When Atlas awoke, he found himself lying in his own bed, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the red satin curtains. He blinked, disoriented, his mind still tangled in the chaos of the portal. For a moment, he simply lay there, trying to reconcile the violent, grueling year he had just endured with the serene, almost too-perfect atmosphere of his room.

"Am I home?" he whispered, his voice barely audible as his heart raced with a mix of excitement and confusion.

The events that had transpired felt like a fevered dream, yet the ache in his body, the deep-rooted exhaustion from surviving in the Wasteland Apocalypse, was too real to dismiss. It was as if every muscle, every bone remembered the torment.

And yet, as screwed up as it seemed he was here in the familiar comfort of his own bed.

His first instinct was to dismiss it all as some kind of dream, some cruel trick of his exhausted mind. But the feel of the sheets beneath him, the smell of the room, and the warmth of the morning light? It was all too tangible. Too real.

*Ok, don’t jinx it. I’m obviously home. No takebacksie,* he muttered to himself, trying to push away the growing dread gnawing at the back of his mind.

But was he really home? And what of Clark and the others? Shouldn’t they have made it back too?

Actually, those fuckers... I don’t care if they made it back. I hope they all get hit by cars,* he thought.

The room around him was unmistakably his, yet it seemed... different somehow. Like a slightly out-of-tune melody, something about it didn’t sit right. The framed oil painting of a Chinese concubine, her delicate fingers wrapped around an opium pipe, hung on the wall just as it always had, its colors muted in the morning light. The surround sound speakers, mounted with care, still adorned the walls. It was all so ordinary, so mundane, and yet… it wasn’t.

*Seriously, why does my room feel so odd? Is it because I haven’t been back for a year? Yet it’s not crazy dusty or anything.*

The question echoed in his mind as he scanned the room, his eyes landing on the wooden nightstand beside the bed. Reaching for his phone, his hand froze mid-air. The device that greeted him wasn’t the sleek, modern one he had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was an older model, its edges worn and the screen slightly scratched—a relic from years past. He picked it up, his fingers trembling as he turned it over, inspecting it as if it were a foreign object.

*This is my old phone, definitely not someone else’s. Look, there are those little marks near the port, from when I tried to plug in the wrong charger while drunk.*

Then it hit him like a semi. He had upgraded this phone years ago. He remembered that clearly, because he’d gotten a sweet promo deal on the upgrade.

“What’s going on?” Atlas muttered, his voice laced with growing confusion. Had he been sent back in time? Or was this whole thing a fucking dream?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The thought was completely absurd, yet the evidence was staring him in the face. He sat there, the phone heavy in his hand, as the reality of the situation began to claw its way into his mind. If this was true, then everything had changed—or rather, everything had reverted. He was back, but back where? And when? *Yeah… back WHEN was the question.*

He forced himself out of bed, every muscle in his body tensing as he took in the room once more, noticing the subtle, almost imperceptible differences that now screamed for attention. The digital calendar on the wall, something he had long stopped paying attention to, caught his eye. As the pictures of him and his first cat, or him and a couple of friends flashed by, the date displayed underneath was from years ago—it was August 2035.

When he had first been portaled, it was August 9, 2037.

He had spent a year battling in the wasteland, but had been sent back two years before the portals even opened?

*What kind of time fuckery is this,* he thought.

His heart pounded in his chest as the implications of this discovery sank in, each second stretching into mind-bending eternity. Had he truly traveled back to the past, or was this some kind of cruel illusion? Was he stuck in some twisted version of a multiverse reality, or had the last year of battling demon dogs been nothing more than a vivid hallucination?

If this was real—if he was really back—then he couldn't afford to waste this opportunity. He had seen too many people die, too many lives lost because of the chaos that followed the appearance of the portals. He had fought for survival, yes, but he had also fought for something more—something he couldn’t quite put into words but felt deeply in his bones. The need to protect, to save as many as he could, even when it seemed impossible.

*Shit, did I seriously just travel back in time!? Why didn’t I memorize some lottery numbers from before? Actually, if the portals are coming, money isn’t important at all. Can’t spend dollars in the wasteland.*

His thoughts raced as he tried to make sense of it all. If he had really been given a second chance, he needed to make it count. He couldn’t let the horrors of the past year be for nothing. Maybe this was his opportunity to do better, to save more people, to be the leader he had always strived to be but had fallen short of.

*Back to the present.. or bank to the past? Or is it back to the future?*

He really doubted if Michael J. Fox would want to be starring in this movie regardless.

He summarized in his head.

1. The last year in the wasteland apocalypse was a crazy dream.

2. He was crazy,

3. He had somehow traveled back in time.

Those were his only choices.

He hated it when they used the “It was all a dream” trope on TV or in books, and goddammit he didn’t want to be a living example of it.

*So yeah, I have three choices. Two of which are completely unpalatable garbage.*

No, actually there was one more choice. A much better one.

He glanced at the dusty cabinet on the far side of the room, where a 25 year-old bottle of Glenfiddich sat, unopened but not forgotten.

A purchase he had made with a sales bonus, after hitting a particularly good month.

He had made a promise to himself that it would be opened at a good time.

*Well. Now looked like a damn good time.* This bottle of smoky goodness was going to be his lifeline to sanity, or maybe a descent into sheer ludicrousness—he wasn’t sure which. Fuck it… good decisions always begin with good scotch, right?*

He grabbed the bottle, the weight of it comforting in his hands, and uncorked it with a satisfying pop. The amber liquid sloshed into the glass, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

*No need for ice with this bad boy.*

He raised the glass to his lips, the scent of aged whiskey filling his senses, and took a long, deliberate sip.

But even as the warmth of the whiskey spread through him, dulling the edges of his anxiety, Atlas knew this wasn’t enough. If this was real—if this was his second chance—he was damn well going to make sure it counted. He couldn't afford to mess this up. Too many people had depended on him before, and he had let some of them down. But now… now he could be better. Be stronger.

He’d save more people this time. He’d be smarter, quicker, more decisive. He’d make sure that the lives lost in the Wasteland Apocalypse weren’t in vain.

He finished the first glass of scotch in one gulp and set down the glass down with a thud. No more doubt. No more hesitation. He was going to find out what had happened, how he had ended up back here, and what he could do with this second chance.

Atlas poured himself a second glass of scotch and started to pace the room, his mind racing with possibilities. If he really was back in 2035, that meant he had two years before the portals appeared. Two years to prepare, to gather resources, to warn people.

*But how? Who would believe him? He barely believed it himself.*