Editing Phase Q/Into the Cold

You wake up. The anaesthetic wore off.

Uh oh.

You look around you. Desolate.

What happened?

“Hello?!” you scream into your intercom.

Nobody answers.

Around you, the vast empty vacuum of space feels, well, empty.

Nothing.

There’s really nothing there. Out to the horizon, you don’t see anything. Your visual field is completely black.

You feel like you can move about freely. Like swimming. You can turn upside down, spin, flip. Yet, whichever way you face, all you see is the endless, empty blackness.

And your arm hurts like fuck.

Why are you here?

You introspect.

Hm, something there, at least.

You remember the Trad-Fyuchee wars, the Zonnyxes, the tubeworks.

Did you die? Maybe this is what happens when you die. You’ve never been dead before. Is this what it’s like?

Hm.

You think of Natalya. Her way with words. Her long, flowing hair. Her devotion to the revolution.

Ah! That’s it. She must have sold you out. Got you turned in to whoever won the war. Then they killed you.

“Ow, shit,” you mutter.

If you’re so dead, then why does your shoulder stump still hurt?

Maybe you’re not dead. Maybe this is the afterlife. Or some kind of new digital cage. Maybe it’s a digital age but they took away the traditional illusion of walls and bars.

You swim about a bit in the nothingness.

No, if this were a digital cage then you wouldn’t be able to float so freely.

Zap!

What was that?

You thought you saw a flash of light. OK, you know you saw a flash of light, because everything’s so dark here that even a tiny little spark would stand out like a blinding white lightning bolt.

You see that your intercom has died, emitting a little flash of light.

So much for finding anyone else.

Here you are, all alone in this world.

Then you feel it.

It’s not something you can see, or even hear. It’s more abstract. Like a thought, but one that you didn’t have.

“Here we are.”

Hm.

“Who said that?” you say out loud, but the words disappear into the ether as soon as they leave your mouth.

“That didn’t turn out as expected.”

It’s like the empty vacuum itself is speaking to you.

“Who said that?” you wonder.

“Oh, you’re there?” thinks the thought. “At least we can communicate.”

“Who are you?”

“What, you don’t remember me?”

“Remember you? I can’t even see you. Or hear you. I’m just, like, vaguely aware of you.”

“Oh. That’s probably for the better.” The thought feels vaguely embarrassed.

“Look, what is this place?” you wonder.

“Not what it’s supposed to be.”

“What, then?”

“That’s still undetermined.”

“Well, can you determine it?”

“No, not as of yet. Sorry.”

You strain to detect any other sensory input. No external light, sound, smell, taste, or touch reaches you.

You start to swim in one direction. Or, at least, you try to swim in one direction. You can’t tell whether you’re making any headway, or just floating in cycles.

“Excuse me,” you wonder out loud. “Do you have any idea how we can get out of here?”

“Yes,” thinks the presence. “We have an idea.”

{{Phase Q}}