Hive Master… if they’re this focused, this driven, they won’t stop at anything less than total domination."

"No," Hawthorne agreed, "they won't. They believe they are on a righteous path, one that justifies any atrocity, any sacrifice. And their followers, their drones, are equally convinced. To them, the Hive Master is infallible, their cause is noble. That makes them all the more dangerous."

The Russian general’s eyes narrowed. "And where do we strike first? How do we sever the head from the hive?"

The Canadian spoke finally after the remaining quiet his words hung in the air like a tangible presence, a sense of urgency and determination clear in his tone. “One of ours, Christophan Warrick—better known as Agent Leaf—has been advocating for some time now. He has been pushing for the UN to recognize S.W.A.R.M. as a global response-level threat. He's requested a UN-wide vote to authorize the formation of a special strike team—a force composed of the best operatives from every member state, dedicated solely to opposing S.W.A.R.M.”

There was a moment of murmured conversation around the room, diplomats and military officials exchanging glances. The idea of a united international force, acting under the direct mandate of the UN, was an audacious and politically charged move. Yet, given the scope of the threat S.W.A.R.M. presented, it was also one that seemed increasingly necessary.

Doctor Hawthorne nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “Agent Leaf is a good man,” he said, his voice carrying a note of respect. “He’s seen enough of S.W.A.R.M. firsthand to know just how dangerous they are. His proposal makes sense. But…”

He paused, and the room fell silent, waiting for his next words. “He can’t be permitted to know the full extent of what I’ve shown you today,” Hawthorne continued, his voice more serious now. “The true cost of failure—the complete devastation, the scorched earth—is only a potential future. One I have seen, yes, but one that is not set in stone. The knowledge of such a possibility could cause panic, hesitation… or worse, make us overconfident.”

The American senator leaned in, his brow furrowed. "You’re saying we need to keep this from him, even though he’s the one spearheading the effort?”

Hawthorne nodded. “Yes. We need him focused on the mission, not burdened by a vision of the worst possible outcome. If S.W.A.R.M. suspects that we know their true intentions, that we understand just how catastrophic their plans could be, they might accelerate their timeline. They might take steps we’re not prepared for.”

The French diplomat looked skeptical. “But without understanding the stakes, how can he lead this team effectively?”

“He understands enough,” Hawthorne replied calmly. “Agent Leaf knows the threat S.W.A.R.M. poses to global stability, to peace. He knows they are a danger unlike any we’ve faced before. But he doesn’t need to know that they’re capable of reducing the world to ashes. Not yet. Not until we’re ready to strike.”

The Canadian diplomat nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Then we proceed with caution," he agreed. "Support Agent Leaf’s proposal, gather our best, and prepare for a response that matches the scale of the threat.”

Doctor Hawthorne turned to face the room once more, his gaze steely and determined. “We have to act swiftly and decisively,” he said. “But we must also act wisely. We cannot afford to make mistakes. If we move too soon, we tip our hand. If we wait too long, we may miss our window of opportunity.”

The Russian general spoke up again, his voice gruff but resolute. “So we create this task force—this special strike team. We make sure they have everything they need. Intelligence, resources, cooperation from every nation represented here. And we make it clear to them that failure is not an option.”

Doctor Hawthorne nodded. “Exactly. We give them the tools to succeed, but we keep the stakes hidden, just beneath the surface. Only those who truly need to know will be aware of the potential outcome. And in the meantime, we must work to disrupt S.W.A.R.M. at every turn, expose their operations, find the Hive Master, and cut them off at the source.”

The American senator leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face. “Then let’s put this to a vote,” he said. “Authorize the creation of this task force, and give them the mandate they need to take on S.W.A.R.M. head-on.”

Heads nodded around the room, a consensus forming. The air was thick with tension, but also with a newfound sense of purpose. The threat was clear, the enemy defined. Now, it was time to act.

Doctor Hawthorne allowed himself a small, grim smile. “It’s a dangerous road ahead,” he said quietly. “But we have a chance—a real chance—to stop S.W.A.R.M. and prevent this potential future from becoming reality. We fight now, or we face the consequences later. The choice is ours.”

The man once known as Doc Hawthorne, the now immortal adventurer-scientist, stood at the edge of the room, his eyes distant, as if looking through the walls, beyond the horizon, into a place no one else could see. He was no longer just the celebrated genius of the pulp era, no longer just the bold explorer who had ventured into jungles, across deserts, and through uncharted regions of the globe. Now, he was something else.

The Man Out of Time.

A being caught in a strange, liminal space adjacent to the flow of time itself. A place where he could perceive the past, present, and future in flickering glimpses that came and went without warning, leaving him with a patchwork of moments, a mosaic of what might be, what was, and what could still come to pass.

He had never asked for this. Never sought to become a living ghost, a walking paradox, or some kind of secret oracle. He had been a scientist, a man of reason and method, of discovery and curiosity. He had wanted to understand the universe, to push its boundaries, not to bend its laws. He had been an explorer, not a demi-god—not the UN’s secret weapon in their darkest hour.

Yet, here he was.

Trapped outside the normal flow of time, he existed in a state of perpetual awareness, a state that allowed him to see the infinite branching paths of reality and possibility. But there was no peace in such knowledge. There was no comfort. Each vision came with its own burdens, its own moral dilemmas, its own haunting images of what might be lost, what might be gained, and the heavy cost of every choice made or unmade.

He had shunted himself out of the time stream in a desperate experiment decades ago, back when he had been just Doc Hawthorne, a man with a brilliant mind and the belief that he could solve any problem. He had thought he could use time itself as a tool, a means to an end—a way to better understand its mysteries, to see beyond the veil of now. But the experiment had gone awry. Instead of gaining insight, he had been thrust out of time’s current, pushed into a place where he could see too much, feel too much.

A place where he could never truly belong.

He glanced around the room at the assembled diplomats and military leaders, each one desperate for answers, looking to him to guide them through the murky waters of the future. They saw him as a weapon, a last resort, an asset that could see what no one else could see. But to him, they were just faces, caught in moments that blurred and shifted with every heartbeat. They were pieces on a chessboard he couldn’t always read, with motivations he didn’t always understand.

He felt the weight of their expectation pressing on him like a thousand tons. They wanted him to be a prophet, a seer, someone who could pull back the curtain on the future and tell them exactly what to do. They didn’t understand that time was not a single line, not a simple equation with a single solution. It was a vast, infinite sea, with currents that swirled and collided, that broke apart and reformed in an endless dance of cause and effect, of choice and consequence.

And he was adrift in that sea, a sailor without a map.

He clenched his fists, feeling the frustration boil in his veins. He had never wanted this. Never wanted to be the one who carried the burden of so many futures. He had never asked to see the world’s possible ends, to witness its countless destructions and rebirths. He had wanted to live, to discover, to challenge the unknown—but not like this. Never like this.

A living ghost, haunting his own era, his own life.

The UN had learned to rely on him, to see him as their hidden ace, their secret weapon. They brought him into meetings like this one, hoping he could offer them guidance, a vision of what was to come, a plan to navigate the darkest of times. But he was not omniscient. He could see possibilities, not certainties. He could see the outlines of threats, the edges of what might be, but he could not make choices for them. He could not dictate the path humanity would take.

Yet he tried. Because what else could he do?

He had chosen, in his heart, to believe in the possibility of a better future, a future where humanity thrived, where the Earth did not become a wasteland of fire and ash. And so he moved through the days, through the years, using his knowledge to nudge the world, to influence events in subtle ways, hoping to shift the balance toward the brighter outcomes he glimpsed in his fragmented visions.

He wanted, more than anything, to return to the time stream, to anchor himself back to reality, to be human again—to be Doc Hawthorne, the man who could live a single life, make his own choices, not be burdened by the infinite. He searched, always, for a way back, a way to undo the mistake that had thrust him into this existence.

But until that day came, if it ever did, he would use what he had. He would wield his strange gift, his curse, in service of something greater. He would help them, these leaders, these men and women who had to make choices in the dark, who didn’t know what was at stake, who couldn’t see the branching paths that spread out like a great and terrible tree before them.

He would help them… but he would not let them know everything. Because to know everything was to carry the weight he carried, the weight of countless futures, of endless potential and loss. And that was a burden he would not wish on anyone.

Doctor Hawthorne turned his gaze back to the room, his expression resolute. He did not have all the answers. But he would do what he could to keep the world on the right path, to steer it away from the brink of destruction.

He would do what he had to. Even if it meant being a ghost out of space and time.