It hit like a system crash—sudden, loud, and all wrong. One second he was neck-deep in wires, fingers on a keyboard, the buzz of a dying server rack humming in his ears; the next, he was drowning in wet, squeezing darkness, a pressure so tight it crushed the breath out of him. Evan Holt, couldn't make sense of it. His head pounded, a dull thud behind his eyes, and then it *moved*, a wrenching shove that spat him out into a world that screamed back. Cold slammed into him, sharp and biting, and he yelled—a raw, ragged sound that tore from a throat too small to hold it. What the hell was this?
The noise was everywhere, a wall of it crashing over him: a howling roar outside, like wind tearing through a busted window, and a deeper rumble closer in, shaking the air. He tried to move, to sit up, but his arms wouldn't listen—just flailed, weak and floppy, smacking against something slick and warm. His legs kicked too, useless little jerks, and panic clawed up his spine. He knew how to move, damn it—he'd been walking, typing, driving a car not five minutes ago—but this body didn't care. It was tiny, frail, a mess of instincts he couldn't override. He yelled again, louder, mad as hell, and the sound bounced back, shrill and unfamiliar.
Light stabbed at him when he cracked his eyes open, a blurry yellow smear that hurt like staring at a monitor too long. He blinked, fast and sloppy, tears streaking down his face—tears? Since when did he cry? The room swam into focus, bit by bit: a flickering glow, shadows jerking across rough walls, a ceiling that looked like straw and mud mashed together. Where was he? Not the data center, that's for sure—no concrete, no racks, no hum of fans. This place stank—sweat, metal, something sour and earthy, like a workshop after a rain. He twisted, or tried to, but his head lolled, too heavy, and all he got was a better view of the chaos.
A shape loomed over him—huge, dark, moving fast. Hands, he realized, big and rough, scooping him up like he weighed nothing. He flailed harder, fists swinging, but they barely tapped the skin holding him. The hands shifted, fumbling, and a laugh barked out—short, loud, a jolt that made him jerk. "It's a boy, Mira," a voice said, deep and gravelly, vibrating through him. Mira? Who the hell was Mira? He tried to focus, to lock onto the face, but it was a blur—broad shoulders, a smudge of soot, hair like a tangled mop. The guy was grinning, teeth flashing in the dim light, and Evan's stomach flipped. This wasn't right. None of it was.
The hands passed him off, and he landed against something softer, warmer—a chest, he figured, from the thud-thud beating under it. A new voice rolled over him, low and ragged, like it'd been scraped raw. "Look at you," it said, close enough to feel the breath on his face. "Already shouting like your uncle." Uncle? He didn't have an uncle—not one he'd met, anyway. His mum's brother was long gone, dead before he was ten, and this didn't sound like her. This voice was tougher, worn, with a lilt he couldn't place. He squinted, forcing his eyes to work, and caught a glimpse: dark hair, sweat-slicked, framing a face lined with exhaustion and something fierce. She was holding him tight, her arms trembling, and he could smell her—salt and blood and a faint tang of iron.
His brain scrambled, clawing at the edges of memory. He'd been in London, hadn't he? The storm—rain hammering the data center, lightning cracking the sky, that surge hitting him like a freight train. He remembered the jolt, the white-hot snap through his chest, the code streaming past his eyes—green on black, clean and sharp. Then nothing, just dark, until this. Was he dead? No, dead didn't feel like this—wet, cold, pinned in a body that wouldn't move right. He tried to speak, to demand answers, but all that came out was a wail, high and furious, scraping his throat raw. Damn it, he wasn't a baby—he was 32, an IT specialist, not some squalling kid—but his mouth wouldn't shape the words, just spat noise instead.
The woman—Mira, he guessed—shifted, her grip tightening, and a finger brushed his cheek, warm and rough, smearing the mess on his face. He flinched, or tried to, but his head just lolled again, neck too weak to hold it up. The room rocked with her movement, straw crunching under her, and the storm outside roared on, a deep, rolling crash that shook the walls. Thunder, he clocked it—same as London, but wilder, closer, like it was right on top of him. Rain pounded somewhere above, a steady thump-thump, and he caught a whiff of damp earth through the chaos. This wasn't a hospital, wasn't even a house—not like any he'd known. The walls were rough, patched, the air thick with smoke and wet. Where the hell had he landed?
"Got lungs on him, that's for sure," the gravelly voice said again, farther off now. "What's his name?" Evan's ears pricked—name? He already had one, didn't he? Evan Holt, solid and simple, typed on a dozen ID cards and pay stubs. But the woman's voice cut in, hoarse but sure.
"Ryn," she said, like it was a done deal. "Ryn Tarn." Tarn? That wasn't his name—Holt was his, his dad's, his granddad's. He tried to protest, to shout it out, but his tongue flopped uselessly, and all he managed was a hiccupping cry. Ryn Tarn. It stuck in his head, sharp and strange, and he hated it—hated how it fit, how it rolled off her tongue like he'd always been hers.
The light flickered, a yellow glow bouncing off a lamp on a rickety table nearby. He squinted again, eyes stinging, and pieced together more: mud walls, a low roof, a pallet under the woman that creaked every time she moved. It was small, cramped, nothing like the flat he'd left behind—no Wi-Fi routers blinking, no hum of a fridge, just this raw, earthy mess. The storm battered on, wind whistling through cracks, and he shivered, the cold biting where her arms didn't cover him. His body wouldn't stop shaking—tiny, uncontrollable tremors—and he cursed it silently, every ounce of his 32-year-old brain raging against the helplessness.
The big guy—uncle, she'd said—moved again, boots scuffing the dirt floor. "I'll get Tilda now it's slowing," he said, voice fading as he headed for a door. "She'll want to check him over. He seems rather small." The wood creaked, wind snatching it wide, and a blast of wet air hit Ryn's face, sharp and cold. He flinched, a weak twitch, and the woman pulled him closer, her chest thudding against his ear. "He's fine," she snapped, loud enough to make him jump. "Small's how they start. He'll grow." Her tone was fierce, like she'd fight anyone who said different, and Ryn felt it—a stubborn heat that matched the fire in his own head.
She shifted again, settling back, and the straw jabbed at her, rustling loud in his ears. He couldn't see much—his eyes kept slipping shut, too heavy to hold open—but he caught flashes: her jaw clenched tight, the lamp's glow dancing on the walls, a puddle forming where rain leaked under the door. The storm was easing, thunder rolling softer now, but the noise still grated, a chaotic hum that set his teeth on edge. Or would've, if he had teeth—he didn't, just gums, soft and useless, and that realization hit him like a brick. He was a baby. A bloody baby. How? Why? His mind raced, snagging on the data center, the surge, the code—green on black, streaming past like a lifeline—but it wouldn't stick, slipping away under the weight of *this*.
The door banged shut, the big guy gone, and the room quieted, just the woman's breathing and the rain's steady drip. She hummed, a low, rough sound, and it vibrated through him, steadying the shakes a little. He didn't want it to—didn't want her, this place, any of it—but his body betrayed him, sinking into the warmth, the thud-thud of her heart a rhythm he couldn't fight. His eyes drooped, exhaustion clawing at him, and he hated that too—hated how small he was, how weak, how nothing worked right. He'd fixed servers, debugged networks, driven through storms, and now he couldn't even lift his head.
A new sound broke in—boots again, softer this time, and a creak as someone else shuffled through. "Tilda's here," the gravelly voice called, and Evan jolted, a weak twitch that didn't do much. Another shape loomed—smaller, wiry, muttering about fools and bad weather. Hands poked at him, cold and quick, turning him this way and that. He squirmed, a feeble protest, and the woman snapped something sharp, pulling him back. The hands retreated, leaving a sour smell behind, and he settled against her again, too tired to care.
The room spun slow, the light dimming as his eyes slid shut. The storm was a murmur now, rain tapping the roof, and the woman's hum kept going, rough but steady. He didn't sleep—not really—just drifted, caught in a haze of heat and noise, his mind buzzing with questions he couldn't voice. London was gone, the data center a ghost, and this—, Ryn Tarn, whatever it was—had taken its place. He didn't know how, didn't know why, but he was here, stuck, and that was all that mattered for now.