Intense beams of light appeared before me intermittently. I don't know how long they'd been there. To me, it felt like at least fifteen minutes or more. I'm not sure exactly. I don't seem to be tracking time very well. The light refracting into my eyes cast these shimmering crystalline streaks, and I could see every color. Literally every single one.
As they appeared and disappeared, they made this light, high-pitched sound—a soft "tin" that echoed gently in my ears. An almost angelic vibration, as if I were being cradled. I know it doesn't make sense. It doesn't to me either. Just like this place doesn't make sense. Where am I? I can't even bring myself to think about it. Everything is so... calm. Has it always been this calm? Have I ever been this calm? No... I mean, I don't know.
Why am I here? What happened before? How did I get here?
I don't remember anything... and yet it all feels familiar. It's strange to say... but I feel at home here. I can hear Naomi's sweet, awkward laugh when she bursts out giggling at the dumbest things. I can smell Mom's cooking—she's an incredible cook. She knows how to use everything in the kitchen; I learned from her. I can smell all my favorite dishes... all at once. I feel relaxed. It's soft here. Really soft. I don't remember my bed being this soft.
I feel warm... oh right. I'm under the covers. Of course. I hadn't even thought about it. The door creaks open. Someone steps in. Ah, there you are... you haven't aged a day. You still have the same messy hair, the same black glasses with that faint scratch on the left lens, the same blue striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight to your elbows, the collar buttoned. The same smile—goofy, proud—like someone deeply proud of who you are. The look of someone watching you grow up, someone who knows you better than anyone else. Someone who, no matter what, will always stand by your side and watch over you. Forever.
Goodnight, Dad. Sleep well...
Wait... Dad?
***
Victor jolted awake. He started gasping for air; his breaths were heavy, and even heavier was the face mask he was wearing, pressing down on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, causing discomfort and a dull ache the moment he woke. After a second, he forced himself to calm down. He began breathing more slowly, inhaling the faintly fragrant air pumped through the device. It smelled familiar, but he couldn't place where from—or when.
"He's awake!"
Victor heard a male voice. It was muffled, distorted by a faint ringing in his ears, but familiar.
His vision was still hazy, blurred. The only thing he could clearly make out were crystalline beams of light created by the lamp hanging directly above him, shining straight into his eyes and producing a faint but irritating "zzz."
He slowly turned to his right, trembling slightly from the friction against the hard, flat pillow and from the weight of the mask dragging along with him. He saw a silhouette. A young man. He looked familiar.
As his vision gradually cleared, Victor began noticing more details: ash-blond hair, messy and falling forward, a slightly squared jaw. Then more—the lighter tips of his hair under the light, the short sides suggesting a not-so-recent shave, a short, pointed beard, brown eyes beneath heavy dark circles, thin eyebrows.
Finally, Victor recognized his friend.
"Dun... can..." Victor said weakly, his voice muffled by the mask, metallic in tone. He tried to push himself upright, struggling, first bracing on his elbows and then on his hands to lift himself.
"What... happened?"
"You tell me... you were messed up bad," Duncan replied.
Victor glanced toward the glass panel to his left, dirty and dusty—especially along the edges and bottom corners—overlooking a dimly lit hallway. In its dull reflection, he caught sight of the wounds along his collarbone and face.
His body, completely naked except for a simple pair of black boxer briefs, was covered in scratches and bruises, wrapped in tight bandages stained with dried blood and dull yellow pus.
Victor's senses continued returning. He could feel the sting of disinfectant and the pull of stitches in the healed deeper cuts. He lowered his gaze, turning toward the wall across from the bed. Slowly, he ran his left hand through his hair—clean, freshly washed—scratching lightly before resting it back on the mattress.
"How long?" he asked, his voice stronger now, though still metallic through the mask.
"Three days," Duncan replied. "Three full days... you were in rough shape, Vic."
Victor looked at him faintly. His expression was blank—emptier than it had ever been. Cold. Lifeless.
"Where are we?"
"Borromini Military Base, Bologna."
Another familiar voice—robotic, authoritative. The metallic creaking and mechanical hum of movement confirmed it. "Welcome back, Hackett."
"Lieutenant Abner..." Victor tried to swing his legs off the bed to stand, but the effort proved too painful and exhausting. "Ah..."
"Easy, son," the lieutenant ordered. "You're not in condition yet."
Victor froze, staring at the floor. His eyes grew glossy; his head began to spin. He trembled, small muffled spasms shaking his lips. "Mgh... mgh." The spasms intensified, a burning tightness rising in his throat.
"Here, soldier," the lieutenant said, handing him a beige plastic bucket. "Get it out."
Victor tore off the mask with some effort. It slipped from his hand and fell partly onto the floor and the side of the bed, staining the blanket. He vomited violently into the bucket, harsh retches and heavy coughs wracking his body. Four—maybe five times in a row. The first three without pause, the last two seconds apart. Duncan and the lieutenant handed him tissues. When Victor finally looked up, his mouth was messy, his eyes red and watering. He took two shaky breaths through his nose, away from the bucket.
They waited in silence until he finished.
"Done, son?" Abner asked.
"Yes, sir..." Victor replied, catching his breath, swallowing, wiping his mouth before tossing the tissues into the trash can and setting it down himself despite the lieutenant offering to do it.
"Ah, he's awake." A young female voice. It wasn't the usual soft, gentle little voice. The girl, wearing a light blue tunic over the standard black camouflage uniform of the U.S. Army, stained near the hem with faint marks, had a slightly low tone. It conveyed confidence to Victor, who found himself captivated by her emerald-green eyes, reflecting just like the gemstone itself, holding a gaze that was both sweet and daring, in sharp contrast with her delicate features and skin that lay somewhere between snow-white and olive. Small, bright red skin irritations dotted her face, especially along her right cheek, where a short line of about three tiny bumps sat just above the cheekbone. She couldn't have been more than twenty-four.
"Doctor Skylar," the lieutenant greeted.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Abner. Is the boy doing well?"
The doctor stepped toward Victor, taking the stool positioned beside the bed and dragging it across the floor, making it scrape against the polished surface before placing it in front of him. She sat down neatly, both feet planted on the floor instead of the footrest. She gently lifted his chin and, with a small blue LED flashlight taken from the left pocket of her tunic, checked his pupils to see whether they reacted properly to stimuli.
"Say 'ah,'" she instructed, prompting Victor to open his mouth so she could examine his throat and tonsils for redness or damage, pressing a transparent plastic tongue depressor against his tongue for a better look, also taken from her pocket.
"Okay... tonsils look fine," she murmured in a low voice, almost whispering, focused on what she was doing.
After setting the tongue depressor down on a small metal tray on the nightstand near the foot of the bed, she continued with a series of medical checks to ensure the boy's condition was stable: she listened to his breathing, placing the cold stethoscope against his back and moving it across different spots to detect any irregularities; she did the same with his heart and, after careful examination, found nothing unusual. Finally, she retrieved a blood pressure cuff—slightly dirty and faded, once probably milk-white but now yellowish and dusty enough that she blew lightly on it before using it.
"All done!" the girl said afterward, her tone a bit lighter and more informal, offering a small smile as she looked at Victor. He, however, still seemed annoyed and far from fully recovered, which showed in his vacant stare and prolonged silence.
"He'll need a day or so to recover completely, but he's fine," she concluded. "If he wants to walk around and has trouble doing so, just ask for a pair of crutches, though I'd still recommend some assistance," she added, returning to her usual formal and polite tone as she addressed the lieutenant.
"Thank you, Doctor," the lieutenant replied.
"For the People and the American Nation, sir!" she answered, giving him a crisp military salute before leaving the room—though not before casting one last glance at Victor, looking him straight in the eyes with a spontaneous little smile. He returned it, though his own smile was somewhat forced, difficult to manage given his physical state.