4338.204 · July 23, 2018 AD
Beneath an Alien Sun
A pen. A drop of blood. A smear of ink. These are the fragile threads that separate dream from truth. When Luke steps through the kaleidoscopic veil, he finds no city waiting, no welcome—only an endless expanse of ochre and silence stretching to every horizon. And as the desert's heat presses down upon him, as his body begins to fail, a voice older than worlds delivers a warning he cannot ignore.
The crossing is instantaneous. One moment Luke stands in his Tasmanian study; the next, an alien sun blazes overhead with merciless brilliance. There is no fanfare, no guide, no instruction—only the pen he tossed through moments before, lying in the dust like an afterthought of physics. Its plastic surface still bears his blood, stark crimson proof that this is no dream.
He presses it to his finger. Blue ink blooms against his skin. The laws of reality, it seems, have followed him here.
But wonder turns quickly to dread. The landscape is a canvas of brown and orange, dunes rising and falling in endless waves, the horizon bleeding into haze. No trees. No water. No sign of life. The silence is so absolute it becomes a presence, pressing against him from every direction.
When exhaustion finally claims him, when the desert swallows him whole, Luke wakes to find his only escape—the shimmering portal—still waiting. He staggers through. And there, in the safety of his study, Clivilius speaks directly into his soul: Billions of decisions are converging. Choose wisely.
The weight of worlds has settled upon his shoulders.
