Sergeant Malcolm 'Mack' Dwyer of the Nephyra Police finds himself in a familiar, endless white chamber filled with gently chiming crystals.
"This again?" he sighs resignedly. Then he eases himself down onto the pristine white floor to settle in for a wait.
The first time he experienced this place, he was more than a little … perturbed. At 58 years old and with over three decades in the police force, Mack is confident he knows his personal strengths and weaknesses well.
But the Failsafe System's so-called 'Integration' was so far beyond his experience that it unsettled him deeply. At least at first. Fortunately, mental resilience and adaptability are among his strengths.
You don't spend three decades responding to the strangest domestic disputes humanity can invent without learning to be flexible.
By the time he'd exited the first white chamber (Or woken up? Hells if he knew . He'd read the wilder theories about out-of-body experiences and time dilation.), Mack had already settled into his usual stoic demeanour. A good thing too, since the NPD had been hard-pressed to respond to the chaos following the Integration and didn't have time to coddle its officers before sending them out to keep the peace.
So, returned to this strange space, Mack lies on his back, hands crossed behind his head. He decides to await his release in what comfort he can, ready to perform his duty when called.
But it turns out things are a little different this time.
Through the soft chimes, Mack hears a faint disturbance.
"Huh," he says out loud. He frowns and turns his head, eyes narrowing in concentration.
The distant wisp of sound comes again.
"Is that a … whistle?"
As soon as he speaks, the chimes seem to fade from his attention, and the whistle becomes much easier to focus on.
With a full-body flex and a grunt of effort, Mack springs to his feet. His nimbleness has surprised more than one would-be perp who's thought he's all bulk with no agility. Without hesitation, Mack turns on his heel and sprints in the direction he thinks the sound is coming from, dodging the floating crystals in search of the whistle's origin.
The reason is simple: it's clear the sound comes from a person's lips. And somehow (perhaps the frantic blowing of air, or the strained quality of the notes), he realizes that person is filled with desperation.
A small part of his mind wonders if it's a smart idea to rush headlong into the unknown, but years of experience let him suppress that niggling little voice. Right now, his sole purpose is to protect.
"Help me!" an oddly distant but also close voice calls as Mack's surroundings suddenly change mid-stride.
Before he can surge forward more than a few steps, he collides with what looks like a rotting, ambulatory carcass, absolutely drenched in blood.
\ - / - \ - /
Junior finds himself in the white chamber again.
The same endless expanse. The same chiming crystals adrift in slow, graceful orbits. The soundscape of delicate harmonies, soft and perfect … and utterly wrong.
He knows this place. The awareness settles into him like a memory trying to crawl back under the skin.
And the only word which can accurately describe what Junior feels is dread.
Unlike most people subjected to the Failsafe System, Junior's first 'Integration' had been a harrowing experience. He'd gained sight, only to lose control, paralyzed while something monstrous crept up behind him. Millie had saved his life that day, and so much had happened since then.
But when the System notice mentioned "re-initialization," the memory returned — and with it, the dread.
Junior's pulse races, but his body will not respond. His limbs feel sealed in glass — present, yet unreachable. Even his breath comes only when the chamber allows it.
A voice rises behind him.
"You ruined everything."
The remembered words fall like cold rain down his spine. Familiar. Hated. He's heard that voice before — though not like this. It gurgles wetly, hollowed out by death and distance, echoing against the smooth, chiming air.
"You should never have been born."
The white light around him changes. The harmony continues, still bright and pure, but every note seems to tilt off-key, as if the beauty itself were rotting from the inside. The warmth leeches away, replaced by a damp chill that clings to his skin.
He tries to move, to turn toward the sound. Nothing obeys.
Footsteps follow. Slow. Dragging. Thick with liquid weight.
Behind him — unseen but somehow known — something takes shape. A slow, lumbering movement, the stench of rust and salt.
"You aren't my real son."
The voice is closer now, so near he can feel the air distort with each word. The chimes continue sounding all around, serene and oblivious, their misplaced harmony drifting over the fetid smell of decay. The white radiance bleeds slowly into red, as if the light itself were remembering how to die.
Junior can't breathe. The pressure in his chest builds until it feels like his heart might tear itself apart. He wants to scream, to call for help, to do something — but the air sticks in his throat.
So he does what he once did before. In the dream, to call Achilles. He knows this time in this strange space isn't a dream; it's far too real even for his more lucid experience. But he can't do anything but try.
He whistles.
The sound is ragged at first, thin and uneven, little more than a trembling breath. But it carries with it his desperate hope of aid and protection.
The chamber stills. The footsteps halt mid-squelch. The temperature of the air seems to change pitch instead of warmth, as though the world itself is listening.
Then it happens. Like on the crimson sands, the air begins to resonate, a new sound in conflict with the melody of the chimes, but also not. Different and yet similar.
As before, a multichromatic kaleidoscope explodes outwards, and Junior almost gasps with relief.
"Achilles! Help me!" he calls out as the swirling colours collapse into a large form.
He barely has a chance to notice the bulky, decidedly un-canine form dressed in blue before it lunges forward and passes behind him. He hears the impact as two bodies collide, accompanied by a very human grunt of effort.
Considering Junior has spent his entire life in darkness, he can't help but feel a little surprised at how desperately he wishes he could turn around and see right now.
"What in the hells is this?" a voice barks.
The tone is gruff, older, incredulous. Junior finally recognizes the voice of Sergeant Mack Dwyer, and confusion joins the riot of emotions already racing through him.
"Sergeant Dwyer?" he asks. "What? How'd you get here? Where's Achilles?"
After colliding with what looked like a mobile corpse, Mack is just as confused as Junior. He quickly pushes himself away to disengage from the creature, noting with disgust the unsavoury feel of rotten flesh. The police sergeant backs away while quickly scanning his surroundings for less obvious threats.
He observes his presence in a red-lit space, otherwise similar to what he's experienced before. He notes Junior standing stiff and immobile, guessing the young man is somehow constrained. He immediately shuffles slightly to put himself between the civilian and the obvious threat of the monster, which has begun lurching towards them once again.
"Who's Achilles?" Dwyer asks, his voice surprisingly calm. "Not this ugly, rotten bastard in front of me, I hope?"
"Achilles is my dog," Junior replies. "I thought I called him, but … As for that thing? I haven't actually … seen it, but I think it's some kind of nightmare mockery of my dead father? Maybe."
"Understood," Mack says confidently. Though in truth he really doesn't. Then he addresses the shambling corpse. "Alright, Ugly. I'd order you to freeze, but I think your ears have rotted off. And I'm pretty sure nightmare zombies don't have rights."
Then he unclips and draws his holstered sidearm in one smooth motion.
Mack steadies his stance. The weapon in his hand looks almost antique—a polished steel revolver frame, curved grip, and gleaming cylinder. But the faint blue status light along the spine of the barrel says otherwise.
The Langford Mk II, pilot issue for Project Helm. Northhaven Ordnance's latest attempt to make smart weapons look old-school.
As his finger settles on the trigger guard, a soft chime sounds from the grip. The biometric sensor recognizes him instantly; the blue light shifts to green. No lag. No warning buzz. Perfect lock.
"You have the right to return to whatever grave you crawled out of," Mack mutters, almost to himself. Then he pulls the trigger: two quick squeezes — crack, crack.
Junior - who's never heard a live shot fired, let alone so close - can't even flinch. But he does cry out.
The sound is impossibly sharp in the humming chamber. The rounds tear through the air, leaving faint, glowing trails as they pass through the red mist and slam into the creature's chest.
It staggers. Looks ready to fall. Then it stabilizes.
Mack has kept the gun trained on the target, and his eyes narrow.
"Still standing, huh? Of course, it couldn't be that easy."
The thing that might once have been a man jerks its ruined head toward Mack. Its mouth opens wider than bone should allow, and a wet, sucking breath pulls at the air.
Red mist - no, not mist, more like liquid Light - begins to seep from the creature's mouth and numerous wounds. Thin at first, then thicker, streaming down to pool at its feet.
Mack instinctively takes a cautious step back. "Alright, that's different."
The odd Light spreads sinuously, with deceptive speed, sliding across the floor like liquid smoke. It saturates the whole area. Mack tries to lift one plus-sized boot out of the strange luminance, but the Light clings to the surface. He tries to shake it off, then scrapes it against his other leg. But despite the passing resemblance to an illuminated fluid, the Light doesn't behave as if it has a tangible presence. There's no sensation of weight on his limbs, no dampness or resistance.
In Junior's case, when the Light reaches his boots, it rises up his legs like oil climbing glass. He sees the mist rising and recalls his first Integration. Panic flares through him.
"You gotta stop the … this light!" Junior stutters, voice cracking. "It killed me last time!"
Mack doesn't know what to make of that. Another impossible statement in an impossible situation. But he doesn't need to fully understand what Junior meant. The word killed is more than enough to focus his attention sharply.
The police sergeant tightens his grip, levels his sidearm once more, and sets his jaw.
"Copy that," he says grimly. "If two bullets weren't enough, I've got plenty more."
Two perfect hits to centre mass and the thing's still standing, he thinks. That's not right.
"Alright," Mack mutters to himself. "Guess we go by the movies."
Junior can hear the faint mechanical click as the pistol's cylinder realigns — its biometric lock purring in quiet confirmation, ready again.
Mack takes aim. "They always say it's the head." Crack. Crack.
Both rounds strike true. The creature's head snaps back under the impacts, then it drops hard—like a puppet with its strings cut.
For one impossible instant, the entire chamber seems to hold its breath.
Then the red mist stirs. It doesn't fade or blow away — it gathers, curling inward toward the creature's body as if drawn by invisible threads. The colour thickens, liquefying into syrupy streams that seep into the corpse's chest.
A moment later, the light begins to rise again — thin, wavering ribbons of crimson that drift upward into the pale void above. Mack tracks them with his weapon still raised, but the glow climbs higher and higher until it's swallowed by the endless white, leaving only the faint tang of an unidentifiable scent in the air.
Junior gasps as control floods back into his limbs. He stumbles forward a step, breathing hard. Finally able to move, he turns around to see the creature which has terrorized him twice already with his own two eyes.
"Is it… dead?" he manages, his voice raw.
"Deader," Mack replies, lowering his weapon. "Don't think it's getting up again."
Before either of them can speak another word, the crystals begin to ring out of tune. The floor trembles beneath them. White light bursts up from the seams in reality, swallowing sound, swallowing everything—
—and they were back.
The dim light of the underground parking lot. Millie's voice in the distance called Junior's name. The rush of footsteps up the corridor from the storage units. Mack's firm hand still on Junior's shoulder.
For a heartbeat, neither man moved. Then Mack blinked and muttered, low and bewildered,
"...the hells I get myself into…?"
Junior's pulse hammered. His legs felt weak. Achilles whined softly beside him, tail tucked, as if the dog had felt it too.
The world looked exactly the same as before.
But once again, nothing felt right anymore.