He had to find people. Civilization. Answers.
Bare feet stinging against broken ground, he started walking. The oversized lab coat snagged on brambles as he pushed through the undergrowth. Around him, the forest loomed—towering trunks, big leaves, chittering creatures hidden in the green. The world felt enormous, wrong, new.
Was it truly so big? Or was he simply so small?
Hope flickered when he saw it: a road cutting through the wilderness. Cracked, grey tarmac under the violet-tinted sky. A motorway.
He stumbled onto it, relief almost dizzying. Civilization—or something that looked like it.
He turned one way. Nothing. The other way. More nothing. So he walked. The sun rose higher, pressing heat onto his skin. His throat was dry, his stomach hollow.
Then a thought bubbled up, unbidden.
'This planet... Mogar.'
He didn't know how he knew. He just did. As if the word had always lived in his bones.
A rusted road sign caught his eye. Its symbols were strange, curling strokes of an alien language. But as he stared, meaning bloomed in his mind as naturally as breathing:
North: Rynel City – 32 km.
He understood it instantly. Not translated—known. The unease in him curdled into terror.
"This isn't Earth." he whispered. He just noticed that the words that left his mouth were in that same flowing tongue, yet they felt as natural as English.
His legs gave out, and he sank to the gravel shoulder. A puddle shimmered beside him, oily rainbow colors rippling across its surface. He looked down.
The reflection staring back was not his.
A boy with crimson hair. Red eyes like cut garnet. Porcelain skin. Soft, almost androgynous features.
A stranger.
A laugh escaped him, hollow and broken. "Okay, Red. Either you're dead, insane, or both."
He smiled at the reflection—weakly, bitterly. "Happy early birthday, I guess."
Then he stood and began to walk again. The world stretched north, endless and waiting.
His thoughts darkened.
'What if they're not human? What if I'm prey here? What if I look different, and they look different from humans here? Are they even humans? I hope I won't be a pet or food here, especially with this stupid, weak body.'
A low hum made him whirl around. A sleek, black sedan glided silently down the road, windows tinted black.
"Hey! Wait! Stop!"
He waved, desperate. The car didn't slow. It passed like a ghost and vanished into the haze. Rage boiled up—small, useless rage. He raised a tiny middle finger at the retreating dot.
"Asshole," he muttered.
He walked on, the brief surge of adrenaline fading into a leaden exhaustion. His hope was draining away with every step, leaving behind a cold, hard residue of despair. He was about to simply collapse, to let the dust claim him, when he saw it. A shimmer in the distance, a mirage of hope—a roadside filling station.
He dragged his body forward, each step a prayer. But as the details resolved—the fuel pumps, the small minimart—a new fear bloomed. Apprehension coiled in his gut. This was it. The first contact. Every piece of evidence—the road, the car, the architecture—screamed human. But what if it was just a cruel mimicry? What if the thing that walked out of that door was a nightmare wearing a human mask?
He finally reached the edge of the concrete forecourt, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stood there, trembling, a filthy, red-haired ghost in a stolen coat.
Then, he saw him. A young man, probably around eighteen, with hair of a deep, startling violet. He was dusting off a rag, his movements casual, human. Utterly, blessedly human.
'They are humans! Blessedly Humans!'
The relief was so potent it was dizzying. A wide, uncontrollable, and probably manic smile split Red's face. He must have looked like a lunatic, a lost child beaming at a stranger as if he were a long-lost man-sized doll.
The young man—Ryn, as he would soon learn—turned and spotted him. His eyes, a warm brown that contrasted strikingly with his purple hair, widened slightly before softening with pity. Red could see the thoughts flashing behind them: Another stray. Curse those neglectful parents.
"Um, hey kid," Ryn said, his voice gentle. "Why are you here alone? Where are your parents?"
The word 'kid' was a bucket of cold water. Red's smile faltered. 'Kid? Who are you calling kid?'
The retort was on the tip of his tongue, a proud, adult defiance. Then he remembered the face in the puddle. The porcelain skin, the garnet eyes, the childish features.
He swallowed his pride, the taste bitter. "Uh… sorry," he mumbled, forcing his voice into what he hoped was a convincingly youthful tremor. "... I'm... hungry..."
As they spoke, the door to the minimart chimed open. An older man emerged, his hair the same deep purple, though faded and streaked with silver at the temples. The family resemblance was unmistakable.
"Oí, Ryn. Do we have a customer?" the man boomed, his voice warm and gravelly.
Ryn gestured to Red. "Found him wandering by the road. Says he's alone."
The man's gaze fell upon Red, and he crouched down, bringing his face level with Red's. The act of condescension made Red's jaw tighten.
'I was probably taller than you, old man.'
"What's your name, boy? Where are your parents?" the man asked, his eyes kind.
"My name is Roderick," he said, sticking to the simple, undeniable truth. He then crafted a lie he knew would be more believable than the reality. "I... I don't remember my parents. Or where I'm from."
The man's face melted into pure, unadulterated compassion. "You poor thing," he murmured, and the genuine concern in his voice almost broke Red. "Come inside. We'll get you some food. We'll have to call the authorities, of course, but until they sort this out, you'll stay with us."
He placed a hand on Red's shoulder, guiding him towards the door. "You'll have a proper bath, some clean clothes. How does that sound?"
The words were a balm to his soul. A bath. Clean clothes. The simple, profound luxuries of civilization he had taken for granted a lifetime ago. A wave of gratitude so strong it left him weak-kneed washed over him.
He managed a small, genuine nod. "Thank you."
Inside, the afternoon sun streamed through the windows, painting the dusty floor in bars of gold. For the first time since he had awoken in that cold, abandoned warehouse, Roderick Samuel Arthur felt a flicker of something that wasn't pure terror.
It was the fragile, tentative beginning of something new.