When miles awoke in complete darkness, he was submerged in a bath of a warm and thick liquid. He felt lighter and less encumbered than usual. He felt his body to discover that he was completely naked. His suit was missing, as well as the components that accompanied it.
"Relax" said a voice in his mind. You have been released of your burdens. Now you must heal.
"How long must I stay here?" He asked.
"As long as it takes." The voice replied.
He assessed his situation further. Though an organic web like material was adhered to his limbs keeping him mostly immobile he had managed to wriggle one arm loose enough to reach to the back of his head. There he felt the sting of a large open wound.
"Do not struggle or prod your wounds." The voice reprimanded. "What is demanded of you now is complete rest."
"I want to get out of here" he insisted impatiently.
"You cannot leave. Not until the process is complete." The voice responded calmly.
"How long have I been here?" He inquired.
"It has been two of weeks of time by your home-worlds time measurement." Replied the voice.
"Isn't two weeks enough time!?" He was shocked.
"Your body is undergoing deep healing, you cannot fathom the damage to your natural mortal body that you have sustained by wearing the suit. Your body became entirely reliant on it for your own survival. The rehabilitation process will take quite some time and a copious amount of rest." The voice explained.
Miles was growing even more impatient, "What am I supposed to do until then? Just sit here?"
The voice took some time to respond "I suggest you take time to reflect. Where does your path take you next? Today marks the occasion of your rebirth. What awaits you in your new life? These are matters not to be glossed over causally. They require our attention in times of rest."
Miles sat quietly. He realized that while he felt a deep impatience to leave this confined space, there was nowhere for him to actually go to. Without the suit, he was no longer an arkangeles, and with no homeworld worth returning to his future was an empty void. As empty as the darkness he now hovered in.
The voice which was attuned to his thoughts replied. "The emptiness of the void is pregnant with infinite potential. It is the ground floor of existence. Everything that has ever existed came from here and only from here. Spend the next few weeks in this void, what will you find ? This is a matter of which only the eternal nothing can determine."
Miles calmed himself. After all now there was nowhere for him to go but inward. And so inward he went.
In this space of emptiness his inner reflections became indistinguishable from reality.
He found that the void was far from empty. It contained everything that the mind can comprehend and therefore time passed quickly.
His first week of reflection was spent crawling across a vast, empty desert. The sun was scorching. There was nothing to eat or drink and occasionally buzzards would come and pick at his flesh. Especially the spots where his open wounds left behind by the arkangeles suit were situated. He cried mostly, feeling a deep pain coursing through his body.
But this was different than the mortal pain of the tangible world. As soon as he allowed himself to experience any type of pain, it immediately lessened and became lighter. Although, at times such pain was unbearable, he could count on it leading to instantaneous recovery. After a week, instead of crawling, he became able to limp. Then later he became able to walk, then to run. When the buzzards came he was able to bat them off and keep them at bay.
After a week and a half's time wandering this desert a small white speck appeared on the horizon. As Miles came closer to it, he was able to recognize that it was his childhood home. Everything about it was just as it would have been many years ago. The familiar smooth adobe curves, a light in the downstairs window where his mother would be preparing food or doing the wash. Everything was all there. It felt strange to see this place in the middle of a desert, standing lonely and solitary as opposed to being surrounded by the slums where he grew up.
He came closer to the building and indeed could see his mother through the front window. She was collapsed on the floor crying. This was not an uncommon occurrence. After his father had left them their family was forced to find a way to make ends meet without the help of an extra set of hands. The pressure on his mother to provide for miles and his siblings was immense. He watched as his mother's grief and despair grew in to a rage. She stood up, hastily scanning the room for the nearest vulnerable and fragile thing.
The family dog which slept by the door looked up and cowered in her shadow, she stood over it and began kicking, flailing away with everything she had. Tears were streaming down her face. As the sound of thuds and muffled shrieks from the defenseless animal made a steady rhythm.
Miles saw his younger self sitting at the kitchen table, he watched his mother take all of her frustration out of this defenseless animal. But something within him didn't process it, he was just watching. Detached.
After that the dog would have never been the same, it turned aggressive and untrusting of all others except ironically for his own mother. There were many times he remembered when the dog bit him growing up. He would return home from school every day and the creature would manage to back him in to a corner and bear its fangs.
In this world of his, when one lacked their own safety and autonomy, they were sure to exert it on those below them.
He made a realization just now watching this scene that the dog saw itself as higher on the hierarchy than miles himself. A living breathing human being. A young miles was placed squarely at the bottom of his family hierarchy. He was lower than an animal, he was a reflection of his absentee father, but one that was an extension of his mother. Therefore the empty canvas with which she could paint all of her misgivings and unfulfilled fantasies. The young miles became less human than marionette, and his mother was the puppet master.
A young miles had no autonomy, was not seen as a separate being. Was an object to be manipulated. And as he watched scenes in his childhood home which confirmed all of this, something clicked within him.
A realization that he had lived this same pattern again and again in his adult life. He had found people and places which were all too happy to tug the puppet strings that trailed behind him from his childhood.
A deep sense of shame washed over him. He entered the threshold of the home and walked a short and rickety flight of stairs to his childhood bedroom. He sat on the familiar cushions and cried for a very long time. Then he fell asleep.