Year 1999

"Professor Naiberg," the pilot shouts over the buzz of the cargo plane's turbofans, "we have reached the marked jump point at the Great Northern Rift."

Naiberg fidgets with his neatly trimmed beard while scanning the bank of monitors before him that have been mounted into the plane's hold. The feed from the plane's externally mounted camera shows a churning wall of murky fog just ahead. The Great Northern Rift. It might look like bog standard fog, but in reality it might as well be an impassable wall. Remotely gathered data showed that the slow, relentless movement of the mist was caused by a powerful spatial anomaly that lurked somewhere within.

Any ship or plane that attempted to traverse the Rift would be swiftly torn apart by the unseen forces governing the area as evidenced by the pieces of wreckage that would be spit out soon afterwards. The costs in blood and treasure soon became too great, and explorers decided not to challenge the Great Northern Rift any further, leaving its secrets unmolested. Man went elsewhere to satisfy his curiosity, but the results were the same.

The age of discovery ended as soon as it began, for no matter where man turned, he would be hemmed in by the unconquerable rifts. The Lesser Rifts of the East and West. The Great Rifts of the North and South. The limits of man's world. Unbeatable. Unbreakable.

Until today.

"We can perform the Rift Break at your signal Professor." a man in sloppy military battle dress bearing an eye patch confirms. Tattoos squirm like fat, bloated worms across the uncovered patches of the man's skin, sometimes crawling all the way up to his face before sliding back downwards. The hint of a jagged scar peeks out from the edge of the man's eye patch.

Naiberg smiles weakly and responds, "You have faith in my work High Shaman?"

The pilot cuts in unexpectedly, "Beats going back to fighting the war Professor. Probable death over certain death for the win."

The Shaman shrugs, "I just recovered from having my face slashed open by a crazy wolf man in the South American theater. Being here is an improvement to be honest."

"Ha." Naiberg laughs humorlessly, "They're calling it the Millennium War you know? The end days. We are the world's last great hope."

The Shaman sighs in resignation, "What does the top think we will achieve here? Can we even cross the fog in the first place?"

Naiberg gazes at the rift breaker device, a bulky, clanking piece of machinery attached to the rear of the plane. Technicians load large pieces of spirit crystal to serve as the machine's fuel rods while an integrated screen shows the machine's progress through its self-diagnostic routine. Everything seems to be in order. Not that it means much.

Naiberg turns back to the Shaman and replies, "In theory, yes. The angels and demons have been pouring into our world through breaches in the eastern and western rifts. We should be able to do the same here."

The Shaman folds his arms and frowns, "But this is a Great Rift. I heard that the anomaly here is much more powerful than the ones in either the east or west."

"The principle of crossing it should be the same." Naiberg answers, "We have more than enough spirit crystal to perform the jump."

"So, uh, Prof," the pilot hesitates for a moment before continuing, "what makes you think you can succeed where everyone else died?"

Naiberg responds with rehearsed confidence, having been asked this question several times already, "Our ancestors made their attempts before magic became commonplace. We have both the method and the means. We will succeed."

"And then what?" the Shaman asks, "How is this crossing supposed to save us?"

"The P5 hopes that there might be something on the other side that can turn things around." Naiberg muses, "At the very least, if we succeed, an exodus of humanity away from the war would be possible."

"Better not mess up then." the Shaman graces Naiberg with a crooked smile.

"I don't intend to." Naiberg smiles broadly, "I've got a wife and daughter waiting back home."

"Now, jump!"

And the whole world turns upside down.

....

Turbulence batters the plane as it struggles against a force beyond anything it was built to resist. The turbofans wheeze and the entire air frame judders as if it is moments away from breaking up. In the plane's interior, amidst the sour smell of sweat, desperation reigns.

"Your device is on fire Professor!" the Shaman yells as the technicians bring fire extinguishers to bear, battling back the flames consuming the rift breaker.

"We're almost through the fog!" the pilot declares, "Just a bit more!"

Naiberg wipes the sweat from his forehead as he continues to monitor the rift breaker's diagnostics. If they fail now, all the research and expense would have been for nothing. There is only one option open for this team. Succeed or die.

"Shaman!" Naiberg orders, "Disable the rift breaker's safeties! One final push is all we need!"

The Shaman grimaces and slams down a large lever located on the side of the burning contraption. The machine howls in protest and the on screen indicators swing hard towards the red. The flames pouring from the machine regain their previous intensity and a choking haze spreads throughout the plane.

"Impossible." Naiberg murmurs, "I got all the calculations correct. Its almost as if the rift breaker is self-sabotaging itself."

The Shaman groans and seizes his head, "I hear it. Yes. No machine can cross the rift. Only the call of powerful magic can get the fog to part."

"Guys! I'm getting a really weird reading on the instruments!" the pilot suddenly cries, "There's some kind of beacon far ahead. Its signalling us, I think?"

Naiberg's head grows heavy, burdened by the weight of a thousand whispers. A sudden cry comes from the depths of his heart, the primal shout of the soul itself. The shout of a lost child, yearning for his mother. The mother that he never knew. The only mother that he needs.

"Mother!" the Shaman screams and scrambles towards the rift breaker's controls, knocking the technicians aside. He works the terminal frantically, opening up the fuel rod intakes. Naiberg quickly steps up and without any hesitation, shoves both his arms into a pair of open intakes.

"Mother! Take my magic! Guide us!" Naiberg shrieks, with his head raised, declaring his intent to the heavens.

The Shaman violently stabs the control panel with his finger and the fuel rod intakes close, slicing off both of Naiberg's arms. Blood is spilled. The sacrifice has been made.

And mother is satisfied.

"We must ride the beacon's signal to the source." the Shaman says, "Salvation! Salvation is near!"

Naiberg collapses weakly on the ground, blood soaking his shirt. The Shaman hurriedly casts a healing spell, sealing the wounds, but leaving the man a cripple. But so what? Humanity is saved. No. Everyone has been saved. Deep in his heart Naiberg knows this. What the team has accomplished today has secured the future of not just humanity, but for all life on this world as well.

The plane sails forward, driven by a divine wind. All the while the rift breaker coughs angrily in protest, smoke and flame inundating the whole plane like a funeral shroud. But mother's power holds fast and as she promised, the fog parts, revealing the forgotten North.

"We did it!" the pilot exclaims, "We actually did it!"

The technicians cheer as this news, giving each other high-fives. And from the depths of the rift breaker comes a loud bang, the final protest from the much abused machine before it expires completely.

The plane flies under the clear blue sky, over ruined skyscrapers and towers of bone, the graveyard of a civilization. The first visitors this land has had for countless generations. Onward.

Ever onward.