The light filtered through the trees, reflecting off the water droplets from the slight drizzle.
The muddy ground beneath him, the almost rhythmic taps of raindrops on his face, and the sunlight that sneaked through the canopy of trees to illuminate his face like a spotlight—oh, how fitting it was. After all, he did just play his last role.
Or so he thought, yet he was here, breathing and alive, or at least he felt like he was. Sure, everything he saw and felt seemed to coalesce into a clawing instinct of unfamiliarity and danger that stirred within him.
"Just where the hell am I?" Ryan's whisper was drowned out by the drizzle, his hair and clothes plastered to him like a second skin.
He couldn't think straight; he was sure he had collided with the truck. He should most definitely be dead. Yet he didn't feel dead; all he felt was the same sorrow and anger that clouded his mind—the very one he had thought he escaped the moment he hit the truck.
"Is this heaven?" It most definitely didn't seem like it. It wouldn't be any short of disappointing if it was. What point was it if he still harbored hatred in his heart?
Then he heard it—the approaching footsteps, the crunch of leaves underfoot. That's just what he needed, someone else to explain what the hell was going on and how he walked out of that accident unscathed.
He pushed himself to his feet, his hands sinking a bit into the muddy ground, his clothes and body a dirty mess as he stood up. The footsteps got closer, and he thought it better to just wait for them.
The leaves parted, revealing a man in... well, unusual attire. Homeless, maybe? Ryan didn't care; either way, he just needed anyone he could ask questions.
"Hey, Rody! We got another one here!" The weirdly dressed man turned back to call for his companion.
"Hello, sir. I had an accident on the highway off Weschers. Could you tell me where I am now?" Ryan asked politely as the homeless-looking man's companion came into view as well, dressed in the same strange way.
"Seems this one's lost it," one of the men said to the other. "Well, go get him then," the second man ordered.
"Be careful; he might be dangerous," he added as the first man approaching Ryan drew his machete. He closed in on Ryan slowly and carefully, as if he were hunting an animal.
Ryan immediately raised his hands in surrender upon seeing the machete. What the hell was going on? Was he being robbed?
"Sir, hold on. I don't have anything on me," Ryan backed away in fear. "Everything I have was in the car," he explained, an explanation that did nothing to halt the man's approach.
Then he lunged at Ryan, tackling him to the ground. "Please wait! I don't have anything!" Ryan's scream fell on deaf ears as the man—who was now over him—cocked back his hands.
"Wait p-" Ryan felt blood flood his mouth as the man's fist connected with his jaw before he lost consciousness.
[Initializing...]
Ryan jolted back into consciousness, a throbbing pain flooding his head as he did. Looking around, he immediately entered a state of panic. He wasn't in the forest anymore; he could quickly tell. He was moving this time. Ryan's head swiveled as he tried to find out what was going on. They seemed to be in a carriage of sorts— "they" as in the people that sat in front and beside Ryan.
"Stay still," one of them snapped. Ryan's gaze shifted to the middle-aged man, his eyes a fading yellow, and his skin as pale as snow.
"I'm... Sorry." A growing sense of confusion and panic still clung to Ryan, even enough to not notice the chains that tightly held his wrist. "Please, could you tell me where we are?" Because this most definitely wasn't London, he thought.
In the distant horizon, mountains rose, and their peaks met the sky—a union hidden behind clouds. The road was a path that was paved through numerous threadings, and the rest of it all was desolation.
"Xygins Path?" The man with yellow eyes responded to Ryan's question, a response that did nothing to help his confusion. If anything, it had the opposite effect.
"Where in the UK is that?" Ryan expected. What would be the first logical and sensible answer since he woke up? Even if he was somehow in another country, that would make some sense.
"What's a UK?"
Perhaps this was easily the worst possible response Ryan could have gotten. Now the tiny bit of hope he had that his situation was still slightly normal had gone out the window.
It was all too much. Where was he? Is he being trafficked? What was the blue thing that kept appearing in front of him, or was that just a dream?
"Where exactly are we go-"
"Ay!" The carriage driver terrifying shout silenced Ryan. "Keep talking, and I'll come back there and cut off your tongue," he threatened.
The journey continued silently, only the carriage tires rolling on the wet ground and the horses' hooves digging into it could be heard.
Then, over half an hour later, they reached their destination.
They transitioned from rolling hills to a town that looked straight out of a fantasy book: average, low wood and stone buildings, and cobblestone streets. However, that's where the similarities ended.
There were no kids running around, or the smell of freshly baked bread. Instead, the air hung with the metallic tang of blood, and Ryan was sure that it was a dead body he had just seen at the entrance.
However, what was the most shocking among the line of weird and unfamiliar gatherings in the utterly absurd setting he found himself in?
Standing meters from him was Marcus, his wife, and the three coworkers he had been in the car with.