Arcane Anew

Quiet... Content... Like waking up under warm blankets during winter but not wanting to move. His mind drifted between stories and places—books he had read, movies he had seen. It was like looking up at the stars on a clear night in the countryside, a sharp contrast to the murky skies of the city. Peaceful, all around him. This was the best part of sleep—before and after waking up... Waking up?

His head was pounding, but with the pain came a strange sense of alertness and urgency. He didn't remember falling asleep, nor could he place the metallic, toxic smell filling the air. His skin felt a biting sensation, and despite his eyes already being closed, he squeezed them shut harder as they burned. What was going on? Was there a fire? Did he spill something on his PC or surge protector? FUCK!

His body, which had been curled comfortably like a caterpillar in a cocoon, suddenly sprang to life. He threw the quilt off and stood up, eyes wide. Immediately, he froze—he didn't recognize the room. He glanced back at the bed, only to realize he didn't recognize that either. His body was frozen halfway between sitting and standing.

Confused and anxious, Orion turned his head slowly, scanning the unfamiliar room. His eyes burned, his lungs labored for each breath, and his skin tingled as though he'd just stepped out into cold air—not because it was cold, but because nothing felt right. In fact, the room was warm. It was mostly metallic which felt contrasting, with bolts and panels protruding from the walls. Outside of his bed, in the corner, there was a worn-out carpet in the center of the floor. A stand sat at the foot of the bed, and two bookshelves with bins stood side by side on the opposite wall.

There was a door, but it was barricaded at the far end of the room. Opposite the corner but same side of the room was a set of curtains, from which the outside air seeped in, leading him to think he was in some abandoned building. Orion quickly checked himself over, only to realize he didn't even recognize his own body.

His skin, though still his usual light tone, had dirt etched into it. His clothes looked like something straight out of a steampunk show. Looking back at the bed, he realized his height and body didn't feel right. He scanned the room for a mirror, but there was none. He looked at his hands, his arms, his clothing—feeling his body like an alien might. But it wasn't alien to him; it was his, and yet, there was no connection.

"Fuck fuck fuck... Bad dream..."

It took a moment to compose himself before he quietly tiptoed to the edge of the bed, peering over to find that the stand had no drawers. He moved cautiously toward the dresser, his heart pounding. Everything felt too real. At least the floor didn't creak or groan like his home, where even the slightest movement alerted everyone in the house to his nearby presence.

All of the bins were on the bottom of the bookshelves. He opened them, rifling through them. Wrenches—oddly shaped ones—an oversized, weird-looking gun, mechanical parts... and then, ah, there it was: a mirror! He opened a bin and found other steampunk looking clothes along with other miscellaneous items, but the mirror was his objective. He raised it and... It was a younger version of him? Shoulder-length, dark-brownish hair, a long nose but crooked having been punched in the past, rings around his eyes from poor life choices. Had he regressed? But to what point? He stared at his reflection, bewildered, and looked down at his body in disbelief.

"Alrighty...Stage two: Where am I?"