Kye Uzamaki

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”
― Albert Einstein

The doctor swiped his ID and stepped into the room. Briefly acclimating himself to the smell of chemical sterilizer and stale urine, he walked over to the lone occupant:

Strapped to a metal gurney was a comatose patient. His malnourishment was plain, and despite the countless IV lines running from his wrists, his bony frame heaved in unpleasant rattling gasps. Dozens of adhesive electrodes were attached to his shaven head, and a nearby monitor displayed wildly fluctuating brain activity. As the doctor looked, it spiked to immense levels and then as swiftly dropped to almost nonexistence. Pursing his lips he grabbed a syringe off a wall dispenser.

He gently withdrew a small amount of blood from the patient's forearm before turning to the sole other object in the room.

A heavy steel table was welded to the floor near the gurney, and bolted to such was a intricate setting; silver in appearance, but heavier and less lustrous. Cradled in it was a perfectly smooth and circular crystal roughly the size of a fist, tinged a pinkish hue with thin strands of white pumping throughout. A steady hum not unlike a large swarm of insects emitted from it.

With every step he took the hum of the crystal grew more persistent, and when he finally stood before it, the low thrum had reached such a crescendo that it seemed the very room quivered in anticipation. The doctor licked his lips as he slowly depressed the plunger on the syringe. A droplet balled quivering on the end of the needle, suspended for an endless instant. Then the moment was gone, and it was descending. He immediately snatched away the syringe, covered the bottom with his palm lest another bead fall, and turned his attention back to the monitor.

There was no splash or splatter nor indeed any indication that the blood ever came in contact with the crystal. The drop seemed to pass through the orb itself, or have been absorbed in a manner so swiftly as to be imperceptible to the eye. Immediately the now silent sphere clouded to a deep red, and the wires within darkened and pulsed with a renewed vigor.

The brain activity on the screen stabilized within the acceptable boundaries. The doctor checked his clipboard and left, locking the door behind him.

“Survive to complete your objective.”

---

The man once more awoke, this time sprawled on the icy floor of a glacial cavern, mind burning and sleep in his eyes. As he lurched painfully to his feet he sensed the area, attempting to gain his bearings. Bluish tinged light faintly refracted through the cave, but it was diffused and directionless; offering no real assistance. The only sounds were his own ragged breathing and the dull roar of some subterranean river deep below. Holding up a finger he felt a faint breath of air coming from his right, and this he followed. Gradually the tunnel sloped upward and he soon found himself at the lip:

Blasts of icy air buffeted him as he beheld the wasteland before him. It was beautiful as it was bleak; impossibly delicate ice crystals dotted sheltered depressions, and the great north winds had carved the surface ice into such waves that the very sea seemed to have frozen mid tempest. Massive snowdrifts twice the height of a man had collected under these and they continued to swell under a hail of snow.

The man wrapped his arms around him and stumbled into the storm. He felt strangely compelled to travel east - a sharp tug toward the rising sun, as if it were some radiant lantern and he were a lowly moth.

Progress was slow, and he stopped frequently to attempt to rub sensation back into his steadily blackening hands and nose. He only made it a few miles before giving up on covering any substantial distance. Instead he burrowed into one of the many nearby snowdrifts, hollowing out and flattening it with his body before settling shivering inside. He sat like this for hours, the only company the tugging within him and the occasional glimpse of the rapidly dying light. As the sky dimmed he rested his aching eyes.

The man felt oddly warm as he drifted off to sleep.

- He awoke thrashing as hot sand poured down his throat, lungs screaming in agony as he clawed frantically at the suffocating darkness. Suddenly the shadows parted above him, and he emerged into the light retching and gasping. Freeing his legs from the dune he gazed out across endless sands.

The pull was stronger here, more persistent, and it yanked on him like a fishing line. He resumed his march.

Soon his skin peeled and his lips bleed. He had already been dehydrated before appearing in the desert, and the scorched throat had hardly improved the situation. His frostbitten extremities were agony as the heat brought small vestiges of life back to them. Yet he staggered onward, dragged by the inward tugging. Stronger and stronger it grew, until it reached seismic proportions when he stood before a sand dune.

He knew the source lay on the other side. Clambering up, he crouched behind an exposed rock and peered below.

Thin fluted pillars rose seamlessly from a knoll before arching gracefully inward overhead. At its crowning point was a wide disk, also of crystal, affixed in such a way so that it acted like a prism; refracting the harsh desert sunlight into a resplendent multicolor display. Threads of rose gold and turquoise ran vein-like throughout, pulsing rhythmically in a mechanical thrum. The whole depression crackled with power, sending tingles down his spine and causing his hair to stand on end.

It was the most singularly awe inspiring and beautiful thing the man had ever seen.

Crawling out from behind his rock he carefully sidled down the sand dune, moving cautiously and silently, eyes flicking back and forth. He misstepped, causing a small amount of sand to dislodge from under his tread and cascaded with a soft tinkle. He instantly froze, much like a startled rabbit, and cast furtive glances between the beckoning arch and the relative safety of the top of the hill. After several moments he moved forward again at a snail’s pace. Shadows shortened, and hours later, with the sun now at its zenith, he stood before the object of his affection.

The man hesitantly reached out and touched it, fearing to shatter the thin elegance. It was oddly cool to the skin, as if it had appeared moments ago from a more temperate place, and bespoke strength more akin to granite than delicate crystal. Emboldened by this revelation he tightened his grip - and quickly recoiled, hissing in pain. The shallow fluting which had been almost soft to the eye was honed to a keen razors edge and had effortlessly sliced through the meat of his hand. He sprang backward, sucking his wound, and eyed the archway more closely:

It appeared to be made of one continuous piece, and there were no signs of chisel marks or any other indication it had been carved from a larger chunk. Its shining opalescence revealed no flaw or shadow other than a strangely mislaid drop of blood smeared on the disk. The crystal seemed to glow with some unknown light, and despite the noon sun, the rest of the world looked dim in comparison.

The man scratched a phantom prick on his forearm, recalling some hazy memory.

He wanted to pass through but feared the consequences, namely, that nothing would happen. That he would be stuck forever in this reality and simply reappear somewhere else. It was his greatest fear; that there was nothing else. Summoning his courage the man stepped forward through the archway.

His world filled with light and his mind burned.

And he awoke for good.

---

“He actually made it back.”

“But what is he?”

“The strongest of us. The survivor. The future.”