Victor lay face-down in the sand, unmoving, as the waves licked at his feet in lazy, indifferent strokes. The sound was steady, a background rhythm that offered neither comfort nor menace. His cheek pressed into the coarse grains, warm but sharp against his skin. This wasn’t how death was supposed to feel. Wasn’t it supposed to be peaceful? Quiet?

He groaned, shifting slightly, and pain lanced through his body like an unwelcome guest. Not dead, then. Not yet. That revelation didn’t feel like much of a victory.

After what felt like hours, he managed to roll onto his back, blinking up at the sky. It swirled with violet and green, streaked with pale electric blues, as if someone had spilled a cosmic oil slick across the heavens. Alien. Of course, it was alien. He sighed. "Figures," he muttered to no one.

The beach stretched endlessly in either direction, its lavender sand shimmering faintly under the sky’s strange glow. Scattered stones glistened like shards of glass, and bizarre corkscrew trees clawed toward the sky in the distance, their twisted branches casting jagged shadows. Even the ocean, with its neon foam and unsettling glow, seemed to hum with something he couldn’t quite name.

Victor pushed himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest. He looked down at himself—cheap khakis, wrinkled shirt, one sneaker intact while the other had half its sole dangling. A pathetic sight, even by his low standards. Brushing at the sand clinging stubbornly to his damp clothes, he let out a dry, humorless laugh. Survival wasn’t going to be pretty.

The last thing he remembered was the airport, the explosion—a flash of heat and noise swallowing him whole. And then this. He scanned the horizon. No sign of Eric or Jason. His stomach twisted, but he shoved the thought aside. One crisis at a time.

He started walking. Each step in the soft sand felt like a fight, his sneakers sinking just enough to slow him down. The alien beach blurred together in a surreal monotony: shimmering lavender, glowing water, the faint buzz of unseen creatures in the air. His mind clawed for answers, but the weight of not knowing pressed down on him harder with every passing minute.

Something glimmered in the sand ahead, catching his eye. He crouched to dig it out, his fingers closing around a small, iridescent shell. The moment he touched it, a wave of sensations hit him: the crash of waves, the slow grinding of time against rock, wind carving its surface over millennia. It wasn’t just seeing or hearing—it was knowing. The shell’s entire existence, its story, poured into him.

Victor jerked his hand back, the shell dropping onto the sand. He stared at it, his heart pounding. “What the hell…” His voice was little more than a whisper. He rubbed his palm against his pants, trying to shake the feeling, but the knowledge lingered, stubborn as the sand on his clothes. This place wasn’t just alive—it was aware.

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He stood, shaken, and trudged onward, avoiding anything that looked remotely interesting. Each step seemed to make the world louder: the hiss of the waves, the faint hum of insects, the rustle of wind through alien leaves. It wasn’t overwhelming, exactly, but it made him feel watched. Exposed.

The twisted forest loomed ahead, its gnarled trees casting long, menacing shadows. He hesitated at the edge, but the beach offered nothing but more sand and glowing waves. The forest, at least, might have water. Or shelter. Or something that wouldn’t kill him. Maybe.

The air grew heavier as he stepped beneath the canopy. The humidity clung to him like a second skin, and glowing, insect-like creatures buzzed around his head. He swatted them away, muttering under his breath. The ground was uneven, hidden roots snaking beneath a layer of moss that squelched underfoot. It felt alive in a way that made his skin crawl.

When his foot caught on a root, he went down hard, barely catching himself with one arm. A sharp sting shot up his wrist, and when he looked down, blood welled from a jagged cut. “Great,” he muttered, sitting back and cradling his arm. He tore a strip of fabric from his sleeve, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Crude, but it would have to do.

The bubbling sound of water broke through his thoughts, and he staggered toward it. A small spring trickled between mossy rocks, its surface clear and inviting. He hesitated, dipping a finger into the water. The rush of images returned: animals drinking, thriving. It felt safe. Probably. He cupped his hands and drank, the cool water washing away some of the day’s exhaustion.

By the time he found a small clearing, the sky had deepened into a dusky purple, streaked with gold. He gathered what he could—driftwood, fronds, and stubborn determination—and fashioned a crude shelter. It leaned to one side and didn’t inspire much confidence, but it was better than nothing.

His hands throbbed, his wrist ached, and his stomach gnawed at him. He found a strange, orange fruit hanging low on a nearby tree. Tentatively, he touched it, bracing for another flood of images. Instead, there was a quiet calm: animals feeding without consequence. Good enough. He bit into it, wincing at the strange, bitter flavor, but it didn’t kill him.

He made his way back to the shelter, the sun setting behind him. The beach was quiet now, the waves gently lapping at the shore. As the sky turned purple and gold, Victor sat against his makeshift shelter, his knees pulled to his chest. The world felt so distant and vast, too big for him to make sense of, yet impossibly serene in its alien beauty. For a moment, he let go of the frantic need to understand everything. He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the cool sand shift beneath him.

As the first stars blinked into the alien sky, his dry voice broke the silence. “God, I miss Overwatch porn.” Then, exhaustion took over, and he fell into a restless sleep, the waves still whispering their indifferent lullaby.