His eyes fluttered open slowly as he came out of a deep, heavy sleep. He took a breath and began to lift his arms to stretch, but stopped short when soreness racked his muscles. He tried to recall what could have happened to make him hurt in such a way, but he was flooded with wave after wave of erratic, contradicting memories. Just seconds ago he’d been surrounded by family, happily tucked in bed. That couldn’t have been right, though, because next he remembered a violent fight in a dark alley of a city. He didn’t know where he was, and his own name felt lost to him. Through the onslaught of emotions, he felt one most keenly: panic. A vaguely familiar face appeared over his, his light brown skin marked with deep lines of worry and exhaustion. “He is awake,” the man said, marveling. “He made it.” He furrowed his brow, trying to find the words to ask what had happened. Before he could, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Two other people, a man and woman, appeared at his side. He thought he knew them, but he didn’t know how. “Hully!” the blonde man cried, a half-smile creasing his face. “We were so worried,” added the girl, offering her own grin of relief. He blinked, focusing hard on their faces. Where had he seen them before? Why were they so happy to find him awake? “How do you feel?” He hesitated before answering. He felt as though he’d just run ten miles while trying to solve a Rubik’s cube—but then he couldn’t remember if either of those things were supposed to be challenging, and he sighed with frustration. “Confused,” he finally replied. He noticed even his voice sounded strange to him. The constant visions persisted, and for a moment he thought he was a fisherman, sitting alone on a quiet lake. “What’s going on?” “You are fighting to survive,” the man with the dark complexion said softly. “What do you remember?” “Nothing,” he said, “and everything. I don’t know…what did you call me before?” he asked of the blonde. “Hully. It was what your copilot called you. Remember? Armen?” The name sparked within him a flash of memory. Fiery red hair and a hot temper to match. Armen Chandler. He was a friend. Or rather, he had been a friend. The life he’d lived, Darren Hull’s life, rolled through his consciousness like a boulder. He inhaled sharply as the images hit him. “Oh, god,” he said. Then, glancing up to Brynn and Wes, he asked, “What are you guys doing here?” “You know us?” she asked hopefully. When Darren nodded, she answered, “You and the sergeant were gone when we woke up. We knew where you went, of course. What did you expect us to do? Leave you here?” She sounded annoyed, but Darren could detect her underlying concern. “It’s a good thing we came back, too. You almost died, Hull,” Wes informed him. “What are you talking about?” Darren asked, absolutely flummoxed. It was then that he glanced across the aisle and saw, to his horror, Sloan strapped down on his bed, flushed, drenched with sweat, and shaking with spasms. Darren could see his muscles visibly cramping and his face contorting with agony. Breathless, he said, “What the hell happened?” Tynan looked at him closely, cautiously. “Do you feel any different?” Darren started to shake his head no, but the way the others were staring at him made him curious. He took a minute, then, to assess how he did feel. It was as if the world around him was moving just a fraction of a second slower than it used to. He could see more sharply, hear more acutely. The differences were subtle, but they became clearer to him as the grogginess from sleep receded. After that initial moment of confusion, he realized he still possessed all his own thoughts, feelings, opinions, and none of those had changed. But his strength had. Not his physical power or might—though he guessed that might have been enhanced, as well—but his inner fortitude. His resolve. His willingness to act rather than passively watch the world as it continued to turn around him. He was very aware of his own heartbeat in his head, though it seemed to be beating slower, and the pulsations of blood did not come with a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He supposed he should have been comforted by that, but it only made him wary. Then, of course, there were the fragmented visions floating about in his mind. It felt as though he was seeing and experiencing pieces of other people’s lives. For a moment, when he first woke up, he couldn’t differentiate between the random images and his own memories. Even now, they continued to dance behind his eyes, but he had managed to suppress most of them to the back of his consciousness. “You have undergone a change,” Tynan said after a few quiet moments. “You are no longer what we consider Valavirra.” Darren choked on a breath that had not yet reached his lungs and began to cough. Brynn went to one of the stone basins filled with water and, upon returning to his side, handed him a silver cup. “What?” he sputtered. He took a sip of the water to douse his cough. Darren could hardly breathe as he asked, “Then what the hell am I?” Tynan looked away, struggling for the best way to answer Darren’s question. When he hadn’t come up with anything, Darren asked again, “What am I?” “Best I can tell, you’re a freak of nature,” chided Wes, though his tone was tinged with melancholy.
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