Wind.
Howling wind, and rain—cold, dense, lashing his face like iron pellets.
Leo's eyes snapped open.
He was not in his office.
He was in the air.
Inside a wildly swaying wicker basket, rough ropes cutting into his palms with real pain. The salty scent of seawater mixed with the metallic tang of rain filled his nostrils. He looked down and saw himself wearing an unfamiliar linen shirt, covered by a worn leather vest. The fabric was coarse and prickly, soaked through and heavy as armor.
*Wait—I've been here before.* The thought came unbidden, like remembering a dream he hadn't realized he'd dreamt. He'd felt this wind, this cold, this wet. He'd held these ropes, seen this basket. *When? How?*
For a moment—just a moment—he could almost remember a different version of this moment. The same scene, but different. He and these people, but not quite the same. The storm was there, but the details were wrong. The wind was blowing from the wrong direction. The waves were higher, or lower, or the wrong color. The feeling of déjà vu was so strong it made his head spin.
Beyond the basket was a scene from hell.
A grey-green ocean churned below, waves arching like the backs of great beasts before shattering. Storm clouds rolled so low they almost scraped the sea. Thunder growled deep within the layers. The entire hot air balloon bucked violently in the tempest, a toy clutched by an invisible hand.
At the edge of his vision, translucent, pale blue characters abruptly materialized, styled with familiar game UI aesthetics:
'''
[Warning: Location Anomaly]
[Timestamp: March 15, 1865, 14:37]
[Geolocation: North Pacific, Unknown Region]
[Warning: Core System Integrity 76%]
[Available Modules: Environmental Scan (Basic), Basic Material Analysis, Simple Tech Tree (Locked)]
[Alert: Reality Layer Detection: Multiple instances identified]
[Warning: Boundary integrity: Compromised]
'''
Then—flicker.
The interface shuddered, as if struggling to maintain its form. For a heartbeat, the text became unreadable, corrupted by static. Then it stabilized, only to flicker again, the characters blurring into incomprehensible shapes before snapping back into focus.
system? from "Origin"?
1865?
The absurd number echoed in his mind. Leo shook his head instinctively, sending a spray of icy droplets flying. This was a dream, a hallucination from extreme fatigue, or a final memory reel before death—
"Hold on! Damn squall's back!" A gruff male voice roared in English, with an accent he didn't recognize, hard and unfamiliar.
Not a hallucination. The voice was too real, cutting through the wind and rain, grating against his eardrums.
Leo mechanically tightened his grip on the wet, slippery basket rim. His brain began the arduous task of processing information: he wasn't alone in the basket.
Four others. Five, including himself.
Closest to him was a man around forty, wearing a dark blue coat soaked through by rain but still retaining the outline of a uniform. He was desperately hauling on a massive sheet of leaking silk—the balloon's wreckage, flapping in the wind like a dying wing. The man had a short, stiff beard, and his eyes, even in this extremity, held the tempered steel of a military man.
For a moment—just a moment—Leo saw something else overlaying the man's face. Another face, familiar somehow. He'd seen this man before, or someone like him. The memory was just out of reach, flickering at the edge of consciousness like a word on the tip of his tongue. Then it was gone, and he was just a stranger in a uniform.
Next to him was a younger man, early twenties, pale-faced but with eyes sharp as a hawk's behind his spectacles. He clutched a leather-wrapped square box, his knuckles white with force.
Crouching in a corner was a Black man, silent as a mountain. His build was powerful, muscular arms braced against the swaying basket wall, using his whole body to stabilize the fragile vessel. His face was expressionless, only rainwater dripping from his taut jawline.
And a boy, thirteen or fourteen, his wet blonde hair plastered to his forehead, lips blue with cold. Fear was etched on his face, but he gritted his teeth, helping the soldier pull on a slipping rope.
"You're the last to wake, stranger," the young man with the box suddenly turned to Leo, his English carrying a distinct Eastern elite accent. "Name? Station? Before we all feed the fishes, at least let me know who I'm dying with."
Leo opened his mouth. His throat was dry and tight. He tried twice before a rasp emerged. What should he say? Silicon Valley systems architect? Lead designer of Origin? A ghost from the future who died from overwork?
'''
[Language Module Missing... Loading...]
[Load Failed. Employing Basic Translation Protocol.]
'''
A sharp pain stabbed through his mind, as if fine needles pricked his nerves. Unfamiliar vocabulary, grammar, pronunciation forced their way in, overwriting his native language like a virus. He heard himself speak in stiff, odd, yet comprehensible English:
"Leo Chen. Scholar."
"Scholar?" The soldier turned his head, rain dripping from his brow. "In this devil's weather, scholars should be in first-class cabins on Atlantic liners, sipping brandy and debating Mr. Darwin's new book. What are you doing on this damned meteorological observation balloon bound for San Francisco but blown to the middle of the Pacific?"
Meteorological observation balloon. 1865. San Francisco.
Pieces began to fit. The box's edge revealed a brass dial and glass window—early weather instruments? Photographic equipment?
"No time for interrogations, Hardin!" the young man suddenly shouted, pointing left ahead. "See that? God finally grants a favor! Land!"
Through a tear in the storm's veil, Leo saw it.
Not a gentle coastline. Jagged black cliffs thrust from the sea like fangs of a great beast, waves smashing into white foam at their base. And they—this shattered balloon, this swaying basket—were being carried inexorably by the gale toward that rock wall.
Leo's mind raced, fragments of his former life—his real life—still clinging to consciousness. Systems architect. Virtual reality game designer. Office with monitors. The system error message: Reality Version Incompatible. Forcing Reboot—
Was this the reboot?
The thought sent a shock through him that had nothing to do with the cold rain. If this was a reboot, then what was this place? A new server? A different instance? Or something else entirely?
The balloon lurched violently, throwing Leo against the basket wall. His head struck the rough wicker, dazing him for a moment. When his vision cleared, the blue interface was back, flashing frantically:
'''
[Warning: System unstable]
[Impact imminent]
[Data incomplete...]
'''
Leo stared at the flickering blue text. Here, in this storm, on a crumbling balloon, the system was still with him—but now it was fragmented, unreliable. The numbers that had once guided his work were gone, replaced by vague warnings.
"Abandon basket!" the soldier—Hardin—was roaring now, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Grab the main cables! Brace for impact—"
The words triggered something in Leo's mind. Survival protocol. Emergency response. He'd written code for exactly this scenario—virtual avatars in freefall, calculating optimal trajectories for minimal impact. The code was elegant, efficient, mathematically perfect.
But here, in this reality—whatever it was—there were no avatars. There were bodies, fragile and mortal. There were lives at stake.
The interface flashed one last time:
'''
[Impact imminent...]
[System overloading...]
'''
Leo looked at the others. Hardin was already braced against the basket wall, his face set in grim determination. The young man with the box—Smith, he'd said—was clutching his instruments with desperate care. Thomas, the Black sailor, had positioned himself between Isaac and the side of the basket, his body a shield against the coming impact.
Isaac—the boy. Isaac's eyes were wide with terror, but he was holding onto Thomas's arm, trusting the man completely.
The basket lurched again, the sound of ropes snapping sharp as gunshots. Leo grabbed a cable, his fingers numb from cold. The interface flashed:
'''
[Critical failure imminent]
[System overloading...]
'''
"Look at me!" Leo found himself shouting, his voice cutting through the wind and rain. "When we hit the water, don't panic! Stay together! Watch out for each other!"
The others turned to him—Hardin, Smith, Thomas, Isaac—for the first time since he'd awakened. And in that moment, Leo saw something in their eyes. Fear, yes. But also... hope? Trust? A recognition that this stranger, this "scholar" who'd woken up confused and disoriented, was offering something they desperately needed.
Leadership.
Not military leadership—Hardin had that. Not intellectual leadership—Smith had that. Not physical leadership—Thomas had that. But something else. A different kind of authority, born of calmness in chaos, of clarity in confusion, of purpose in purposelessness.
The basket lurched one final time, a sickening crack echoing through the storm as the last of the main support cables snapped.
"Brace—" Hardin's roar was cut short as the basket began to fall.
Leo grabbed Isaac, pulling the boy close to his chest. He wrapped his arms around him, making himself a shield, a living cushion against the impact. The interface flashed one last time:
'''
[Impact in: 3... 2... 1...]
'''
Then came the darkness, and the cold, and the chaos.