The world was soft again—warm, dim, humming with the faint blue glow of an old CRT.
Rudra blinked. His lungs no longer burned. His chest wasn't bleeding. Instead, he was back in that small, cluttered apartment—the one they shared during training days. A torn couch. Takeout boxes. The quiet hum of a ceiling fan. And in front of them, the PS3 logo bloomed across the dusty television like a memory resurrecting itself.
Agni sat cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand, face younger, unscarred, his laughter easy. "You're trash at this," he said as the Game Over screen filled the room in red letters.
"Shut up," Rudra muttered, jabbing buttons furiously. "I just mistimed the dodge."
"You mistimed being alive," Agni grinned, eyes flicking to him. "Dead again. What's the skill called? 'Hero's Comeback,' right? Try that one."
Rudra smirked, half-annoyed, half-focused. On screen, his character flickered, the health bar creeping back from zero as a glowing sigil appeared behind him. A triumphant theme began to play.
"See?" Rudra said, leaning back with a satisfied exhale. "Told you. Never really die."
Agni laughed—the kind of laugh that didn't echo like thunder, didn't shatter glass, didn't sound like pain. Just a laugh between two idiots killing time. "Yeah," he said softly. "Guess you don't."
The light from the TV flickered across Rudra's face, and suddenly the room began to distort—the sound stretching, colors bleeding into ash. The laughter faded first. Then the warmth.
And before the memory could collapse completely, he heard Agni's voice again, no longer playful—quiet, distant, almost reverent.
"Let's see if you still have that comeback in you… hero."
The screen went black.
Rudra gasped awake, choking on cold air and blood.
He blinked rapidly, scanning the room. The sterile scent of metal and ozone hit his nose, but the architecture felt wrong—like it floated somewhere between reality and memory. Shadows stretched unnaturally. A faint hum reverberated under his feet.
Before he could orient himself, a memory surfaced: figures carrying him, something that resembled a small spacecraft, the motion blurred, voices distorted, his own panic echoing. His stomach twisted as he sniffed the faint tang of antiseptic, the metallic sharpness making him flinch.
Rudra gasped, coughing—blood lacing the air with cold shock.
[A]- Go back to Sleep
[B]- Look around
[X]- See The time
[Y]- Look if You are still dreaming
[B is Chosen]
He forced himself upright, muscles trembling, and took in the room. It wasn't grounded. Not in any way he recognized. The floor seemed translucent, the horizon warped. Outside the window, his jaw tightened. A massive shape—no, a shark, gliding effortlessly through what should have been air.
"Bhenc—"
"Você está acordado, Red."
("You are awake, Red?")
Rudra spun, eyes narrowing at the source. A figure leaned casually against a support beam: a black woman, her long, curly hair catching the faint fluorescent light. She wore mechanic overalls rolled to reveal a midriff, thighs and hips accentuated by the snug fit, lips full and expressive, eyes a piercing emerald that made him momentarily forget to breathe. He shook himself, regaining composure.
"Who the fuck are you?" His voice was sharp, hostile.
"I'm Madison."
"Madison?" Rudra's brow furrowed. "That's a white girl's name." Suspicion dripped from every syllable.
"Since when do races own names?" She replied, tone lightly offended, the edge of a smirk forming.
"Lady," Rudra countered, voice low, "if someone tells you their name is 'Rudra,' you wouldn't exactly picture some white-blonde-haired, blue-eyed mutt, would you?"
Rudra's eyes narrowed as he took her in again, a mixture of curiosity and caution sharpening his senses.
"Jesus, why is your tongue not bandaged?" she snapped, irritation lacing her voice as she gestured vaguely at his mouth, clearly annoyed at his snide remark.
Her accent registered immediately—smooth, lilting, rolling certain syllables in a way only someone from Brazil might speak. Afro-Brazilian, he deduced, cataloguing it in the mental files of observing people, accents, gestures. His mind ticked through patterns: phrasing, intonation, subtle shifts in pitch. Yes… definitely Brazilian, probably Afro-Brazilian…
Rudra tilted his head, suspicion and curiosity warring in his expression. "What's your last name?" he asked, careful, testing the waters.
"Da Silva," she said simply, a casual shrug accompanying the words.
Rudra blinked, a chill running down his spine. Shit…
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Do… you know someone named Hermano Da Silva? The lead mechanic for the Mother Ship Athena?"
Madison froze for a moment, her hands tightening subtly.
"Amigo," she said finally, a flicker of hesitation in her tone. "…Okay, yes. That was my uncle."
Rudra's eyes narrowed, the pieces clicking together. "Alright. Then tell me—where am I?"
"You're on the Mother Ship Hercules," she said, voice calm, almost indifferent, though her eyes flicked to him with a cautious edge.
"The fuck do you even—" Rudra began, but his words caught in his throat as the door opened.
A figure entered with sharp precision: military haircut, red sideburns, and an eyepatch covering his right eye. Every movement radiated authority.
"Captain," the man announced, his tone clipped, measured. "Captain Pluto Jews."
Rudra raised an eyebrow, mimicking the tone with a smirk. "Jupiter Hindus… and seriously, who even introduces themselves like that?"
The man's expression didn't change. He stepped forward, voice steady and commanding.
"I am Captain Pluto Jews," he repeated, slower this time, emphasizing each word as if testing whether Rudra had actually registered it. "Affiliated with the Hercules Command. You will address me properly."
"Phantom Flame" he called him as Rudra stiffened