The weight on Ethan was ethereal as if he is floating above; his mind juggling snippets of memories with foreign feelings and an over-riding sensation of pressure that weighed his body down; his chest wasn't working, only shaking. His breath. He knew that he is *alive*; somehow, it just feels away, unreal.
It was strange, though. His body felt different. Younger? His fingers twitched and, he could have sworn he heard the faint drop of water echoing in his ears. Something was wrong. A million thoughts swirled in his head. It didn't make sense:
Where am I?
All he remembered from it was a metallic sterile corridor in that research facility where he worked. Singularity experiments were supposed to be something revolutionary for science; and then a flash of power-bright blinding-invincible followed by nothing at all. The Now this.
He felt himself breathe again, the sharp unfamiliar living sensation. His fingers gouged cold earth as his body straining to lift itself upright. The light here was dull, gray, streaked with cold blues and greens. It wasn't artificial, it felt natural but foreign. His skin was a mass of goosebumps from the cold air. His vision swam as he struggled upright.
"What in the name of God is this?" he croaked, his voice weak and uncertain.
The sky was infinite, a dull, swirling expanse of light and mist. The air felt old here, ancient, as though it carried centuries of weight. Ethan stumbled to his feet, his legs shaking, his entire body unsteady. His pulse pounded in his chest as he stared at the unfamiliar landscape.
Still as he attempted to gather his energy, thoughts, he felt the feel of something sharp in the head-an aura of power but hauntingly familiar. Ideas surfed back in waves in disordered pieces of the thoughts, names, pictures. Ethan Cross. Experimentation. Singularity. This is a dead man. He was dead. But was still alive. Resurrection, perhaps. In an alien reality unknown.
Is this death?* As the question echoed through himself. Do I live or, at least, between?*
He thrust his mind aside and concentrated on where he was. His hands quivered as he fought for calmness. He felt his body much younger now; he could feel the power churning beneath his skin, but it was as if that energy remained unreleased and untested. The breaths hit him at him fast because he couldn't seem to let anything get clear at the same time.
Suddnely, some sort of noise seemed to emanate from the mist. Ethan was stiff, every fibre of his body attuned, as he peered out from under the misting veil over the horizon and all he could see was a vista of mist and cold. The noise persisted: soft at first, then louder and louder. Footsteps? Voices?
He was not alone.
*Stay calm, Ethan.* His voice came as a whisper to himself. *Stay calm and stay strong.*
The mist ahead seemed to part, revealing shapes—figures—moving forward. Ethan stumbled backward, his hands instinctively reaching for his weapon. But his weapon wasn't there. His heart sank.
"Where's my gear?" he muttered, glancing around frantically.
His hand shot up to his wrist, and there it was: his wristband, the metallic piece of technology from his last experiment. It pulsed faintly with energy. It had somehow survived with him. His fingers grasped it tightly as his thoughts swam again.
They came closer now, clearer. His heart thudded harder. These figures were moving slowly, unnaturally slow. His breath came in sharp gasps as he tried to decide whether to run, fight, or hide. They were human-like, but their eyes glowed faintly and their bodies shimmered with unnatural energy. Ethan's heart sank.
They were not just hallucinations of his mind.
Instant torture. All his memories were flooding into his trembling hands as they chatted about the singularity project, experiments on AI and energy fields, opening of space-time, and the rush. Suddenly, in his mind emerged a thought: gates. Just those gates he had just come up with. His breath leaped.
The figures approached closer, and Ethan could feel them presence—powerful, ancient, and sentient. First thing in his mind was running, but his body had failed to respond. His body seemed stuck; unable to make a decision. He felt his throat very dry.
And then a voice came from behind him
"Who are you?" Amara's voice, strong, firm cutting across his panic like a knife cuts through mist.
She was there, still, with her weapon extended and already cocked to deliver the shot to the shadowy figures. Her standing stance and strong will told, with a stare fixed deeply on the silhouetted figures which came oozing from the clouds of mist.
Her words steadied him; their clarity was something he desired badly.
"I—I don't know," Ethan said, his voice weak. He attempted to stand a little straighter as his knees buckled.
Amara took another step forward. "Back off, whatever you are. I won't hesitate."
The figures stopped. They hovered in the mist for a moment, their glowing eyes fixed on Ethan and Amara. Ethan felt their presence pushing into his mind, but nothing emerged. His breaths were quicker as he stared, but no attack came. Instead, they just stood there, watching.
"Amara," he whispered, his voice uneven, "where *are* we?"
Amara didn't utter a word. She stuck onto the glowing forms, her gun still fixed on it. Ethan saw the war staring back at him-the fear, unease, but also strength. That was tough. She knew she was doing.
"Somewhere new," she whispered after a while. "Somewhere past the gates."
Words drowned him like stones. His head was pulling, fighting his memories to take the truth. His heart ached, knowing that the long way ahead was uncertain, with danger lurking in it.
But questions persisted:
What is this place?
Why is he brought here?
What does singularity want?
But the most important question for him was: Who was he going to be there?
He curled his fists and looked in the mist again. He realized that this was not going to be a battle of might, will, or mind. This would be a battle of trust on these allies whom he did not know who these people were.
To live is to survive they must believe in each other, then.
Ethan gritted his teeth and steeled himself. Whatever it is coming, they would meet head-on.
He would find out.
And he would know what was real.