I couldn't breathe.

  My world was smoke. Acrid, choking, smoke. Curling, whispering, smoke; it teased its way into my lungs, eyes, and nose. A shrill beeping serenaded my ears, but was getting quieter by the second. Distant yells and shouts of panic barely graced my notice before encompassing silence reigned. I tried to take a desperate gasp, a futile attempt to tease some measure of oxygen, of life, out of the dying air. My lungs burned, from lack of life or the scorching heat I didn't know. My skin felt like it was being broiled, the nerves on every point of my body were screaming in pain, of unbearable heat.

  I couldn't breathe.

  The scent of burning skin and hair was a noticeable difference from the pungent odor of smoke. Tears flowed from my eyes, snot from my nose, in a desperate attempt to purge the invading irritants and the scent got fainter by the second until, blissfully, all that remained was a caustic taste on the back of my tongue. My final sense, vision, faded away, and the black, billowing smog was the last thing I saw curling at the center of my eyes. Confusion and disorientation of how or why I was in this situation fled my mind as one final thought took my full focus.

  I couldn't breathe.

  I wake with a start, gasping like a man on the brink of drowning, or suffocating in this case. Blissful oxygen fills my system, a privilege which I had taken for granted until before this first breath. I feel reborn, as if that single gasp breathed life into my core. A pleasant warmth, unlike the heat that was in the nightmare, radiates from within me bringing back my senses. As they come back however, a discordant feeling creeps over me. My smell returns and is the first thing to clue me in. While I could now breathe again, the stench from the nightmare remains, but is muted; as if instead of the source being in the same room it was two doors down from me… still terrible, but bearable as compared to before. Another breath leads to a plethora of new information as hidden notes in the unfamiliar air are revealed. Tangy, sour, almost chemical, now mixed with the more familiar acrid, burnt scent.

  Touch comes creeping back into my brain, as if scared of what it had just experienced, and ready to flee at a moment's notice to prevent the previous level of torment. Warmth starts to fill my limbs, not the uncomfortable burning heat from before, but a welcoming temperature like laying under the sun or being curled in a cozy blanket on a cold winter day. Even the return of this warmth struggles to fight off the cold that follows soon after, creeping into my skin; the source being a combination of hard points and soft lumps that dig into my prone form.

  As the black smoke that clouds my vision curls away, it's replaced by a green smog alight with an eerie glow, not blinding, but still dense enough to impede my sight where it is thickest. I thought I just awoke from the nightmare of choking smoke, but looking around I am not sure if I even woke up at all. My room, and the gentle birdsong that normally roused me from slumber, if my alarm didn't take that privilege first, was nowhere to be found. Instead my eyes flick back and forth taking in a dirty alley. No, calling this place dirty is a disservice to the word. My room could've been construed as dirty, though I would have preferred ‘cluttered’. It was right at the point where I was getting fed up with the mess and would’ve gone on a manic deep cleaning episode until everything was spotless.

  No, even a manic cleaning episode wouldn't fix this alley. It was downright filthy. Unsanitary would be kind, as unidentified liquid sludge gooped from an exposed pipe in the wall above me. Turning my head reveals it was dripping into, nay onto, a drainage grate in the ground that is blocked and clogged by a mixture of... trash? rubbish? something hairy as well? I choose to not investigate the hairy something further. Either way the blockage leads to the sludge forming a meandering path over the drainage grate and down to what looked like one exit of the alley. Twisting on the ground further shows me the other side of the alley that leads deeper into darkness. Not the type of darkness brought about by-

  *choking black smoke, shrill beeping and faint exclamations from an unidentified source*

  -shaking my head dispels the unwanted imagery. The darkness was more of an inky oil that crept from shadows and crevices, not any other type of darkness. It was not sinister so much as secretive, those secrets that wouldn't be easily divulged. It seemed to creep and crawl, pushing back against green hued light in a fight for dominance, refusing to provide any clues to my situation.

  Another breath brings yet more clarity, more life into my system. Where am I? The last thing I remember was going to bed, excited for the weekend to come. My 25th birthday was early next week, and my friends and family were at my place to celebrate. My moms signature carrot cake, my younger brother's inability to get a halfway decent gift, my elder sister’s prying attempts to know more about my love life - while some parts were annoying I always looked forward to all of it. I was never one for making a big deal about my birthday, but an excuse for the family to get together was never a bad thing.

  I'm spiraling. My mind is still foggy but every breath of sour air pushes the clouds further back. Focusing more, every breath I take comes with a different.. flavor? I still remember in biology class the teacher telling us to take deep breaths of the unpleasant scent of dissected frog and our brains would get used to it and then filter it from our perception. That is not the case here. Every breath, either through my nose or mouth, brings a different subtone to keep it ‘fresh’ and ‘interesting’ to my brain, making each inhale distinctly unpleasant. The only constant note is the scent that I had gotten intimately familiar with, the acrid tang of smoke. The unique blend of smells seemed to coat the inside of my nostrils and play unwelcome guests to my tonsils.

  As I breathe out, rhythm slowly stabilizing, my breath fogs up in front of me. It is hypnotic in how it curls and dances with the green smog around me. Just like the smell that isn't one note, the smog is not homogenous either. It twists one way and another, buoyed along by unseen currents, my breath just one more thing added to the mix. One final shuddering gasp banishes the last dregs of murkiness from my mind. This has to be the most lucid dream I have ever experienced. Distractedly, my eyes are drawn to the shadows, insidious thoughts whispering from the smog, gently brushing against my ears as it dances to and fro.

  “What if this is true? What if that nightmare wasn't just a bad dream? If that is the case-”

  No, I quickly stomped those voices down, unable and unwilling to unpack just what that train of thought would lead to. To the answers and conclusions that would not, could not be true.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Focus. Deal with the here and now, worry later.” I used to think I could keep a level head in stressful situations, but the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears challenges that notion. I feel what could only be the warmth of adrenaline coursing through my body, sharpening my thoughts and senses. As unpleasant as the new assault that came with the latter heightening, it helps ground me in the here and now. In whatever dream, nay, nightmare I found myself in.

  Sitting upright, everything around me seems large. Larger than it should be. It all feels off in a slightly dissonant way that I did not register until now. Looking down at my hands reveals yet another point that this was, in fact, a nightmare. Unfamiliar, small, grimy hands looked back. Flexing my fingers reveals that they are my unfamiliar, small, grimy hands; so covered with dirt and grime that it almost hides the paler skin tone that isn't my own. With my vision lowered, I take in the rest of this foreign form. Equally filthy feet rest against the conglomeration of mud, stone, and metal that make up the street floor. I quickly tear my glance to further up my form as I don't want to further inspect what the mud mixture is composed of.

  Threadbare, roughspun fabric conceal the rest of my legs from my calves up. I wouldn't even call it clothing due to it looking more like a repurposed burlap sack that would only be fit as fuel in an incinerator. Further up, it looks like I had the good sense to match the ‘pants’ style with an equally as disparate ‘shirt’ made of the same material. More akin to a tank top than any other type of shirt, I notice crude stitching on the exterior that, with further investigation, reveals ‘hidden’ pockets sewn into the interior of the garment. Within the pockets I find an assortment of nick nacks and baubles.

  The only things of note are 2 copper coins and a nasty looking shiv. The coins have a hole cutout in the middle, similar to a yen coin, except the cutout was much larger; about 30% of the coin. Around the removed metal there was an embossing of a gear, looking between the two coins reveals some minor differences. Even outside the dings and dents that are present, the gears are not completely uniform, as if two different hands or machines made them. The shiv, and for the first time today that is an apt descriptor for something in my possession, looks to be a six inch piece of rebar ground to a point. The handle having something akin to caked on tar mixed with strips of a familiar fabric which gives a surprisingly sturdy grip that sits comfortably in hand. Worry creeps into me as I never handled a shiv or weapon before, unless I am counting the small knives used for whittling while sitting around a campfi-

  *pain, flash of searing heat, the unholy smell combination of burnt hair and broiling skin*

  I recoil from the memory, my heartbeat once again elevating and the warmth of adrenaline flooding my system. Shuddering, I tuck the well made shiv away within its pocket, noticing how it seems within easy reach of my dominant hand, and not difficult for the other to grab if needed.

  I am going to crash hard after this is over. My last life In reality I have a slow life, nothing requiring violence or the constant rush of adrenaline. I take in a deep, slow breath. If I did not have the recent experience of breathing in scorching, smoke filled fumes I would have surely broken down into a coughing fit as the unique, tangy taste of the air here feels like thousands of small needles digging into my throat and lungs. As it is, one shaky, almost wet, cough leaves my lips and the warm rush of adrenaline slowly leaves my system with the exhale.

  Looking around at the now, not unfamiliar, alley, I decide to humor this lucid nightmare and move about. I pick myself off the ground, and would have grimaced at the grime I seemed to be sitting in if not for that I seem to have made the pile of grime grimier instead of vice versa.

  “Pardon me” I mutter to the pile, giggling slightly at the absurdity of the situation.

  Dusting off my hands on my pants is an effort in futility, but regardless one after which I gingerly touch my face in spite of it being a factually bad idea. Youthful skin greets my touch, not scarred nor in the process of being broiled as it was in my dream. Hair and eyebrows are intact, but my hair feels longer than I normally keep it but not to the point where I could catch a glimpse of what color it is. Not that it would probably matter, as from what I feel it is caked with several layers of something that I am going to tell myself is just dirt and sebum. Looking at the skeletal silhouette of my arms in the dim alley I catch something that I didn't notice before.

  It's almost surprising that I missed the scars that work their way up my right arm, gentle warmth and phantom heat whispering across them as I notice them, as if they are murmuring hello. The heat flows to my chest, and lifting up my ‘shirt’ reveals the scars that lick their way across my gaunt chest, ending just before where my left pectoral would be if I had any muscle whatsoever. The scars are an angry purplish-maroon color, standing out against my pale skin even caked in grime as it is. Scrubbing at them with my left hand reveals a rough, leather like texture and a noticeable temperature increase as compared to the surrounding skin.

  *heat broiling skin, the scent of burning hair and flesh joining the melody of horrid smells*

  Dropping my shirt as if burned, I shake my head back and forth to chase away the phantasmal memories. I need to focus on the here and now. Tasks that seem unmanageable can be tackled once you break them down into little steps. First things first. I seem to be in a child's body, with burn scars from who knows wha-

  *smoke, fire, ash*

  - another, smaller head shake to disperse the half formed imagery.

  So I am in a child's body, two coins, a distressingly comfortable shiv, and no idea where I am. Or when I am for that matter, as while there are some things that remind me of the large cities I knew, other parts are still discordant from my memories of them. For one, the everpresent hum of cars and sirens are absent, instead replaced with hisses and whirs of unseen machinery. No concrete or asphalt is in sight. Instead amalgamations of wood, stone, and metal make up the walls around me. For another, no cities I knew of had this level of ever present pollution. The sheer casual amount of it, from the frolicing hues of gas that assault both the tongue and nose to the toxic sludge that could almost give one giardia from looking at it, is something that even the most desperate wouldn't suffer to be around in my previous life waking reality.

  Taking one last tangy breath, I decide I have learned all I can from this small slice of “paradise” and that leaving the alley can only be beneficial to my health. I walk to the better lit entrance, following, but avoiding stepping in, the sludge stream flowing the same way. What I see steals my chemical laced breath away. Arching pathways crisscross above me, buildings built into caves that dot the walls, with some stubbornly hanging from overhangs by what must be sheer spite alone. Spires of twisting steel have wires and beams connected to buildings and bridges on either side of the ravine like a haphazard spiderweb. The air between is lit with an aurora of green and grey hues. Stray, struggling rays of tinted light that make their way lower seem to sputter out and die, failing to pierce the veil to where I am. Even though I can’t see the true sky, be there one sun or three, or unfamiliar constellations and moons that would hint at something alien, I know. I mutter beneath my breath,

  “We’re not in Kansas anymore…”