The meager meal Silas produced was a far cry from his gruff demeanor. It consisted of dried, leathery strips of some unidentifiable meat and a thick, gritty paste that tasted vaguely of ash and desperation. But to Hart and the others, huddled on the floor of the small, shielded house, it was ambrosia.
Hunger gnawed at them, a constant reminder of their precarious existence. They ate in near silence, the only sounds the rhythmic chewing and the distant, muffled roars of the creatures still battering against the energy shield. Once the edge of their hunger was dulled, Silas leaned back against the wall, his goggles pushed back onto his forehead, his gaze sharp and assessing.
"Alright, 'Hart.' Spill it. What's got a bunch of glow-in-the-dark kids running around in my backyard?"
Hart looked at Mark and Lyran, a silent agreement passing between them. They had nothing to lose, and maybe Silas held the answers they desperately needed. He took a deep breath, the acrid air still clinging to the back of his throat.
"It started in my grandpa's basement," Hart began, the words feeling surreal even to his own ears. He recounted the discovery of the obsidian sphere, the sudden transition, the cold terror of the cryo-chamber, and the horrifying realization that he was in another body. He described the sterile halls of the Celestial Spire, the forced training, the bland food, and the chilling announcement that they were 'crop.'
As he spoke, Silas listened intently, his expression unreadable. He didn't interrupt, didn't scoff, just watched them with those wary, goggled eyes. Mark and Lyran added their own fragmented pieces to the story, their voices hushed with the lingering trauma. Lyran spoke of her world, a vibrant ecosystem of sentient plants, ripped away in an instant.
Mark described a gritty, industrial planet, the sky perpetually choked with smog, a stark contrast to the desolate beauty of Zatheria. Zephyr communicated through a series of soft whistles and gestures, conveying a sense of ancient sorrow and displacement.
Hart finished his tale, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "They sent us out there to die, Silas. To fight those things. We just want to go home. Back to our own worlds."
Silas was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the energy lamps. Then, he let out a long, weary sigh.
"Zatherians," he said, the word dripping with a mixture of disgust and resignation. "Figures, always meddling where they don't belong."
"You know about them?" Hart asked, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
Silas nodded, his gaze distant. "Know enough. This shield it's powered by a doorway, same as what probably brought you here. Not as stable, mind you. Flickers, shifts. But it keeps the riff-raff out." He gestured towards the howling horde outside. "A doorway?"
Hart's heart leaped. "Can it take us back? Can it take us home?"
Silas's expression turned grim. "Sometimes people come through. Disoriented, scared outta their minds. Don't know where they are, what's happened. If they're lucky, they stumble across me. If they're unlucky…" He trailed off, his gaze hardening. "If they're unlucky, the Zatherians find them first."
"They come here?" Lyran asked, her blue eyes wide with fear. Silas nodded. "Oh yeah. They got their little patrols. Flyin' contraptions, energy weapons. They're always on the lookout for fresh… recruits." He spat on the floor, the sound harsh in the small room. "Cannon fodder. That's all we are to them. A renewable resource to keep the monsters busy while they sit in their shiny towers."
The hope that had flickered within Hart died a swift and brutal death. So there was a way in, and presumably a way out, but it was controlled by the very beings who had thrown them into this nightmare.
"So they just grab people from other worlds and throw them out here?" Hart asked, his voice laced with disbelief and a rising fury.
"Pretty much," Silas confirmed, his voice flat. "Keeps the local wildlife occupied, you see. Less chance of them gettin' any bright ideas about payin' the Zatherians a visit."
Snark, his constant companion, resurfaced. "Charming. Real humanitarian of them."
Silas chuckled humorlessly. "Humanitarian? Kid, you're in the Deadlands. Ain't nothin' human left out here, 'cept maybe what's hidin' behind boarded-up windows and energy shields."
Mark, who had been silent until now, spoke up, his voice low and determined. "So the Zatherians use the doorways to bring people here, and then they use us to fight their battles."
"That's the gist of it," Silas said. "Clever bastards, in a twisted sort of way."
Hart's mind was racing. So they were pawns in some interdimensional game, sacrificed to keep the Zatherians safe. The injustice of it was a bitter pill to swallow. He thought of his grandpa, probably worried sick. He thought of his mom, wondering where he'd gone. He had to get back to them.
"Is there any way to control the doorway?" Hart asked, his gaze fixed on Silas. "The one that powers your shield?" Silas shook his head. "Not really. It's temperamental. Opens and closes when it feels like it. I can boost the energy flow to keep the shield up, but directin' where it goes? That's Zatherian tech, way beyond my pay grade."
Despair threatened to overwhelm Hart again, but he pushed it back. He wouldn't give up. Not yet.
"You said people sometimes come through," Lyran said, her voice hopeful. "Does anyone ever… go back?"
Silas's gaze softened slightly. "Heard whispers. Rumors of stable gateways, deeper in the mountains. Places the Zatherians guard heavily. Never seen anyone go back myself. Most folks who end up here well, they don't last long enough to even think about it." He gestured towards Mark's injured arm. "You lot are tougher than most I've seen, though. Got that… glow about ya. Makes you a target, but it also makes you resilient."
Resilient. Hart clung to the word. He had to be. For himself, for Mark, for Lyran, even for the silent Zephyr. They were all trapped in this nightmare, and the only way out might be to fight their way back.
"So what do we do?" Hart asked, looking at Silas, a sliver of trust beginning to form despite his initial skepticism. This man, with his gruff exterior and his knowledge of this hellish world, might be their only ally.
Silas shrugged, his gaze sweeping over their exhausted faces. "For tonight? You rest. You heal. Tomorrow, well, you gotta decide if you want to keep runnin' or if you want to start fightin' back." He looked directly at Hart, his eyes piercing. "The Deadlands ain't a place for the faint of heart, kid. You want to survive, you gotta be tougher than the monsters."
Hart met his gaze, a new resolve hardening within him. He didn't want to fight monsters. He wanted to go home. But Silas was right. To get home, he might have to become one. "We'll fight back," Hart said, the words firm and unwavering. He looked at Mark and Lyra, who nodded their agreement. Zephyr emitted a series of sharp, determined whistles.
Silas nodded slowly, a hint of respect in his wary eyes. "Alright then, 'Hart.' Looks like you just might have a chance after all. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, we talk about how to stay alive in this godforsaken place." The distant roars of the monsters seemed a little less menacing now, overshadowed by the fragile spark of defiance that had ignited within the small, shielded house in the heart of the Deadlands. The journey home was still a distant dream, but for the first time since landing in this alien body, Hart felt a flicker of hope that it might not be an impossible one.