My breath hitches in my throat, and I don’t dare make a sound. What kind of person comes to a horrifying place like this? A metal and stone mausoleum filled with bodies in test tubes and blackened bones in furnaces. Carefully, I reach up to move the canvas that fell over my face. I wince at the noise of the course fabric scraping across dusty ground that seems cacophonous in the silence.

For several agonizing heartbeats, nothing but the steady drip of water on metal breaks the silence. Is my heart loud enough for someone else to hear? Surely not. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let it out in a long, shaky rasp. I didn’t imagine that voice, did I? Auditory hallucinations haven’t been my thing but the trauma of the last few hours has frayed the edges of my already fragile psyche.

“Get de’la together na, you’re jus’ nin thwende things. Creepy ol’ ruins…” the voice fades into mumbled complaints as my heartbeat thuds in my chest once again.

Not my imagination. Shit.

The voice sounds young, masculine but not manly. And only partially in English? I’m reminded of that weird automated message back in what I’m starting to think of as Frankenstein’s lab, although I’m fairly certain I’m hearing fewer nonsense words. Perhaps my mind has finally decided to pack it in and go on holiday, and my addled brain is imagining meaning in mere gibberish.

I hear several thuds, the scraping of metal on stone, clangs and grunts and the noise of someone working. Part of me is thankful that the silence has been broken, that there’s proof I’m not alone in this tomb, but more than ever I wish Theramiel hadn’t left. I certainly don’t trust him, but at least the distrust is familiar. This new actor is an unknown threat. I strain my ears, trying to grasp the words behind the continued mumbling, without success. I use the background noise of what sounds like shifting rubble to mask the undignified grunt I make as I rise to a crouch. Cautiously, I back through the doorway I’d just exited and peer around the frame, taking in the room before me.

A vast atrium ascends at least two stories, massive iron beams supporting the arched ceiling like desiccated ribs. Here the walls are not made of stone but some grime-coated metal. Rust covers everything, streaking across the walls like diseased veins of rot setting into a corpse. The center of the room is occupied by a colossal mass of machinery, all gears and pipes and glass and iron; the shadows make it appear as some ancient giant hunched in on itself in death. Part of the roof had collapsed at some point; one of those massive beams shattering any hope of discerning the machinery’s arcane purpose. Some light filtered in from the open door I’m huddling behind, but most of the room’s illumination comes from an amber beam dancing to and fro to the beat of the shifting detritus. The source is hidden behind a dusty desk or counter of some sort, stacked with contraptions and gizmos I couldn’t possibly divine the purpose of. Some are covered by more canvas sheeting, some left open to the elements.

I spend what feels like hours just listening, but more likely less than a few minutes. I’ve never been known for my patience. Well, I’ve died once already, what’s the worst that can happen? I don’t dare chuckle at my own joke, no matter how much I want to relieve the tension knotting in my gut. There’s obviously been much worse things than death that have taken place in this facility’s past.

I catch myself just as I’m about to call out to the stranger and nearly bite through my tongue. Stupid. Let’s get a look first, yeah? No need to fear, you’re supposed to be a hero or some shit right? Talking to yourself is perfectly healthy for a well-adjusted individual, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I wait a beat as silence returns to the artificial cavern, then begin creeping cautiously forward once the clanging resumes. Peering around the edge of the counter, I’m greeted by the sight of a hunched figure digging through scrap and esoteric contraptions, their back to me as they stoop over their work in the darkness fifty or so feet ahead in the gloom. Every so often they pause to examine a particularly interesting piece in the beam of light attached to the side of their helmet. At one point the figure stands, turning around to add a piece to a heap of bits and bobs stacked on some sort of sled behind them. They look young, maybe fourteen or fifteen judging by height, but it’s difficult to discern through the dark.

My muscles still ache from climbing the stairs, and I shift to relieve the tension in my thighs. A mistake. My canvas shroud has caught on something behind me and tugs free, stones clattering along the floor. The figure’s attention snaps to me and I’m momentarily blinded, arm raised quickly to shield my eyes.

“Miette! What’s that! Who’s shōndai?!”

Fuck. No no no what was I thinking this was a bad idea I shouldn’t be here don’t put me back in the vessel I want to go home I want to see my cats I’m dead I’m dead this is all a nightmare–

Crumpling to the ground backwards in a splay of limbs I scuttle a retreat in some pathetic mimicry of carcinisation. I trip on my overly large canvas cloak and thunk my head on the concrete. Is it concrete? It’s very smooth and not at all porous and concrete suggests a level of industrialization that’s of course surpassed by the machinery I’ve seen anyways but also the Romans had concrete too and why am I thinking about this now? My mind is desperate for any escape from this doom I’ve brought upon myself.

“Stay away! Don’t hurt me!” It comes out as a shriek of fear and now I’m definitely having a panic attack. This hasn’t happened in years. Of course just as I’m about to be dissected and eaten by the violent denizens of this mad world is the absolute perfect time. Why did I ever think I could be brave? What makes this life different from my previous one? Some heroine, huh? I fumble on the ground in an attempt to stand and run, to scramble away, to fight, to scream, to do anything but huddle here in terror awaiting my doom.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I can hear my assailant shifting from foot to foot; nervous energy or preparation to pounce? “Enna…you’re not a scav, ven’ya denla? More like onta ne tundina scavs.” The voice devolves into mumbling at the end. A long, drawn-out sigh, then slow plodding steps towards me. I’m curled up in a ball now, arms guarding my face, limbs trembling, shivering from the cold and fear. “Hey there, you injured? Vonkwe nothrinda?”

The voice sounds cautious, kind, with a small undercurrent of tension. Pitched just right to reach me through the panic, just like she used to do, before she up and left. I abort that line of thought right quick. A hand brushes against my shoulder and I flinch back as if struck.

“Where did you come from? How did you even get down ‘ere?” The fact that I can perfectly understand these words reaches through my shock and slaps me upside the neocortex, stilling my shakes and jarring me to perfect attention. I peak through my shielding arms and wince as I’m blinded by the light pouring directly into my eyes. Too close! Get away!

“Va, yenlo nin pwathrendi da.” Great. Back to gibberish.

A metallic clicking sound precedes the beam of light moving from my face to point at the floor. He disconnects the device from near his head, then fiddles with it a bit. Transforming it from a flashlight into a lantern as part of the metal casing slides into place. “How’s that? Cren’shé? Can you tell me shō gwan’va?”

I peer back at the figure crouching before me. A young boy, a mixture of slightly-pudgy baby-face and scraggly awkward limbs. Eyes a bit too hollow in their sockets, denoting a youth built on questionable nutrition. He’s wearing a mish mash of leathers and rough linen, grimey and stained, torn and patched again and again. Streaks of dirt mar his elfin features. Yes, I think, he looks elfin. Below dark locks of stringy hair in rough curls—barely contained by a hard leather cap banded in metal—poke two knife-like ears jutting from his head at close to right angles, parallel with the floor. They wiggle a bit as he continues to peer at me, perhaps a sign of nervousness. He’s absolutely adorable, how could I fear this creature?

A sharp inhale before a rasping breath. “Are you…are you an elf?” I realize the voice came from me before I can think to stop it. I clap a hand over my mouth, eyes wide, and tug my flimsy canvas cloak more tightly around me. A distant part of my mind whimpers that I should be embarrassed by my nakedness in front of this boy.

He blinks at me, confused by my non-sequitur. With a little tilt of his head he opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again in confusion before continuing. “Erff? What do you mean? I’m a scrapper, certainly no scav, shin gwan’ve Melcor. What’s yours?” His voice is soft and a little high, still youthful and pitched to comfort as if he’s speaking to a frightened animal. Maybe he is. I certainly don’t feel quite like a person right now.

“Melcor? I-is that…your name?” I swallow the bile of my panic and forcefully regulate my breathing. Either I’m already caught, too weak to run and too naked to defend myself, or the first living being I’ve met here is my only ticket out. “I’m, ah, my name is–” The words catch in my throat, loath to label me with another name I’ve not chosen for myself.

“Hwe. Shin gwan’ve Melcor. Cor to my friends.” His eyes roam pityingly over my face, taking in the gunk and soot and dust and blood smeared across it. “Looks like you could use a friend, na?” A smile lights up his features, eyes crinkling a little at the corners, teeth bared in a goofy grin. “Could you non’da ganyu what you’re called?”

I think I’m getting the hang of translating nonsense, but I’m frozen in place as my mind races. A name. Not Sarai, that’s not a real name for me. What’s my name, why can’t I remember? I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind, trying not to dwell too hard on the matter. “Michelle. I’m– you can call me Michelle.”

“Michelle? Strange name. You have a son’kai way of speakin’, Michelle. Bwana nin konta you from?” Melcor slowly lowers himself into a sitting position on the ground, legs crossed at the ankles. He places his hands palm up on his knees, lantern on the floor, the picture of non-threatening childish innocence. Combined with his grin it’s instantly endearing.

“I’m…I’m not– I don’t know how– how did I get here? Where am I? What is this place, is this really Sellenia? I–” It hasn’t hit me before but my own voice is much different than I’m used to. Pitched higher, still a little raspy from disuse and a parched throat, but a lilting soprano that’s unfamiliar to me. I clutch at my neck and cough a little. I think I like it. Distinctly feminine without being overly girly. I can feel a blush coming on, hopefully hidden under the dirt in the dim light. And what I told him is not a lie, not exactly. Whether or not I share with the boy that I’ve been reincarnated as a hero destined to save a world that’s looking less and less likely to still exist as advertised, I certainly don’t know how I arrived here, specifically.

Melcor’s face scrunches up in confusion, his ears dropping a few degrees. Cute. Adorable. Would he let me touch them? His voice breaks me from that train of thought and I shove it back for later consideration. “‘Course this is Sellenia. You think scavs’d nong’gá tan pinthu criss? You’ve had a rough time of it, na?” He glances around the room before returning his attention to me. I’d almost forgotten where we are and fail to suppress a shiver. “I’m not sure. Some ol’ ruin ‘neath the zondanná quarter. Good scrap though, mostly intact stuff.” He motions vaguely to our surroundings with one hand and shrugs. “You must be from some tiny village somewheres, kontu va rekni’we your accent. Can’t make out every fourth word. Never seen ven yrith’du het londi before, na?” He chuckles mirthfully and the sound is like a balm for the frayed edges of my shaky nerves.

With a grunt he stands, wiping the dust from his backside, and extends a hand to help me up. “Come on Michelle, yinta tin do’norrwa here. My sister’s a thwan vo’ninka, she’ll take care o’ you.” Without a thought I grasp his hand and I’m pulled to my feet with an undignified yelp. He glances down before his face flushes crimson and he averts his eyes. “...And some clothes.” That last part comes out in an embarrassed mumble.

I make sure I’m still decent, but it’s also obvious this canvas is all I’ve got. “Yes. Yes, clothes would be good, thank you. And a shower.” The awkward silence is broken by a drawn out gurgle from my stomach. He’s definitely the only one still blushing, yes, definitely. “And maybe some food would be nice.”