The last thing Adav remembered was the sharp, metallic tang of his own blood and the blinding, violent kiss of concrete. One moment, the vibrant chaos of a Tokyo construction site, the hum of drones overhead, the crisp, cool air against his face as he leaned out, admiring the soaring skeletal structure of his latest masterpiece. The next, a blinding flash, a deafening screech, and the sickening plummet as a rogue gantry crane, its hydraulics failing, swept him off the scaffolding like an errant dust mota. He'd seen the street rushing up, a mosaic of ant-sized people and impossibly tall buildings, before everything went dark.
Now, there was light. Not the crisp, artificial brilliance of Tokyo, but a soft, buttery glow filtering through a patterned cloth. And a smell. Overpowering, cloying, yet strangely comforting. Ghee. Always ghee. He blinked, slowly, his eyelids heavy, gritty. The world swam into focus, distorted, too large. A low, carved wooden ceiling, stained dark with age and smoke. Muted colors on the walls, fabrics he didn't recognize. And sounds. The distant clatter of what sounded like metal pots, the murmur of voices speaking a language he understood, yet spoken with an unfamiliar cadence.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prick at him. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't anything he knew. He tried to move, to sit up, but his limbs felt impossibly small, uncoordinated. His hands, when he finally forced them into his line of sight, were tiny, soft, unblemished. A child's hands. He tried to speak, to call out, but only a gurgling whimper escaped his throat.
Then came the flashes. Not memories, not yet. More like data bursts, fragmented and violent. The sleek, chrome-and-glass lines of a 2047 Tokyo skyline, impossibly tall, reaching for the stars. The gentle curve of his Spanish girlfriend's smile, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. A complex architectural schematic, lines of light forming a pulsating 3D model of a self-sustaining eco-city. And then, the sickening lurch of the gantry, the wind rushing past his ears, the inevitable, final impact.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of the dizzying, illogical torrent. Had he survived? Was this some elaborate coma-dream? But the sensations were too real, the discomfort in his tiny bladder too pressing, the persistent smell of ghee too pervasive. He opened his eyes again. A woman, her face kind and weathered, with a dark, thick braid, leaned over him, her brow furrowed with concern. She spoke, words spilling out in a rapid-fire flow of Marathi, her voice soft, melodious.
"Bal, are you alright? You have been sleeping so long. Are you hungry?"
He stared at her, uncomprehending, yet understanding. Bal? That wasn't his name. Hunger, though, was a universal language. He gave a small, involuntary nod. As he did, a strange phenomenon occurred. In the periphery of his vision, a faint, translucent outline shimmered. A grid, almost. And then, a single word, glowing softly, overlaid on his visual field, like a phantom watermark:
[CODEX: INITIALIZING]
The world, already topsy-turvy, spun faster.