The air was frosted, burning,
rough. It attempted to displace and distort him, attempted to weaken and shut
him down. It however, did no such thing. It was there to cause sleep, but it
was not working. It was actually awakening him. Loud, harsh hissing became
constant, with the backdraft of even colder air rushing across his body. It all
was disorienting, even behind closed eyes. There was no way he could stay
awake, even open his senses. Effectively useless was he, with no apparent
escape from this cycle of cold mixed with nothing.
There was an explainable reason for
why this began and would not end. It became abundantly clear that he was indeed
awake, without a chance to actually be awake. His senses did return, however in
a rush of hurtful plenty, bleeding into his very soul. With his eyes opening druggedly, the cold frosted over his eyes, but their own
warmth basked over the icy sheens and melted away the layers on his face. He
saw the glass, the permafrost, the jagged blisters, of pure cold, and even the
rushing-in air pockets, even further cold.
It was cryogenesis,
and he was exiting it. A folly of noise ensued as the canister shell incasing
him cracked open, beeps and still that bloody hissing. He shifted his muscles
uncontrollably, in what was either a movement from the machine, or a defrosting
motion from his body, that lurched his entire frame
forward, causing him to topple to the floor. His arms extended instinctively,
and his hands met the ground with shaking force. Still completely out of
element, he erected to a full stance, where his dizzying flurry of sensory
details eventually stopped his vision from spinning and allowed him the first
equilibrium he had been granted for many minutes.
However, sheer exhaustion from his unused yet somehow extremely spent muscles caused him to sag miserably, and allowed him no return to an erect stance for many seconds, in which he breathed heavily as he examined his shaking hands. He eventually returned standing, and would take a few steps forward before patting himself down.
He realized his uniform was still
intact, and ever fully distributed across his person. His steps began again,
quicker, more focused. He needed a mirror; a surface as such-
But he stopped. It was pitch black. He was in a dense cavern of sand and rock, and it
may very well have ended earlier where had begun. In fact, where were his
weapons? He returned in a short number of steps to the alien pod from which he
emerged, in which he extracted an M4A1, an M1911A1, and a number of combat
tools, all neatly tucked in a channel adjacent to him. His carbine sported a
light, and so he entered a mental state of concentration as he loaded his rifle
and turned his lighting on.
In this panel he saw his uniform, just as he was frozen in so very desperately; His
helmet, marred by explosives, still had his night light and headset in mount,
chinstrap in place. His shoulder and neck pads, also chewed on by a fragmenting
blast, remained seated in his collar, with a relatively untouched ballistic
vest and camouflage battle dress below. His various harnesses and straps for
his various gear also stayed put, and even his boots retained their polished
look. Most shocking was his watch, frozen mere minutes after his last battle.
However, in that very gear was a man, befuddled by what he saw. In this cave
before him, many years advanced he stood
He had no idea of what transpired, and somehow could not believe, nor fathom, nor want
to. Never would he fully. However, he maintained his warlike instinct, and
focused on the one goal of escape and survival
He had to get the hell out of there and figure himself out.