The light blue takes my breath away.

  Thousand thoughts float around me, as if they are woven intot the grass beneath me, carried by a soft blowing breeze.

  I was here, all of me, and the sky was infinitely barren. Surprising.

  Last time my eyes soaked in the horizon it was burning in shades of orange, plagued with airplanes, with hallways echoing machine guns.

  Slowly, I run my fingers over my chest. Remaints of ache had nested themselves, but there was curiosly no blood.

  The last thing I remember was getting shot. The ghosts of heat still linger where the bullet hole should be, but feel curiosly fine.

  I sit up carefully, letting my hands dig into the emerald grass beaneath me. Soreness spreads through me, but soreness is better than whatever I had felt just minutes before.

  It comes crushing back at me, the raid on our base, the smell of smoke. Last thing I remember is dying. I am a dead man.

  This must be an afterlife, not that I ever believed in such an occurance.

  The hill I found myself on was too peacefull to be hell. Too plain to be heaven.

  Another deep breath, just to clear my mind.

  This might be a hallucintaion, it strikes me. It feels too real, the grass beaneath me, still bathed in dew, the fresh air carrying the usual autumn chill.

  I look down at myself. I'm still in my uniform, to some extent. My cargo pants are too clean though, and I don't have my jacket on. Instead, I'm wearing a plain white t-shirt, maimed by the green of the grass that comes off in just one swipe.

  And all I can think about is how strangely sterile it all seems, how weird it is to be clean. I could never keep my t-shirts this white, they were forever riddled with dust, the char that comes with being in the military.

  I look at my right arm. The giant pink scar spreads across my underarm. I find it comforting, that it's still there, still pulsing. I run my fingers across it, letting the numbness trickle down my skin. Amongst all the confusion, this wound is the testament of my reality, the only proof that I am Rory Mulligan.

  I take my shrit off, careful not to trigger any bleeding. If my scar is still there, the bullet wound might be as well. But my chest are smooth and clear of any wounds. I press the place I was shot at, just to make sure. Nothing.

  I close my eyes in an attempt to make sense of things.

  I've never given much thought to what happens to us after we die, I am 18, and even though I was a soldier, I expected myslef to live significantly longer.

  Thinking of it, shouldn't there be some sort of a God, a devil at least, some sort of being that would take my hand and ease me into this? At the very last, shouldn't have I ended up in front of some sort of the gate, where I would take my first step into an afterlife? I would even take a darkened tunnel with no lights at the end.

  Instead, I end up on the emptiest hill on earth. If this even is earth.

  Still, I could just be imaginimg things.

  There's not much around me other than grass. Few feet further, some oak trees are towering over the plains. A single bird, strange looking swallow is hopping around, searching the grass. I squint my eyes, looking at it more carefully. It's definitely a swallow, but the feathers around its face are unnaturally scarlet, and the bird's back is deep indigo. The strange bird looks back at me, only to flap its wings and soar onto the nearest branch.

  Hallucination. This is certainly all just hallucination.

  Standing up, I put my shirt back on. It's a wast open space I have found myself on, but a better look around myslef makes it clear that there is a settlment down the hill. North, I think, or at least it should be to the north, judging by the moss on one of the trees. Maybe in my hallucination the world doesn't work like it usually does.

  Spinning around myslef, I think what the best course of action is. How best to survive. 20 minutes of walking should get me to the town, but was that really a smart thing to do? I might get captured.

  Another deep breath.

  From the distance, the town seemed small, nesteled, enveloped in sense of peace. There weren't any tanks or airplanes that I could see, no military bases, but that could all be misleading. The streets and the houses didn't seem war-torn, from afar at least.

  I still couldn't decide if I created this world in my head, in shock of dying, or if I have found myself here by some other means, but the place seemed peaceful.

  Behind me, to the other side of where the town was, the row of mountains rose into the air. That was a no go, surving alone in the mountains was tough, especially when I had no idea where I was.

  Anywhere else, the plains seemed to stretch into forever.

  With a sigh, I decided to seal my fate, taking a first step towards the town.

  Even if it's enemy territory, I still stood a better chance there. Not that I was fully uniformed, my cargo pants could easily pass for civilian clothes. With that in my mind, I reluctantly made my way towards this quiet-looking place.

  Dragging my feet across the grass, I tried to figure out where I was. One thing that was clear, I wasn't back in the base. It was located near a much larger citiy, and there were no small towns nearby.

  I looked carefully for any other strange birds, but none crossed my path. Had I gotten a better look at it, I might've been able to make a guess on where I was. One thing I knew for sure, a birds like that swallow didn't exist in my country. Even if they did, that was certainly a swallow. It was September, and they would have migrated to the south by now. At the very least, I was in a different continent, somewhere in the southern hemisphere.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  That is, if this place was real at all.

  It had seemed far fetched. I was bleedimg out in a hallway of my military base just moments ago. There was no way I could just magically appear on a different continent.

  The air was sharp as I breathed in, tearing at my lungs. Still, it was a nice change of pace from the smell of gunpowder and gasoline that ruled back in the base.

  A single thought pulsed in the back of my head. This small town looked peaceful, maybe they weren't the enemy, maybe war didn't exist in this place.

  Just a thought of having a day barren of morning practice and listening to the war news at the evening made me feel excited, in a nauseous way.

  Near the edge of the town, my steps become firmer. Once I step onto the streets, there will be no going back. I should at least look like someone who belongs. That way, my chances of survival increase.

  As the first houses inch closer to me, I develop a plan. Food and water are the first thing that I should look for. Shelter is next.

  I almost go and knock on a few doors. Red bricked houses, with neatly groomed front porches feel inviting, peaceful. I can almost imagine a smell of freshly baked cookies that oozes from inside of them. People behind these homes must be nice, somone could help me out, at least tell me where I am. But the flowers lining the porches look strange, like nothing I've seen before, with petals too white, too perfect, and I know better than to trust in illusions.

  I just keep walking, soaking up my surroundings, looking for the places where the peace cracks. And it must crack somewhere. Peace is a fragile thing, after all.

  In the end, these houses all look similar, and I remember what the phrase 'small town idle' means. The sense of unshakable tranquility, stemming from the beautifully mundane everyday life, one that simply does not exist in the midst of a war.

  It's a sort of ordinary life that I know only in glimpses, memories that have been reduced to ashes long ago.

  My hometown used to look like this. 6 years ago.

  Traversing the city, I pass by a few people, but I keep my gaze locked forwards. Looking alianated could get me into trouble, and although getting some help would go a long way, I can't be certain that these people would help. They all look so clean, oridnary, unmaimed by anything, but I can't bring myself to stop anyone. You never know what lies beneath the surface.

  Thankfully, I can go on without getting any help.

  That's what I think at first, at least. It takes me approximately an hour of wandering around the streets until I find my confidence to be misguided.

  At first I looked for the signs that would tell me the names of these streets, but there were none. I concluded that they simply didn't exist. There was nothing else that could even vaguely suggest where I am, no landmarks I could recognise, no cars so I could look at to see the license plates.

  I was utterly lost. More and more, I started to believe that I might not be alive, that this place was created by my mind in a desparate attempt to escape the pain of death.

  This might be just me, spending the last seconds of my life in a self-created illusion. It could all stop existing within seconds, when I take my last breath, and it would all go black. After that, I'll find myself in front of the gates of heaven, or hell, or in an infite void.

  Or I simply stop existing, and that's it.

  But it feels way too real, my soreness feels too real, the scar on my hand feels as if it could come alive, so how could I not be?

  Disorientated, I arrive at a small park of sorts. A few sturdy benches lined across the walking path stand in shade of a row of pine trees. Nothing to write home about, but one place where I can sit down without looking too suspicious. Making my way down the hill, and traversing the town, my legs have started to go numb. Hunger's strated to nest in my stomach as well.

  There's a small crowd of plain looking people. I pass them, doing my best to look as if I belong, instintively hiding away my right arm so they don't see my scar. That might arise suspicion. I near the first empty bench, feeling a relief that I am about to sit down and get some rest.

  In a mixing daze of tiredness and hunger, I step forwards, when a sharp bark makes me jump back, coming back to my senses in an instant.

  Beneath the bench, a pair of tiny black eyes stares at me, with what I would definitely describe as hostility.

  Instictively, I take two sharp steps back, realising I have no clue what the thing that's barking at me is.

  The creature steps towards me, its body lowered to the ground. I know it could jump up at me at any moment, but all I can think about is how strange it looks.

  The dark brown fur around its eyes looks like mask, making the creature seem like a racoon. However, the rest of it doesn't resemble a racoon at all. It stands on four legs, all of them very cat-like. The rest of its body is covered in fur, in a mix of light and dark brown that create a zig-zag pattern. Its tail, that's standing upwards right now, looks like a overused broom and is riddled with a similar streaking pattern.

  The thing takes another step towards me, barring its teeth at me. They look sharp.

  The initial shock passes quickly, though.

  I was surprised that this thing appeared, I have no idea what it is, but I know one thing. I am a soldier, and this strange racoon was much smaller than me. It could hiss at me and show its teeth, but it stood no chance.

  My hand jolts towards my waist, only for me to remember I don't have my gun on me. Right, I forgot about that.

  Still, I could take this weird animal bare-handed, no issues.

  As I gather my courage, and step towards the creature to assert dominance, a touch on my shoulder makes me jump up again, turning around immediately.

  The girl behind me jolts back almost instantly, a jolt of fear spreading across her face as I swipe her hand away.

  I haven't heard her approach me, she must be a trained spy or something.

  "Hey, that was rude", she screeches at me, bringing her hands to her hips, "what's the deal with you".

  I take another step back, making sure to keep both the strange racoon and a strange girl in my sight. Taking a quick look over my shoulder, I note that there's an escape route behind me.

  The racoon, I can definitely fight off. The girl, I'm not sure about. She looks frail, but spies do rely on deception. I could definitely outrun her if necessary.

  "Hey, at least say you're sorry", her voice high-pitched and sweet.

  "You sneaked up on me", I make my voice as even as possible. I don't want her, or the racoon to think I'm scared. My body's tensed up though, and I'm ready to attempt escape at any given moment.

  "I didn't sneak up on you", she crosses her arms. Her eyes dart over to the racoon: "I just wanted to see if you need some help dealing with your friend over here".

  "This racoon is not my friend", I say, cautiously taking another step back. I have no idea what she's playing at.

  She squints her eyes at me, as her mouth hang open. "Uh, are you alright", she takes a step towards me, her hand flying towards my head.

  I instinctively shove it away, the unease in my stomach growing by a second.

  She doesn't counter, and I don't run.

  "What's wrong with you", her voice comes out high pitched, as she jolts her hand back, "are you delirious or something?".

  "What do you want from me?", I scoff, tired of this charade, "what are you attempting here?".

  "I am attempting to see if you are alright", she says, as her brows fur, "and you are being very rude".

  "Why would you assume I am not alright?", I take another step back.

  "Uh, you're acting very strangely, and you just called this Zigzagoon a racoon", she raises her eyebrow at me questioningly, "what even is a racoon?".

  "That", I point to the creature that was now staring between the two of us in utter confusion, "that is a very strange racoon".

  "That is clearly a Zigzagoon", the girl throws her head up, "really, did you hit your head or something?".

  "Don't talk nonsense", I scoff, not able to hide my raging nerves any longer, "what even is a Zigzagoon?".

  "A pokemon", she says as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "This pokemon here is Zigzagoon, and you, you must be sick or something, since you're making up words".

  "A pokemon?", I straighten myself, ignoring her last remark. Nearly thousand thoughts run across my mind, all of them lacking sanity.

  "Yeah, a pokemon, you know what a pokemon is", she sighs.

  "You're telling me that this thing is a pokemon", I point at the racoon accusingly, not being able to take it seriously.

  "Yes, yes it is", she says.

  She stares me down as I grab my stomach and burst out laughing.