Pre-dawn mist clung to the water. Still as glass. Only die-hard monster hunters and one suspiciously alert jogger stood along the rocky shore. The Dauntless crew said nothing—packed and ready, the silence oddly reverent.
Wayne (coiling lines): “Ready when you are, Cap’n.”
Vanessa stood at the bow, crystal in hand—watching Champ (Nessie now) spiral slowly in the water. The creature had done the impossible. So had they. No one wanted to say the final word.
Spyder: “This is it, folks. Keep it quiet. No fireworks, no speeches.”
Athena (soft as mist): “Portal forming. Please observe appropriate silence and wonder.”
A low pulse—like sonar wrapped in moonlight—rippled from the artifact. Light shimmered on the surface, refracted and surreal. A diamond mirror swallowed the lake’s edge. Time bent.
Champ slid through first—silent, smooth, vanishing between heartbeats. The Dauntless followed—not pulled, not pushed. Just—gone. Hull and crew vanished like a dream before speaking its name.
On shore:
A teenager fumbled with a phone—caught only a blur of mist and blue.
An old fisherman blinked once. “Wouldn’t believe it if I had seen it,” he muttered, and turned back to his fly line.
By sunrise, the only thing left was water, and questions.
No chatter. No certainty. Just silence, and perhaps the quiet breath of legend moving past.
Later, they’d say:
The best departures make less noise than a lie. Leave fewer ripples than a forgotten thought. And trail behind nothing… But wonder.