The silence, when it finally registered, was almost as terrifying as the cacophony of battle. It wasn't a true silence, not the dead quiet of a soundproof room, but the alien symphony of an unfamiliar wilderness. Strange clicks, rustles, and distant, guttural calls echoed through the colossal, bioluminescent flora that towered around Alex, their massive, plate-like leaves casting the forest floor in a shifting mosaic of eerie blues and greens. The air was thick, humid, and carried a thousand unknown scents – damp earth, sweet rot, and something else, something sharp and resinous that made his nostrils twitch.
He lay there for what felt like an eternity, every muscle screaming, his arm throbbing with a dull, insistent ache where the sword fragment had gashed him. The blood had mostly clotted, forming a sticky, dark crust. His throat was sandpaper, and a gnawing emptiness had begun to hollow out his stomach. The adrenaline dump had left him shaky and weak, his thoughts sluggish and fragmented.
Dead. I was dead. The thought kept circling, a vulture in his mind. He remembered the lightning, the searing pain, the absolute certainty of oblivion. And then… this. This impossible, nightmarish reality. This new body, younger, leaner, but battered and bruised. This terrifying, uncontrollable speed.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his head swimming. The world tilted, and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea. The aftereffects of his uncontrolled speed jumps were brutal. It wasn't just physical disorientation; it felt like his brain was struggling to catch up with where his body had been, like a poorly synced movie.
He took a ragged breath, forcing himself to take stock. He was alive. That was something. Injured, but not fatally. Alone. That was the big one. Utterly and terrifyingly alone in a world that had already tried its damnedest to kill him within minutes of his arrival.
His clothes, the simple tunic and trousers he'd awoken in, were shredded, offering little protection from the elements or whatever lurked in this alien forest. He had no food, no water, no weapons. The shattered hilt of the short sword was long gone, lost somewhere in his panicked flight.
Think, Alex, think. His old life, his comfortable apartment, his photography gear, his few friends – it all felt like a distant, half-forgotten dream. He was no longer Alex Maxwell, storm chaser. He was… something else. Someone else. A castaway in a hostile dimension.
The immediate priorities were clear: water, shelter, and some understanding of where the hell he was. And maybe, just maybe, some way to control this terrifying speed before it tore him apart from the inside out.
He gingerly touched the gash on his arm. It needed cleaning. Infection in a place like this… he didn't want to think about it. He looked around. The forest floor was a tangle of bizarre roots, glowing fungi, and thick, spongy moss. Water. He needed water. He could hear a faint trickling sound nearby.
Getting to his feet was an ordeal. Every joint protested. He leaned against the massive tree, its bark surprisingly smooth and cool, almost like polished obsidian but with a faint, internal luminescence. The tree itself was a marvel, its trunk wider than his apartment back home, its branches disappearing into a canopy so high and dense it blotted out whatever passed for a sky in this world. He remembered seeing two moons during that brief moment of stillness in the obsidian room – or had that been on the battlefield? His memories were a jumbled mess.
He focused on the trickling sound, pushing away the pain and the fear. One step at a time. He moved slowly, deliberately, terrified of accidentally triggering another uncontrolled jump. Each footfall was an effort of will. The ground was uneven, littered with strange seed pods that crunched underfoot and vines that snaked like dormant pythons.
After a few minutes of careful progress, the trickling sound grew louder, and he broke through a curtain of hanging, moss-like vegetation into a small clearing. A stream, no wider than a couple of feet, gurgled over smooth, dark stones. The water was crystal clear, and growing along its banks were clusters of what looked like oversized, iridescent berries, glowing with a soft, purple light.
Food and water. A small miracle.
He knelt by the stream, his reflection a distorted, grimy stranger staring back at him. Gaunt face, wild eyes, matted hair. He splashed water on his face. It was cool, refreshing. He cupped his hands and drank, the water tasting clean, slightly metallic. He drank until his stomach ached, then turned his attention to his arm. The water stung as he washed the wound, clearing away the dried blood and dirt. It looked nasty, but at least it wasn't actively gushing anymore.
The berries. He eyed them warily. In his world, brightly colored usually meant poisonous. But here? All bets were off. His stomach rumbled, a painful reminder of his emptiness. He picked one. It was soft, yielding to the touch, and smelled faintly sweet, like a cross between a grape and something more exotic, floral.
Fuck it. He was already in a living nightmare. What was a little potential poisoning on top?
He popped it into his mouth. The skin was thin, bursting to release a surprisingly tart, then sweet juice. It wasn't bad. Actually, it was pretty good. He ate another, then another, until he'd stripped one of the bushes bare. It wasn't a full meal, but it took the edge off his hunger.
As he ate, he thought about the speed. The first few times, it had been pure instinct, a panic response. The jump to the sword, the lunge at the knight – those had been more deliberate, but still clumsy, uncontrolled. And the escape… that had just been a series of desperate, flailing bursts. Each time he'd used it, especially in those rapid successions, it had left him feeling drained, disoriented, and nauseous. Like his internal battery was being run down, and his gyroscope was shot.
Could he control it? Could he learn to use it without feeling like he was being torn apart?
He stood up, feeling slightly more human with water and a little food in his belly. He looked at a tree about thirty feet away. He remembered the sensation – that coiling spring, that internal hum. He tried to summon it, to focus it. He pictured himself standing next to that tree. He pushed, gently.
Nothing.
He tried again, pushing harder, focusing his intent. Move.
A faint tingling, like pins and needles, spread through his limbs. The internal hum grew slightly louder. He felt that familiar coiling sensation in his gut, but it was weaker, less urgent. He pushed again, putting more will into it.
SNAP.
He was there. Next to the tree. But it wasn't a smooth transition. It was still a lurch, a disorienting jump that made his stomach flip. He hadn't fallen this time, but he stumbled, catching himself on the tree trunk. Better. Marginally. But still far from controlled. And the nausea was still there, a queasy reminder of the cost.
He tried again, aiming for a spot a little further away, a distinctive, twisted root. He focused, tried to visualize the movement, not just the destination. He tried to feel the energy, to guide it.
SNAP.
Closer. He only stumbled a little this time. The nausea was still present, but perhaps a fraction less intense. He was beginning to get a sense of it, a faint glimmer of understanding. It wasn't just about wanting to be somewhere else. It was about… connecting to that internal energy, directing its flow. Like opening a tap, but the tap was connected to a firehose.
He spent the next hour practicing, making short jumps between trees, rocks, and clearings. Each attempt was a struggle. Sometimes he overshot his target wildly. Sometimes he undershot, or veered off course. Several times, he ended up on his ass. The nausea was a constant companion, and a dull headache began to throb behind his eyes. The energy, whatever it was, seemed to have a finite pool. After a dozen or so jumps, even short ones, he felt a profound weariness settle over him, the tingling in his limbs fading to a dull ache.
He needed to rest. He also needed to be aware of his surroundings. This forest was beautiful in a terrifying, alien way, but he had no doubt it harbored dangers beyond his comprehension. The distant calls he'd heard earlier were a stark reminder of that.
He found a relatively sheltered spot, a hollow formed by the upturned roots of a massive fallen tree, its wood petrified and hard as stone. It offered some protection from three sides and a decent view of the surrounding area. He gathered some of the broad, plate-like leaves from a smaller plant, hoping they'd offer some insulation from the damp ground.
As twilight began to settle – or whatever passed for it in this world, the bioluminescent flora pulsing with a more intense light as the ambient illumination faded – a new kind of fear began to creep in. The fear of the unknown, of the night.
He thought of the battle. The sheer brutality of it. The casual way life was extinguished. The wolf-helmed warrior. He had a feeling they wouldn't give up looking for someone who could vanish into thin air. He was an anomaly, a freak. And freaks, in his limited experience, were usually hunted.
He also thought about the other side of the coin: the exhilaration. That moment when the world had stilled, when he'd seen the shrapnel hanging in the air, when he'd felt, for a fleeting instant, like a god. There was power in him, immense power. If he could learn to control it, to wield it…
A rustle in the undergrowth nearby made him jump, his heart instantly hammering. He froze, every sense on high alert. The tingling energy surged through him, unbidden, a jolt of raw adrenaline. He peered into the deepening gloom, his eyes straining.
A pair of eyes, glowing with a faint, internal yellow light, stared back at him from the shadows. They were low to the ground, too wide-set for anything he recognized. And they were approaching. Slowly. Silently.
Alex's breath hitched. He wasn't alone anymore. And whatever it was, it didn't sound friendly. His hand instinctively went to his hip, where a weapon should have been, finding only torn fabric. The brief respite was over. The forest had found him.