1.

Earth has long since been abandoned. Its beauty stripped away from the planet, painting it into a desolate land. Roaming wildlife rule here, adapting and evolving, and no part of the planet's former beauty would ever be restored to its greatness.

Overgrown weeds and toxic waters replace its value, mossy trees and jungles replace vegetation. With only organic, human life left to the mix, they left a long time ago. In their place, divided factions split across the space system were the descendants of those before them.

In the middle of it all, of crooked thick bark and abandoned Grineer tilesets, was a cracked coffin. Roots and vegetation invaded the coffin, growing inside. Weeds broke through the shattered cracks and heavy, mutated bark narrowly coiled around the box. It was a treasure, a remnant forgotten.

Over the box, the anchors of the trees groan. They squeak and twitch. The coffin appeared worst for wear, the cracks embedded into its casing growing increasingly as chips start to fall. The top of the casket breaking, shattering. In the midst of it all, a humanoid shape emerges from it.

Slowly, like a newborn fawn, they flailed upon stepping out. Their lengthy, bony yellow digits grab on to the wall of overgrowth, their head cradled by the other. They lean on it. Muffled, heavy breaths resounded beneath their helm.

They step out of the encasing—a large, hollow tree. A breathy, distorted hiss sounded from their helmet, wheezing like a dying man. It gets caught in their throat—a sound of surprise escaping them. Letting go of the base of the tree, they limp to the middle of the field of weeds.

They slowly brought a white and yellow claw to the top of their head, flinching when they felt something flimsy on top—some kind of decoration, like a feather.

A croaking voice, boyish and young, distorted and confused, came from behind the knightly helm.

"What—Where am I?"

2.

Everything was dark, so dark. A blank void, an abyss that stretched out tremendously and endlessly.

A sharp pain, a shock, and—and whispers. Too many voices at once.

The ringing—the voices, the whispers, the unexplainable crackling and echoing resonance ceased.

He's no longer floating, falling in the endless abyss. Everything is a daze, a blur, a—

A forgotten, useless memory.

He awakes. His eyelids peel back, and he goes to snooze his alarm clock, and…

"What," He says in a wheezing voice, his voice unused and unfamiliar. "Where am I?" It wasn't him.

He stood in a clearing of blocky hills and grassy weeds covering the surface. A towering tree hands overhead, intimidating as it cast its shadow. The sun filtered out into the large enclave, casting its shine on him.

He stared at his hands with morbid fascination. Flicking his wrists and wiggling his fingers. It was as if his hand was… dipped in yellow paint. Shades of bright yellow to the dull colors of gold littered his body—a body that looked alien.

The body he was in was primarily white on its smoother surfaces. The chest, the thighs, and probably the face. Not that he could look at himself. Rough, detailed spaces were colored with shades of yellow while everything else was painted white.

"It's… oddly peaceful here." He murmurs, taking a step forward. He stumbles on his footing, falling on his rear with a loud thud. "Ow." It didn't hurt, but it came out from his mouth before he could stop it.

He—It—They sit there, under the blinding light. His ears catch nothing, but it was as if he was expecting something… something. What describes a peaceful, outdoor setting? He plucks a weed next to him, examining it. He brings it up to his face, sniffing it. Nothing.

"Where was I? This doesn't look like—like—what?" his hand cradles his head, the feathery decoration flopping on his arm. Yellow, like the rest of him. The human—the alien continues to mutter, to ramble.

"No, no. I was—not here—I was…" he swallows. "getting—getting ready? For what?" He buries his head in his hands and tries to reach into the deepest parts of his mind to reach for something, anything. Nothing comes to mind, and he grabs nothing but dust.

"It was dark, then it was bright. There was someone there—I—I know them…" The alien—the human pauses. Softly, whispering, questioning, he says: "But who?"

Only the silent, breezing whistles of the wind answer.

3.

"My name is… what?" He paces around, stumbling on his footing when his heel—an actual heel on his foot—gets caught on an overgrowth. "My name is—is—" He pursed his lips, frowning. "I don't know." They exhale all their frustration in one breath and slump in defeat. A headache greets him, a small throb at the back of his head.

He spends the rest of the day breaking apart dead tree branches and weeds as an escape from boredom. A dull task it was, but it distracted him fully from his… problem.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…" He counts them, every uneven break of every branch and stem alone. If they're smaller than the rest, he throws them aside. If they're bigger, he snips it with a light pinch of his fingers until it's the right size as the rest.

"How can I talk if I have no mouth?" He asks out loud, already knowing his question will be unanswered. He pats his face with both of his yellowed palms, feeling for some kind of gap. There was a gap, where his eye holes were. He hooks his finger in it, "Is this some kind of helmet?" He tries to remove it from his head. It wouldn't budge from every direction he'd attempt to pull back from.

It was sunset this time of the day. He continued to do his own game of counting weeds and branches, counting nonchalantly as the sun bid its friends a good night.

"Three-hundred and four, three-hundred and five…"

The humanoid stops in his counting. He breathed in the air, no smell coming to his senses. Though, he could feel the cold air enter his nostrils—wherever they were. Putting down the bits and pieces of vegetation, he laid on his back. Facing the starry night sky, the only bright figure of the enclave whispered, "I feel as though… I am forgetting something. Something… important."

He closed his eyes and slept.

-...-

His voice is scratchy and hoarse. His emotions are horridly spiked, gathering in his stomach and he wants to vomit.

He hears the faint murmurs of a man. His voice was like music, several pitches in the notes satisfying to his ears but erupting in a disharmony that makes him recoil in distaste.

"Throw him,"

He remembers screaming after that—he was screaming. His throat was raw and every muscle in his entirety screamed for mercy. For what? What was he doing? Why was he—

"Oh?" This—this—sounded like him—himself. But it wasn't. Someone, entirely but indifferently, different. "You're not supposed to be here." They laugh like a distorted cacophony.

"I'll send you back as a gift back to them." The thing, the entity giggles. "Dax, kiddo, you're the best thing that has happened here. The first!"

"All from one man—"

-...-

It's the middle of the night when he awakens, rolling on his side, frantic. He claws the ground, soil crushing underneath his forceful clutch, and tries to look for any memory in his mind.

Like before, every time, there was nothing that came to mind. Forgotten.

He calms himself and comes to a kneeling position. In silence, he sits there, wondering. Then, he blurts, "Ballas." Mixed emotions fill him. Anger, betrayal, horror, and— "Who's Ballas, again?" confusion.

4.

They try pushing themselves through a crack of rock and roots. It was a very tight opening but there was something on the other side. Another new place to explore. His arm could fit through but his body could not.

The small scenery was getting a little too old, a bit claustrophobic for his liking.

"C'mon…" He grumbles as he tries to fit in between the crack, wedging himself through. "I'm not that fat, am I?"

"I'm just…" He trails off, half of his body wiggles in, cheering inwardly. He looks down at himself. Now he just has to get the other half in. "Flat."

His face scrunches up, or, well, he tries to.

"I'm not, um, stuck," He tries to pull back from the crack and panics a little when he realizes he wouldn't budge. "Am I?"

"Aw crap." He says, "I'm actually friggin' stuck."

They suppose that they were stuck in this clearing for the time being. As they struggled to step back out, another casket near their location was forced open.

Unknowingly, they made the right choice.

5.

Inside the hollow tree, he made the container he came out from into his resting quarters. Uncomfortable and tight, it was like sleeping in a coffin. Like a—like a… vampire. The thought sounded ludicrous when he said it aloud but shrugged it off.

When he was decorating the interior of the giant shrug he perked up when he heard scuffling outside. He tilted his head, blinking. Grasping a medium-long branch, he ventured outside.

The mutated thing barked at him. Aggressively.

The brown creature made no move to lunge at him, only barking at him warningly. He looked at the stick, then to the ugly creature. He repeated this and a fragment of a forgotten memory opened up to him.

A vast field of grass and childish laughter. A familiar setting. From his own eyes, a pale hand grabs a skinny tree branch with leaves still intact and throws. A dark, four-legged animal chases after it.

In reality, he throws the stick. The ugly thing stops barking. It whines, emitting a low sound, confused.

He points at it, tilting his own head when the animal did the same. "Fetch." He crouches down, attaining eye-level with it.

They gesture to the stick.

The animal—the dog, the puppy—whines.

He sighs, walking back to his small home—if it deserved to be called one. The puppy trots after him, its tongue sticking out. He piles branch after branch in his arms and carries it outside.

There, now he has more sticks to throw.

The dog sits across from him, still wary of him but barks at him whenever he throws a stick.

"No," He shakes his head, waving the stick. "you fetch." He scolds the thing, scowling when it barks.

Eventually, the animal did go after his sticks. Although, it didn't bring back the dead twigs. It jumped in the air whenever a stick was thrown, placing it in random, growing piles that seemed to excite it.

It opened its mouth big and wide, yawning. The animal was tired but he wasn't. He was still energized as he was in the morning. The puppy wandered in circles before settling down, dozing off.

He felt tricked.

6.

Ultimately, he did actually get out of his enclosure at one point. The puppy who was just as nameless as he was, squeezes into the tight space wiggling its rear until the crack swallows the tiny, horrid thing.

He runs after it, alarmed. Before half of his body was allowed in but that was because of his struggle. Here, he runs through it like a breeze. He grabs the puppy, its tiny body trying to squirm out of his grip.

"Whoa," he says, craning his head. "This is—quite new."

He rubs the thick, oddly designed patterns that protruded from his arms. They had holes in them, so did his thighs. Weirdly enough, a rotating disc hovered over his arms and thighs, emitting a low, soft musical hum.

They step on the steel tile, tapping it with his foot. It made a low clang. It was a part of some structure. But of what?

They set down the puppy, watching it run around. It was right at home. He was not.

It felt… foreign. It brought no resemblance to him—at all. The scenery, having its own kind of beauty and strangeness, seemed wrong.

The human—the alien shrugged it off. No matter how hard he questions it, it wasn't like everything was going to be answered in one sitting.

Puppy—its new name—barks, its brown furry body jogging to him. There was a glimmering thing in its mouth. He takes it.

The glimmering thing had a body and head, like a toy. Its head was decorated with wings on the sides and lodges embedded on the front. His heart stops for a moment and releases a shuddering breath, clutching his head.

"I…" He picks his head up, examining the—the— "I've seen this before."

He cries out, remembering. "Oh! I remember seeing these things in-game!" He's taken aback, tilting his head. The alien brings up a hand to rap at his head like a door, "Wait—what?"

7.

It was peaceful and quiet when he wakes up.

Idly, he recalls going back to his enclosure—to his bed. This… wasn't his bed.

There were no curving branches that swallowed the ceiling and walls, no wide clearing that opened out into the wilderness. Puppy wasn't here, either.

As he walked, his feet clicked like marble on the ground. Except, there was no ground at all. A white, blank abyss that seemed to go endlessly and infinitely. He feels nostalgic, a sickening kind.

The alien—the human doesn't question it.

His steps were slow. His eyes roam around to look for anything amiss. There's nothing here, only himself.

In his line of proximity, he gasps. His arms are up in a defensive position, and his eyes screw shut. There was a person here too. They wore a weird, funny get-up too.

He peels back his eyelids reluctantly and brings himself to walk up to the figure. Up close, he sees the humanoid in full. A man, no, a boy stands in front of him. He—They—It is taller than him. He wore golden chest plates and armor that covered most of his body. A weird hat that left his face open and widened at the top.

The boy—the warrior—seemed to say something. It—the alien—tilts its head. "I don't understand." The boy frowns, repeating what he said before in his strange tongue. The language he spoke was rough, but nice sounding on the edges.

It shook its head. The boy-warrior sighed. Then, he said a simple word. It sounded nice. A nice word that fell out of the boy's lips.

The golden plated boy pointed at himself, saying the word again. The alien—the human cocked its head. Then, he pointed at him.

"Hah?" The boy repeated his whole play, pointing at himself and gesturing at the humanoid alien—it was a confusing task that the boy got frustrated and said it again.

"So…" They trail off, dragging their tongue out. "Are you saying that… you're me?

He looked surprised but immediately shook his head, saying the same thing.

They parrot after him, he smiles.

They repeat this word until they wake up.

During sunrise, he mumbles it continuously.

"Eeeh...seh...Eehseh...Isaah."

In the mind of a body that didn't belong to him—unbeknownst to him—he mumbles, half-awake, "Isaah. Isaah. That's my—his name."

This isn't my best work. I wrote it from morning to evening. I tried to be vague when building up to this but as I look at it now, it seems kind of rushed. Though, I did write it in one-shots for a reason.

If you didn't notice, OC is an Octavia. Just imagine a regular Octavia, but all the blues, purples, and grays are shades of different yellows. (I used the shamrock palette on mine). My friend called me cheap for using free palettes. I told him that's the point.

I believe this is where I say, "Tell me what you think?"

Tell me what you think.

-zakuro