"The universe speaks in ways we cannot always understand—through visions, through echoes, through the threads few dare to touch." — Thelis Philosopher
Metal. The table was made of cold, metal. His arm throbbed faintly, now back in its socket, though the ache lingered like a distant echo of the pain. Both arms were tightly bound to the table by uncomfortably tight restraints. He lay face down, his cheek pressed against the smooth surface, cool to the touch. He hadn't moved yet. Whoever had taken him—whoever was watching—didn't need to know he was awake. Not yet.
He needed to orientate himself—to make sense of everything that had happened in the past day. He had been on Teve IV, convinced he was going to die, but somehow, he escaped. The memory of the severed hand surfaced, unbidden, the grotesque image enough to churn his stomach and nearly make him move, threatening to shatter his feigned unconsciousness.
Then there was the wormhole. The strange, overwhelming vision he'd experienced. Was it a vision? It had felt so vivid, so tangible—more than just a trick of the mind. And the threads... the threads had returned in the snowfield. Even if what he had seen in the wormhole was some kind of hallucination, those—those were real. He had felt them, almost as though he could reach out and grasp their strange, pulsating forms. The memory made his skin crawl and his heart race, though whether it was from fear or curiosity, he couldn't tell.
Frostvault. That's what mattered now. He had landed on Frostvault, a planet under Finisterra's control—though of course it was. Every planet was under Finisterra's rule. There were whispered stories of places beyond their grasp, but Arlo had no reason to believe them. "Hope is a dangerous thing" his mother had always said.
Regardless, he was most likely taken by some Finisterra workers.
A faint creaking interrupted the silence, followed by the sensation of new light pressing against his closed eyelids. Someone had entered the room.
"Hello. You can stop pretending now; we know you're awake," came a calm, masculine voice. They knew? Arlo's heart quickened. What had tipped them off? He was certain he hadn't moved a muscle.
"Our sensors gave us all the information we need," the voice continued, almost amused. "We know you're awake." Sensors? That made sense, Arlo supposed. Reluctantly, he raised his head and opened his eyes.
The room… or was it a room? He couldn't make out any walls. It looked endless, like an empty void stretching infinitely in every direction. Blackness swallowed everything, save for the piercingly white table he was bound to. He glanced down briefly; the floor appeared just as indiscernible as the surroundings, but it was there. He had heard the man enter through a door, after all. This *was* a room—just one designed to feel infinite, to make its occupant feel utterly insignificant. And it worked.
A single light hung overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving beam down onto the table. The stark contrast between light and shadow only heightened the oppressive atmosphere.
Arlo turned his attention to the man who had entered. His features were partially illuminated by the table's reflection—sharp and angular, with a strong, triangular face. He wore all-black clothing, the fabric tailored impeccably. A long coat reached down to his knees, and a pointed collar gave him an air of authority. He carried himself with calm confidence as he lowered himself into the chair across from Arlo, his presence filling the space despite the vast emptiness.
"Shall we begin?" the man said, bringing his hands up to rest on the table. "This is a question I have never asked before, but... who are you?" The man's tone held genuine curiosity, his sharp features betraying a trace of confusion.
Arlo remained silent, his jaw tightening. He wasn't about to give anything away. Freedom from Finisterra's grip was a fragile, precious thing—a gift he wasn't ready to forfeit. They didn't know who he was, and he intended to keep it that way.
The man scanned Arlo's face with a practiced precision, then offered a thin smile. "Apologies, I shouldn't have asked before introducing myself. My name is Merrick Frost, Warden of Frostvault. Ironic, I know—a touch too poetic, but I assure you it's purely coincidental." His voice carried a veneer of friendliness, but beneath it lay something calculated, almost rehearsed.
He was a Warden? That title carried weight. On Teve IV, a small mining outpost like that didn't need one—Wardens were high-ranking enforcers of Finisterra's will, responsible for ensuring total compliance with corporate law and overseeing major settlements—But this was Frostvault, a fully settled Finisterra world. Of course it would have a Warden—and Merrick Frost was apparently one of them.
"The thing is," Merrick said, his tone shifting to one of genuine curiosity, "everyone—and I mean every single person I've ever had in this building—we've had files on. We ran your DNA through our system, but you don't exist. Not in any database. You're a mystery."
Arlo kept his face neutral, though his mind raced.
"I can't say we don't know anything," Merrick continued, leaning back slightly. "Of course, it only makes sense that you came from the same place as all the other escape pods that arrived today, though yours arrived with more style. So, you're not from the Synd—" Merrick stopped abruptly, clearing his throat. It was as if he'd nearly said something he wasn't supposed to. He shifted forward again, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why don't you just tell us who you are?"
Arlo hesitated, weighing his options. "My name's Fletcher," he finally said, his voice steady. He didn't know why he hadn't given his first name. It wasn't as though they could search it. At least this way, he wasn't lying outright—just keeping enough truth to protect himself.
"Last name?" Merrick asked.
"Don't have one," Arlo responded firmly.
"Well, why don't you tell me how you came to end up on that mining outpost? We gave a photo of you to some of the contract workers that also arrived from Teve IV before you, but none said they knew you—not by name, at least," Merrick said.
None? No one at all? He knew no one really cared about him all that much, but not a single person could say anything about him—not even his name? What about Amanda? No, of course not. She was aware of his situation. She would have been scared of losing her own contract if she said too much. Or perhaps she was protecting him, protecting the freedom that his mother had accidentally given him. But he felt that unlikely. No one from that moon did anything that didn't benefit themselves.
Merrick just sat looking at him. He clearly wasn't going to speak more until Arlo did, but Arlo was at a loss for words.
"What do you want from me?" Arlo finally asked, his voice hoarse but steady. It seemed to be the only thing he could manage in the moment, his mind still racing.
"That's up to you," Merrick replied smoothly, his lips curling into a thin, calculating smile. "If you cooperate, perhaps we can chalk this up to a rare oversight and offer you a contract. But if not, well, we might consider this more of a... terminated contract." Merrick leaned back slightly, his eyes gleaming with a confidence that suggested he thought he had already won.
The word *terminated* sent a cold shiver through Arlo. He didn't know all the details of what it entailed, but he'd heard enough whispers to know it was far worse than signing away his freedom. He froze, his breath catching.
Threads.
The threads appeared again, faintly shimmering in the air around him. They coiled and pulsed rhythmically, almost as if in sync with the rapid beat of his heart. They seemed to spring into existence in direct response to his rising stress, swirling with an almost deliberate purpose. Arlo forced his focus away from them, shaking his head slightly. He couldn't let himself get distracted now. Not here. Not with *him*. Could Merrick now see them? Was it only him who could?
Merrick's sharp eyes narrowed. "I can see you're distracted," he said, his tone tinged with mock sympathy. "Perhaps I should give you some time. You've only just arrived, after all. Time alone with your thoughts might help you... recalibrate." He rose from his seat with a deliberate grace, his chair scraping faintly against the floor as he pushed it back.
He moved toward the wall, and as he approached, a seamless door materialized, the boundaries invisible until it opened. It closed soundlessly behind him, blending back into the room's endless expanse.
Arlo exhaled shakily, the tension in his chest unrelenting. He knew Merrick wasn't offering kindness. This room, this whole setup—it was designed to break a person. And Merrick intended to do just that.
His wrist restraints came free, unlatching with a soft click. Arlo winced as he brought his arms back to his sides, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through his recently relocated shoulder and down to his fingertips.
He was alone—or so it seemed. He knew they would be watching, listening. Every move, every sound, under scrutiny. But right now, none of that mattered. What mattered were the threads. They lingered still, faintly shimmering and pulsing, an enigma he couldn't ignore. What *are* they? Why had they appeared to him? What had happened in the wormhole? Could it all be connected to the way it had closed just as he went through? The questions were too many, each as overwhelming as the last.
He tried to focus on what he could understand. What did the threads feel like? Some were different, their appearances varied, but one type stood out from the rest. It was thicker, denser, and seemed more calm than the others weaving faintly through the air. Dark and luminescent at once, it mirrored the strange contradictions of the wormhole, defying natural logic.
Fixing his gaze on the thread, he stood slowly, his movements deliberate. He crossed the room, his focus unwavering as he approached it. As he drew nearer, something remarkable happened. The thread he had been studying began to weave itself around his hand, a delicate yet deliberate motion. It wasn't attached to his skin but hovered just above it, coiling up his arm to his elbow before fading into obscurity. Not ending, but simply becoming less visible. Yes--The threads weren't foreign to the natural world; they were part of it—an unseen dimension revealed only to him. But why?
The dark thread spiraled, its glow steady and calming. It was the same thread he had locked onto moments ago. Coincidence? No. It was too deliberate to dismiss. They had reacted to him before—back in the snowfield, more appeared when his panic had risen, and again during Merrick's interrogation when his stress peaked. The threads seemed attuned to his emotions, surfacing when danger loomed.
Were they there to protect him? To warn him? Or were they something darker, an omen of worse things to come? He didn't know, but his curiosity burned brighter than his fear. He needed to understand them, and there was only one way to do that.
He extended a trembling finger, the threads still coiled around his arm like a second skin. What would happen when he touched it? The last time, back in that webbed void, the contact had been overwhelming, sending him hurtling back to reality. Would this thread have a similar effect? Could it offer him answers—or perhaps a way out of this place?
He hesitated briefly, his breathing shallow. Then, with a resolute breath, he reached out and touched the thread.
nothing happened. His finger rested lightly on the thread, and for a moment, nothing seemed to occur—
And then, his feet left the floor. Weightlessness enveloped him so suddenly that panic set in. Instinctively, he grabbed the thread tightly, clinging to it as though it were his lifeline. He felt himself hurtling upwards, his back slamming into the ceiling with a sharp thud. The thread felt slippery, as if it might slide free from his grip, yet his hold remained firm.
He held on tightly, the idea of letting go filling him with dread. He wasn't sure what would happen if he released it. Would he plummet back to the floor—or what he thought was the floor? Because now, it didn't feel like the ceiling beneath him was a roof at all. It was as if gravity had flipped. He wasn't hanging upside down but lying on a new surface, gazing upwards at the table and chairs that seemed to float above him.
Cautiously, he tested his balance. Keeping his grip on the thread, he adjusted his footing and slowly stood. The sensation was strange, disorienting. Everything around him seemed to exist in reverse. Why had this only affected him?
Arlo studied the thread more closely. It spiraled around his arm, a faint, pulsing glow that seemed to anchor him to this strange new reality. Maybe the effect was localized, confined to his immediate surroundings. What if he could affect something else—something connected to another thread? But how could he find another thread? They seemed to flicker in and out of existence, unpredictable and untethered to any logic.
But… hadn't focusing on one thread caused more to appear? Perhaps he could summon them again.
His eyes settled on the white metal table bolted to the floor—or what was now the roof above him. The table wouldn't budge, but the chairs weren't fixed. He stared at one of them with an intensity that made his head ache, willing the threads to reveal themselves. He thought about the thread coiled around his arm, imagining it stretching outward to connect with the chair.
Moments later, a web of glowing lines appeared, extending from him to the chair Merrick had sat in. The threads wrapped around its edges like vines, pulsing faintly. Without letting go of his current thread, Arlo hesitated for only a second before reaching out with his free hand and grabbing one of the glowing strands.
The chair shot off the ground—or the roof—and flung itself against a nearby wall. It didn't follow him to the ceiling as he expected. Odd. Did his control over the thread dictate its behavior?
He tugged on the thread experimentally. The chair jolted and careened toward him. Arlo yelped and ducked, the chair grazing over his head and landing on its side next to him. He blinked at it, stunned. Had he just done that? He wasn't imagining it—he had controlled the chair.
The threads weren't just strange phenomena. They were tied to the natural laws of the universe—gravity. He was altering gravity itself.
"Crap," he muttered under his breath, his heart sinking. They were watching. Of course, they were. Cameras would capture every second of this. Merrick would see what he'd done, and it would only fuel his suspicions. An unidentified stranger with powers no one understood? They wouldn't let him go quietly.
He released the threads, and gravity shifted again. Arlo fell, landing hard on the floor—or the roof—below. And of course, just his luck, he landed on his injured arm. Pain shot through him like a lightning bolt.
"Damn it," he hissed, clutching his shoulder. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, staring at the faintly shimmering threads that lingered briefly before fading back into obscurity.