The alleys were narrow, dark, and wringing, smelling of damp gravestone, rotting garbage, and fear. My lungs burned, my legs screamed in kick, but the chains on my wrists had come loose enough that I could move without falling. Every instinct screamed at me to keep running, to put as much distance as possible between me and the prosecution forecourt.
I pressed myself against a wall, my casket heaving, trying to control the earthquake in my hands. My mind contended, jumping between fear and strategy. Suppose. You can not just run blindly. You need a plan. A place to hide. Food. Water. Information.
I had none of these effects. Not a single resource. And yet, I was alive.
For a moment, I allowed myself to breathe, decelerate, and meditate. Every inhale was sharp, cold—a reminder that I was still there. Still breathing. Still moving. The surrounding megacity was alien yet strangely pictorial—the kind of place no bone from my old world would ever fete. Towering gravestone walls, narrow cobblestone thoroughfares, and lanterns casting fluttering murk that sounded almost alive.
I ducked into a lateral road, hoping to lose any pursuit. My heart pounded in my chest, and every sound—steps echoing, the delirium of a slapdash cat's tail against a barrel, distant whoops—made me blench. I can not stop. Not yet. Not indeed for an alternate.
After what felt like hours, though it could only have been twinkles, I stumbled into a vacant yard. My hands, raw from the chains, rubbed against each other, trying to ease the soreness. My mind replayed everything that had happened: the noble, the cutthroat, the youthful man with the strange device, the chaos. Ever, he had given me a chance. A transitory, dangerous chance. But what did it mean?
I sank against the wall, legs drawn up to my chest. My body was pulsing not just from fear but from frustration. I had been running, fighting, surviving artificially, but my mind was rasping at the edges. I have to suppose. I can not just survive by running forever.
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine myself back in my apartment, back as Arjun. But the memory felt distant, like a dream fading at dawn. No, I could not go back. Not presently. This body, this life, was now mine to navigate. And if I wanted to live, I had to come strong.
I pressed my triumphs to my face. Suppose. What can I do?
The first rule was egregious; I could not trust anyone. Not the noble, not the guards, not indeed the foreigner who had helped me escape. This world was ruthless, and survival demanded caution. I had to be clever, always one step ahead.
Also, a noise—soft, deliberate—made me indicate. Steps. Someone was approaching, silent, careful. My instincts screamed to flee, but I had nowhere to run. I pressed myself tighter against the wall, heart pounding, and tried to calm my breathing.
A figure surfaced from the murk. A woman. Her face was incompletely hidden under a hood, her eyes sharp, calculating. She held a small dagger, its edge flashing noiselessly in the lamplight.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice shaking despite my attempt at authority.
She did not answer incontinent. Rather, she studied me as if importing my soul, her aspect unblinking. Also spoke, low and deliberate.
"You are Lysandra," she said. "Or at least you were. That much is clear."
I lowered it. "I mean, I—"
"Save it," she intruded, her tone sharp. "I do not care about who you were. I watch about who survives."
Her words hit harder than any punch. Survival. That was all that signified then.
She stepped closer, dagger still at the ready, but not hanging. Further assessing.
"I can help you," she said. "But you need to follow me. Now."
I dithered. Trust was a luxury I could not afford, yet staying then was a certain death. Commodity in her address told me she was not lying—at least not entirely.
"Why help me?" I asked, doubting my voice.
"Because," she said, voice dropping to a tale, "you're a tool. And right now, tools have value. But only if they live."
I jounced sluggishly. That sounded exactly like the world I had been thrown into: cruel, calculating, unrelenting. However, I had no choice if I wanted to survive.
She led me through twisting alleys, her movements silent and precise. I followed, my senses straining for peril at every corner. The megacity sounded alive with retired pitfalls—shadowy numbers in the alleys, faint whispers carried on the wind, the distant clanging of essence. Every step was a reminder that the world I had been thrust into demanded alertness, craftiness, and ruthlessness.
Eventually, we reached a small, retired yard. She signaled for me to sit. I sank to the gravestone bottom, exhausted. My body pained, my wrists still paining from the chains.
"Who are you?" I asked again, though I suspected I might not like the answer.
She dithered, also saying, "Names are dangerous then. Call me Selene."
Selene. I repeated it in my mind, committing it to memory. A name could be a lifeline in this world—or a trap.
"You are lucky," she continues, "that you survive the prosecution. Not everyone gets that chance. But you will not survive the megacity without learning the rules."
"What rules?" I ask, though I formerly had a grim idea.
"Trust no bone. Use everything. Hide your fears. And overall…" Her eyes bore into mine. "Never give them a reason to kill you before you have killed your own trustfulness."
I swallowed hard. The words were harsh but veracious. Survival was about more than speed or strength; it was about crafty manipulation, perception. And supposedly, luck.
I sat there for a long time, hardening to her instructions, letting the graveness of the situation sink in.