It’s quiet—too quiet.
Then a sound breaks through the silence.
A train horn.
Screeching brakes. A child crying.
And then—
That blinding light again.
?
A cough cuts through the jungle.
A figure jolts upward from the ground, hacking up dirt and dry leaves.
Hands flail. Limbs twist.
“Khak—cough—where—where is—?!”
His voice cracks—high and unfamiliar.
The body trembles, small and stiff, caked in layers of dust and mud.
Fingers scrape at roots. Eyes squint against a sun too sharp.
He gasps and freezes.
This ain’t my body.
Small. Fragile. And stiff like it ain’t moved in… forever. What the hell happened to me?
He tries standing—knees wobble, bones ache.
Clumps of earth fall from his back like he was buried there.
“Five… years old…?”
He breathes it out.
“Body not move… long time. Sleep long… like tomb.”
A breeze rustles the trees. The jungle feels old—older than memory.
Bird calls echo like distant whispers.
He staggers to a puddle and sees his reflection:
Dark skin. Wild dreadlocks to his shoulders. Dirt-smudged cheeks.
Eyes glowing faint gold.
That ain’t normal. That ain’t even close to normal.
He stares into the water, gripping his head.
“Jarrell… Me Jarrell. But not same.”
“This… not home. Not Brooklyn. Not world I know.”
The broken words spill out, but his mind stays sharp.
I died. I saved that kid… and then…
Explosion. Light. And that wound in space. That wasn’t no heaven. That was something else.
His hand touches his chest. A soft pulse, like static under the skin.
Something deep inside him thrums—like a machine booting up for the first time in centuries.
“What was that…”
He whispers it like a question.
The jungle shifts as he walks—lush and loud with buzzing wings and rustling leaves, like a living thing whispering secrets just out of reach.
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Jarrell moves slowly, carefully. His legs ache. His stomach twists.
He pushes through tangled branches, then freezes.
A clearing.
There—half-sunk in vines and moss—lies what looks like an abandoned camp. Ruined bedroll. Cracked wooden crates. And a small satchel, moldy but intact.
He crawls closer.
Inside, he finds a bundle of papers—some warped, others crisp. A faded book, too. He opens it.
Symbols. Words. Scribbles.
Not English.
But—
A few shapes… they look familiar. Twisted cousins of the alphabet he knew. One page even has the word “Runes” scribbled in the corner, almost like a footnote.
His eyes scan faster, heart thudding.
This isn’t English. But some of it feels familiar… like a remix of something I almost know.
He tries to speak the words out loud. They catch in his throat, coming out garbled.
“Hrrn… sal-khi… rren-dah…”
My mouth won’t match what I’m thinking. Like the sounds aren’t built for my tongue. This language… it’s close, but not mine.
He flips to another page. More strange characters. None of it makes sense yet—but it stirs something in his mind.
A connection trying to form.
If I want to survive here, I need to learn this. Fast. Even if it hurts.
A sharp pain hits his temple—like a language he doesn’t know is fighting his brain.
Learning it feels like pulling teeth through my skull… but silence’ll kill me faster than confusion ever could.
He sits back against a tree, pulling the book close.
Reads. Studies. Repeats phrases out loud, rough and slow.
“Rren… dal… ok’ta…”
The jungle watches, indifferent.
He’s alone.
But not silent.
Twigs crack underfoot.
Jarrell stumbles deeper into the trees, eyes still scanning every vine and fern like they might come alive and slap him.
The air thickens—hot and wet like the jungle’s breathing on him.
Been hours… or just minutes? Hard to tell in this green damn oven.
He pushes aside a branch and stops cold.
A skeleton rests against a mossy stone slab, its bones slouched like it gave up mid-sentence. Tattered fabric clings to the body, and in its lap rests a rusted short sword, half-sunken into the earth.
A satchel hangs loosely off one shoulder. Jarrell kneels slowly.
Who were you? Another prisoner? Someone left behind… like me?
He opens the bag. Inside: a rotted book, barely readable. Some pages crumble in his fingers. But he recognizes a symbol on the edge—a sigil.
Not a rune. Something older, something etched into skin or stone, not written.
“Same mark… saw in book from tree.”
He closes the journal gently and sets it aside.
Jarrell’s hand trembles as he reaches for the blade. Light, even corroded. Just enough weight to feel real.
Might be trash… but trash can cut.
Suddenly—
Snap. Crunch.
A low growl rolls through the brush.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes flicker between the trees. A beast steps forward—six-legged, lean, panther-shaped with a lizard’s skin and tusks too big for its face.
It snarls. Hunger in stereo.
Jarrell grips the blade and stumbles back.
“Back! Back now!”
It lunges.
He falls, sword barely raised. The beast pins him, breath hot and wet, claws ripping at his shoulder.
Jarrell’s lips bleed, chest pounding.
Then, it hits him—one of the words he’d been studying.
He shouts:
“Vela!”
A flash of light explodes from his palm.
Not fire. Not heat. Just impact.
The beast reels, yelps, and bolts into the undergrowth—vanishing like smoke.
Silence falls again, and Jarrell lies still, panting.
I said that… and something happened.
He stares at his hand. It still tingles.
No chant. No wand. Just a word. Like instinct. Like breathing.
He returns to the skeleton. Sword still in hand. Breath still shaky.
He clears a small patch of earth.
No ceremony. No prayer. Just digging with his hands, blade, and what little respect he has left.
An hour later, a mound of dirt marks the grave. A few stones sit on top, like punctuation.
“Rest… now.”
His words are quiet. The jungle listens.
No one gave me a grave. Least I can do is leave one behind.
He slumps beside the grave, and the jungle hums back to life.
