Consciousness returned in waves, each bringing a new fragment of sensation. Cassian lay motionless, eyes still closed, letting his military training guide him. Assess before moving. Listen first. Then look.
The ground beneath him felt wrong—simultaneously solid and yielding, as if he rested on pavement that breathed. No pain registered in his body, but a profound sense of wrongness permeated everything. The rules of existence felt... loose.
When he finally opened his eyes, the sky above made him freeze. It still bled crimson and silver as it had on Earth during the breach, but now an enormous shattered ring of stone hung overhead where the sun should be. Fragments of the broken celestial body drifted in slow orbits, casting prismatic shadows that shifted across the landscape.
Cassian sat up cautiously. The street beneath him was a seamless blend of jagged pavement and black sand. Parts of it pulsed gently—rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked breathing. The air tasted impossibly clean, carrying whispers that weren't quite sound but more like memories brushing against his consciousness.
"Prioritize survival," he muttered to himself, the familiar mantra centering him. "Assess threats. Find cover."
His voice sounded different here—each word leaving faint echoes that lingered too long. Glancing down, he noted his tactical gear remained mostly intact, but changed. The dream-thread woven into his armor plates glowed with a faint blue luminescence, pulsing occasionally as if alive. The material felt lighter than before, yet somehow stronger, as if it had been reforged by the transition between worlds.
Scan environment. Find shelter. Inventory yourself.
The ruined cityscape around him resembled the abandoned urban zone where he'd died—yet fundamentally altered. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, some defying gravity entirely. Windows reflected not the surroundings but brief flashes of disconnected imagery: a child's bedroom, an old battlefield, a mother's smile. Each reflection lasted only a moment before dissolving into another, as if the glass served as portals to fragmented memories.
No comms. No squad. No Command.
The memory hit him with sudden clarity—Chen disintegrating into motes of light, the helicopters abandoning them, the Dream Bomb detonating. The betrayal. His death.
"You're alone," he whispered. "You were always alone in the end."
Panic threatened to overwhelm him. Was this the afterlife? Some hellish purgatory? Or had the bomb simply transported him elsewhere? The questions spiraled, threatening to paralyze him.
Military discipline asserted itself. Movement first. Theories later.
Cassian forced himself to stand, pushing despair aside with practiced determination. He'd survived three tours in conventional warfare and weeks battling dreambeasts. He would survive this too—whatever "this" was.
He checked his equipment. His sidearm remained holstered at his hip, but when he drew it, the weapon felt impossibly light. He pulled the trigger experimentally—no discharge, no recoil. Just a soft whisper as the firing mechanism moved through empty motions. Useless. He returned it to its holster anyway; perhaps it would have other uses here.
He began to walk.
The city—if it could be called that—stretched before him in impossible configurations. Cassian moved cautiously through what appeared to be the ruins of a once-great metropolis. A sign hanging from a tilted lamppost swung gently in a breeze he couldn't feel: "BROKEN STARS – OUTER DISTRICT."
Roads spiraled upward into the air before disappearing into banks of iridescent mist. Gravity itself seemed unstable—in certain patches, debris floated sideways for several seconds before suddenly slamming back down with violent force. Cassian quickly learned to identify these anomalies by the subtle distortion in the air around them.
An abandoned marketplace spread across what once might have been a town square. Market stalls remained stocked with goods—fruits of impossible colors slowly rotting mid-air, their decay suspended in time. The produce appeared hyper-saturated, more vivid than anything on Earth, almost painful to look at directly.
Cassian paused at one stall, reaching out cautiously toward what resembled an apple—only to pull back when it pulsed with internal light at his proximity. Not food, then. Or at least, not food for humans.
He noticed something else as he moved through the square—shadows that moved independently of the objects casting them. At first, he thought it was a trick of the fractured light from the ring-sun above. But no—the shadow of a broken lamppost definitely slid along the ground in the opposite direction of its source. Cassian made a mental note: Environmental hazard. Unknown threat level.
The entire landscape seemed to be decaying, but in a way unlike anything he'd seen on Earth. Buildings weren't simply crumbling; they were unraveling, their very substance dissolving at the edges like fabric fraying. Some structures appeared newer, less affected by whatever catastrophe had befallen this place, while others had deteriorated into little more than geometric suggestions of their former shapes.
In the distance, he could make out a massive structure that might have been a tower or spire, its upper portions obscured by swirling clouds. The Citadel Core, perhaps? It seemed impossibly far away, yet somehow felt like it was watching him.
As he turned down a side street, a sound reached him—a distant "click-click-click" like claws on concrete. The echoes came from multiple directions simultaneously, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.
Cassian immediately dropped into a tactical crouch, using the husks of abandoned vehicles and debris for cover. He moved silently now, breathing shallowly, all senses alert.
Threat assessment: No allies. Unknown terrain. Unknown enemy capabilities.
The clicking grew louder, then faded, then returned from a different direction. Whatever it was, engaging without information would be suicide. First priority: find secure shelter.
After twenty minutes of careful movement, Cassian spotted a partially intact convenience store wedged into a sideways building. The structure had collapsed at an impossible angle, with the store somehow preserved in the intersection of two walls that should have crushed it.
He approached cautiously, testing the door. The glass felt warm and strangely pliable beneath his touch, yielding like soft plastic rather than breaking. Dream physics, he supposed. The interior was dim but navigable—shelves stocked with dream-props that resembled Earth goods but with faded, unreadable labels. Items seemed to subtly change shape when he looked at them too long, as if their reality was unstable.
A magazine rack near the entrance held publications whose covers shifted between different images every few seconds. One moment showing smiling human faces, the next displaying landscapes of impossible geography, then dissolving into abstract patterns before starting the cycle again.
A corkboard hung behind what had been the cashier's counter. Pinned to it were several maps, one labeled "BROKEN STARS – OUTER DISTRICT" with various locations marked. Cassian studied it intently, noting references to something called the "Citadel Core" further inland. Potential destination, if he survived long enough to need one.
Other notices on the board caught his attention—warnings written in a script that somehow translated itself as he focused on it:
"DREAMSTORM ADVISORY: Seek shelter during phase shifts."
"NIGHTMARE INCURSION ZONES: Avoid after darkfall."
"CITADEL CORE REMAINS SEALED: All refugees divert to Eastern Havens."
He systematically checked the store for usable supplies. Most items dissolved into mist when handled too roughly, but he managed to collect several solid objects that might serve as weapons—a metal pipe, a shard of glass that remained unexpectedly sharp. In what had been a storeroom, he found a container of liquid that glowed faintly blue. When he cautiously dipped his finger in it, the substance clung to his skin momentarily before being absorbed. A warm sensation spread up his arm, leaving him feeling slightly more alert.
Resource acquired. Unknown properties. Potentially beneficial.
As he settled behind the counter to rest briefly, a jolt of pain lanced through his mind. The world around him seemed to freeze for an instant as blue text appeared in his field of vision:
[Dreamwalker Class Initialization: 4% Complete]
[Skill Acquired: Dream Thread Manipulation — Level 1]
[New Status: Fear Energy detected.]
The text faded, leaving Cassian blinking in confusion. Then understanding dawned.
"Dreamwalker," he murmured. "So I'm not dead. Not yet."
He extended his hand instinctively, focusing on the concept of threads, of manipulation. Thin silver-blue filaments materialized between his fingers, almost invisible against the bleeding sky visible through the broken ceiling. They responded to his thoughts, twisting and extending as he concentrated.
The threads felt both physical and not—like extensions of his own nervous system projected outward. When he directed them toward a fallen candy bar on a nearby shelf, they wrapped around it, allowing him to pull it toward him without moving. The effort left him unexpectedly drained, as if the action had consumed some vital energy.
A weapon. A tool. Something I can use.
Over the next hour, Cassian set makeshift tripwires around the convenience store using the dream threads. They weren't strong, but they might give him warning if something tried to enter his temporary shelter. He positioned them at ankle height across doorways and windows, connecting them to precariously balanced items that would create noise if disturbed.
As he worked, he noticed the bleeding sky outside gradually shifting—the crimson deepening to a darker hue, the silver light dimming. Was this place experiencing some form of night? The thought of facing unknown threats in darkness made his tactical assessment even more urgent.
The effort of manipulating the dream threads left him drained but satisfied—action always being preferable to helplessness. He found a position behind the counter that offered both concealment and multiple escape routes if needed.
As he finished the last trap, the whispers in the air grew louder. The "click-click-click" sound returned, closer now. Through the warped windows, he caught brief glimpses of things darting between the ruins—shapes that moved too quickly, too fluidly to be human. One passed directly in front of the store—a elongated silhouette with too many limbs, moving in jerky, unnatural motions.
Cassian grabbed the shard of glass he'd found earlier—it had hardened into something more like a blade, responding perhaps to his need for a weapon. He crouched behind an overturned freezer unit, weapon raised, eyes fixed on the door.
The clicking stopped directly outside. A shadow fell across the entrance—something tall and angular, its proportions all wrong. The dream threads he'd placed across the doorway trembled slightly, as if responding to proximity.
"If this is a dream," he whispered, "it's not mine. And I'm not dying in it."