Swirling shades of grey in every direction, an infinite mist never resolving.

Am I... dead?

What... what is that voice? Is it even a voice? Are those letters? Am I imagining this?

Is it talking to me?

What I want...

I want... to be strong. To be fast. To win against everyone.

I want people to cheer for me.

I don’t want to fail, ever again. I want to go back to when I had hope. Hope that my life would turn out how I wanted.

What the heck?

A shift in the swirling gray. Behemoth structures congeal out of formlessness, their edges liminal and unsure. What sounds like whispered voices, or passing thoughts, floats among them.

“...ugh... we’re losing...”

“...didn’t expect... so strong...”

“...damn Sekkies...”

“...hahahaha... this is what you get... die, scum...”

“...hurts...”

“...have to... keep her safe...”

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Attention focuses on the last voice, its determination. It feels familiar.

Who are you?

More detail resolves. Between the structures two shades dart back and forth, monochrome blasts of energy passing between them. In the distance, other figures move weakly, some lying motionless. It’s clear that one of the shades is trying to keep the other from advancing on the figures. It’s also clear that shade is losing. The disembodied focus moves closer to them, and the losing shade’s voice/thought sharpens.

“...do anything... keep her safe...”

Can you hear me?

Another surge of energy, a flurry of blows. The losing shade flies backwards into one of the structures, grey clouds roiling out like smoke, and slumps into a sitting position. It tries to rise, but can’t.

“...not strong enough... dammit...”

Where are you? Where am I?

The victorious shade advances towards its fallen foe, steps somehow arrogant and imperious. Energy coalesces around its outstretched hands, ominous pulses rapidly increasing in frequency. An ugly green glow builds at their edges, sickly and necrotic, the first color to appear in the monochromatic vaults. Despair radiates off the hunched and broken shade. It, too, feels familiar.

“...wish... goodbye... Tara...”

Can I... help?

The feeling of reaching out a hand that isn’t there, a disembodied offer. Space warps and shifts, the fallen shade suddenly up close and resolving into a man in battered tactical armor, his stubble-bearded face haggard and bloody beneath lank black hair. The perspective slides closer and closer, pores turning into massive craters, eye pupil an endless well of ink, then sinks into the darkness behind it.

The feel of flesh and skin, blood pumping through veins and arteries. The feel of a body, alive once more. Power begins to tingle along its nervous system, a golden filigree of potential, scouring away what lay there before.

“...ugh... what is... this... brain... hurts... shit... not me...”

No! I’m not trying to hurt you!

An instinctive recoil. Perspective withdraws from the body. Blistering power from the other shade suddenly slams into the man. His mouth opens in a silent scream.

“...URRAAUUUGHHH... not yet... won’t... die... yet...”

The disembodied hand extends once more, and once more the body unfolds like a flower in bloom. It’s as if thousands of traceries are simultaneously lying atop each other in a cohesive whole, branching fractally in all directions.

Can you hear me? I’m Brock, I think.

“...hnghh... crap... knew it would be me... damn Sekkies...”

Another blast of power, but somehow lessened this time, its impact absorbed by the disembodied presence now sharing the body’s space.

“...no choice... if it’ll... keep her safe... have to...”

I want to help. I’m not trying to hurt you.

Something shifts.

“...you better... save them... don’t care... what it costs...”

I will.

“...you better...”

I’ll save you all. This time, I won’t lose.

“...hah... do... your best... tell her...”

Tell her what? Who’s ‘her?’

“...love her...”

The voice sinks and fades.

Whut?

Grey mist flows out and away, and reality snaps into focus once more.