The halls were white. The sheets were white. Even his god-damn sweats were white. It was so… pale. Especially when he compared it to the life he sees so vividly behind his lids. Bright colors and smiles, tropical birds and luscious fruits, magic and adventures, rich purples and gentle greens, bright reds and vivid blues, all the colors of his kingdom and his people. The things he loved.

"Sinbad? Are you still with me?" He looked at the woman who spoke to him. She was no one special, just a face he saw, and spoke to as he was ordered to. This room was beige. Beige carpet, beige couch, and the same white white walls. He frowned. He had long lost interest in speaking to these people. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me Sinbad." Talk. How was he supposed to talk.

"What do you want me to say? I tire of these games, I tell you something, and you tell me its not real. You tell me the people I once held as my household, and that I have seen in this world are coincidence."

"It's a common thing Sinbad, once the mind sees someone it never forgets them. You could have seen this 'Yamraiha' passing on the street, and your mind filtered her into your delusion, but your consciousness doesn't remember that time on the street, so seeing her now makes it feel like seeing her for the first time here." Sinbad groaned, letting his head fall back.

"I'm not delusional. I'm telling you. We tried to fix the world, to reboot it, and something changed but somehow I still remember how it was!"

"Sinbad, you are suffering from delusions. Specifically, ones of grandeur and persecution. You believe you were a God, and a King, in this other world, and that you are now being punished for mistakes you made in that world be being the only one who can remember it. Delusions of thinking you are God are quite common, but you have to understand they are delusions, it's not reality. You are not a God. You were not a God. You are and were not a King. You are just a person, living in the twenty-first century."

"You're never going to believe me."

"I'm sorry Sinbad, but you're the one that needs to believe me. There was no Sindria, or Kou empire, or Alma Torran. You are just suffering from a mental disorder, and I can help you, but you have to let me." Sinbad was silent then. He knew. He knew in his heart Sindria was real. Everything he did, good and bad, was real. All the people that died under his rule, and all those that flourished. Those he helped, and those he deprived. Were all real. All the lies he spun were real. It couldn't be a delusion. The friends and alliances he wove, the camaraderie he shared with his generals, was all real. He stood then, his laceless shoes slipping on his feet as he walked away. It was almost lunchtime. At least… at least he could see some of them again. He was sure they were all out there somewhere, and he hoped those that weren't trapped here were okay, were living the independent lives they couldn't have serving under him. He hoped Hinahoho had found Rurumu again. He saw the Imuchakk man on the street one day, as he was heading for coffee. He'd contained himself that time, just barely. Hinahoho was the first one he had seen in this strange world.

Sinbad thought back to the days when everything was normal, when he was just a kid in high school, a football jock and a mediocre student. It wasn't until he was eighteen and almost graduated that the dreams came, bringing the memories of the world he once lived in and practically ruled. That he fought with Ren Kouen for dominance over, fought for the ideal of unification. The world where he created Sindria trading company, went on to found Sindria, and later the international alliance. Where he fought alongside his friends, his generals, and the one he still can't bear to dwell on for too long. Both for pain of loss, and for pain of the wrongs he inflicted. With so much spare time looking at blank ceilings and sorting out the timeline of the dreams that came so sporadically, came time to reflect in hindsight the choices he made. Most regretfully, the choices he made and people he neglected at the end of his life. The choices and opportunities he allowed to be sacrificed in lieu of following a King to be. He broke some weeks ago, lashing out and bloodying his fists against the wall in frustration at his old self.

This world is no better than the one we had. War still rules, racism and genocide, slavery is still a travesty, hate crimes and poverty, this world is fucked up. I didn't fix anything. All I did was end the lives of those who followed me so trustingly. He pushed back those thoughts, unwilling to fall into such a downward spiral so early in the day. His vision was already bleary from tears at the shame of his actions, but he pushed them back, trying his best to stand up tall and walk with pride, to walk the way he used to down the stone corridors that lined his palace in Sindria, the way he used to when his advisor's footsteps echoed ever so faintly beside him.

How he missed everyone. Even Kouen and his family of oddities. Sinbad shook his head as he pushed open the door to the cafeteria. Immediately spotting the bright red hair at the far corner of the room, where a couple of security officers also stood. Ren Kouha. He was still rambunctious, and violent. He barely qualified for gen pub, and not isolation. Not to say he didn't often get sentenced to periods of isolation for attacking and biting other patients when they made fun of his braids. He had multiple personality disorder, one being a child, and the other a personality where he believes he is his own mother. The kid and his mother were abandoned by their father, and his mother was ill. When his father left, bills got defaulted on and collection services came after the mother. Kouha somehow was missed, and ended up on the streets. He was homeless for a couple of years, until he was brought into a police department after attacking a man who tried to assault the child. He wasn't there very long before they discovered his time on the streets had broken down his psyche, and he was transferred here. He had no record, seeing as it could have been plead both insanity and self-defense, and once fingers started pointing all attempts to sue were dropped by the man Kouha had attacked in retaliation. Doctors said it didn't seem like he'd suffered much physical trauma, a couple of broken bones and a poorly set pinky finger on his left hand that was fairly crooked when you looked at it up close, but the loneliness and abandonment were likely what caused his personality split.

Sinbad was thankful he seemed to still retain his charms. Even though many guards were male, he still had the charisma to get them to talk, and he'd managed a few sane conversations with Kouha himself. Enough to piece together his past with what some loose lipped guards were willing to share.

Sinbad hadn't known Kouha well previously, but he was still glad he hadn't been harmed too badly. From what he recalled, Kouha had a similar problem when he was first brought into the royal family. He wondered, if his other friends were living out lives similar to the ones they had before. Before Sinabad tried to reset the world, before he tried to fix everything. He hoped they weren't. Everyone he had collected in his household had been through their fair share of shit, slavery or abuse, everyone had some reason for leaving their homes and families. He wasn't sure what God ruled this world, if it were Solomon, or Aladdin, or some new deity. The people seemed to think it was some man named Jesus, Sinbad didn't know who this Jesus was, but he still sent prayers to the heavens that wherever his scattered friends were, they were living happy lives. That Mystoras and Pipirika could have another chance at love, that Rurumu and Hinahoho could grow old together, that Spartos could know his older brother, that Kikiriku could keep his mother. That Hakuryuu was still with his brothers and sister, that even the rest of the Ren family was happy and healthy.

Kougyoku had spent a short Summer here, a readjustment period. She had grown up in isolation, and was considered feral. He spoke with her a few times, as a friend, he had no energy for the games he had played in the old days. She took to him, being one of the few people she would regularly talk to, and he became a key part of her therapy, but he never attempted to win her over, or siphon information from her. If she said it, he listened, but he didn't search for clues, and one day, she was released. He tried to find out if Kouen had collected her, but no one would say the name of the one who took her home, except it was a family member, same name and same red hair. He assumed it was Kouen, her father hadn't resembled the Ren siblings very much at all, and he was sure her mother wasn't in the picture in this world either. He hoped one day they could take Kouha with them as well. They could be whole. His inner self laughed sardonically, that he would wish good things to the man that was once his rival, the only man that could possibly rival his power, and that threatened his dreams. Sinbad slipped into one of the benches, not feeling food, but not wanting to be alone in his room either.

There were times he missed his friends terribly, he missed his old life, and he found himself wishing he could see them again, but not here. He doesn't want anyone here. There were dark parts of the hospital, places bad things happened. Reprehensible things. Things that, though magic no longer exists, and neither does Rukh, nearly spark the air with evil foreboding. More than anything, it reeked of unfinished business, of things not sealed away properly. Things that, no matter that he had never visited that part of the hospital, he felt through the walls in his own room, the hauntings of misdeeds occurring, atrocious things akin to the travesties Al Tharmen wrought in his old world, in his old life. With his old friends. That no matter how he had tried, still managed to slip through his traps like smoke through a grate.

He remembered the first night, several years ago, that darkness had seeped into his room, chilling his bones and making his body feel heavy, dragging his heart to the ground and pulling him out of bed, drawing him to the door, and to the outside. He didn't step beyond it, knowing full well the lock would be turned, as it always is at lights out. They tried to allow people to be social, but at the same time, there were some unhinged people here, that needed to be confined. One day, when the time was right, Sinbad planned to use some of the less than honorable knowledge he learned in his teen years to slip out in the night, and venture to the dark side of the hospital. It beckoned him to it. He didn't know why, he could feel it though, he had a connection to something over there. He had a feeling, that the evil that ran that side, was probably a familiar face, however unpleasant a reminder it may end up being, he had to know.

Sinbad looked around, gravitating towards the familiar green hair of his closest friend here, and one he shared in his old war.

"Hey Drakon," Sinbad said, walking in front of the man before speaking, and noting sadly, the violent flinch that ran through the other male. Drakon was a war veteran with severe PTSD. Sinbad had made the unfortunate mistake when Drakon had first been admitted, of running up and introducing himself with his usual bravado, and ending up pinned to the ground with the air pushed out of him by a very sturdy forearm, and then receiving a curt apology, followed by Drakon pretending nothing had happened at all. Sinbad knew pretty well at this point how to prevent responses like that, such as visually showing his presence before speaking, and not touching the man when he couldn't see what Sinbad was doing. It wasn't a trust thing at this point, Drakon trusted Sinbad more than anyone here, it was just a reflex, a symptom of his suffering, and that was what mad Sinbad's heart ache to see the friend he had known across realties respond that way to a simple greeting.

"Hello Sinbad, how are you this afternoon?" Drakon responded, quickly collecting his composure. Sinbad smiled warmly, seating himself across the table designed like a classic picnic table.

"As well as I can be. I'm still not getting anywhere with my therapist."

"Are you still trying to convince her you really were a King and a God, only in a different dimension?" Drakon asked, perfect, and unrealistic if he may add, eyebrow raising.

"Close," Sinbad says, leaning forward so his elbows are atop the table, "same dimension, different time. If it were a different dimension, I don't think as many of us would have made it here."

"Ah yes, your friends you swear you knew in your other life you have seen on the streets here."

"I don't know why it seems so unrealistic, there's a whole religion that thrives on the idea of reincarnation, why is it so strange to think I remember mine?"

"Because that doesn't happen, and you aren't talking about a time in prior history, you speak of a time where magic and dungeons were prominent things, and butterflies gave people power, that doesn't fit in with the timeline of the world."

"Maybe it just wasn't documented!" Sinbad exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, and then wincing when he saw Drakon recoil at the noise.

"You told me you yourself wrote novels. There would be a record somewhere about this. It wasn't in this world, hence, why I said dimension. I listen, I just didn't agree with your term."

"Also, they were not butterflies, they just looked like butterflies."

"I was joking. I knew that as well."

"You say it with such a straight face it's hard to tell you're kidding," Sinbad says, dropping his chin on top of his folded arms, eyebrows lowering as his dreams of ever being believed and finding someone who knew what he was talking about also lowered. Maybe if I could find Aladdin, or Scheherazade, or someone, he though, wondering if those who were deeply entwined with the Rukh may be more predisposed to memories of the previous world. Maybe Aladdin would remember… too bad I can't find any of them. Judar was always on my doorstep back then, why can't he do that now? Sinbad immediately mentally takes that back. He figured if Judar was a pain in the prior life, he would be here too, just without the immense magic to back him up. Drakon shrugged, picking up his sandwich to nibble at.

"If you quit talking about it, played their game, you could probably get out," Drakon mutters, and Sinbad frowns, knowing it's not the same case for his friend. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He thinks, his frown deepening, and he feels like that expression may soon become etched onto his face. He had been smiles and laughter for so long before, and now, it's internalization and self-deprecation. He knows, it was his decisions, his call, his will, that brought this world into focus. His fault, that his friend was here, that his other friends were who knows where experiencing who knows what. He could only hope, and God did he hope, that they were happy. Alive. That those whose lives were cut short before, had a chance to experience life now, that there was something good in what he did. That someone could benefit.

Is he… Sinbad swallows hard, unable to vocalize that name, even internally. He had done so much wrong, asked so much of that person, and he never, ever properly thanked him, or told him the things he should have said. It's all wonderful now, in hindsight, being able to see what you should have done, to think of all the things you should have said, to look back and see how little things like taking a Queen or producing heirs mattered in the end, how much more being happy did matter, and how much better you should have treated the ones dearest. How much you shouldn't have taken for granted, how much you should have paid attention to while it was in front of you, the details you should have committed to memory before that was all they were.

"You there Sinbad?" His head snaps up, and he rubs his temples, trying to ebb away a forming headache.

"Yeah I'm fine, and you're probably right." Sinbad leaves it at that, not wanting to dwell on it any longer. Sometimes it's too much to think of the past, to think of could be's and would be's, could have been's and should have been's. He can't do anything now, he made sure of that, everyone here, is just a normal human. No magic. No metal vessels. No darkness. No Magi. "I think I'm going to go ahead and head in." Drakon nods at him, continuing to pick at his food. Sinbad lets another glance pass on Ren Kouha before he leaves, his laceless slippers moving quietly on that awful white ground. His pants fell slightly above his ankles, a bit too short to accommodate his height, and a little too loose and low falling on his hips for his taste, but drawstrings weren't allowed. He dug a hand in his pocket, pulling free the hairpin he had seen on the ground some days ago, and running his fingers along the corners of a keycard he had jacked from an attendant that morning. Sometimes, he was glad some things hadn't changed. Women still found him just as charming, even if he still found them just as malleable and easy to manipulate.

He released the items before turning the final corner, eyes setting on the open door of his room, glad he was facing the inside of it. He didn't want to see the stupid plaque with his name and disorder on it, didn't want to see the lock that would be turned at lights out, didn't want to see the checklist hanging on the nail in the center. As it were, if he didn't see it, he could pretend it wasn't even there. He flopped himself on the bed, his hair flopping to the side. He tucked his special items in a small hole he had pulled out of the seam in the mattress, and proceeded to untie the knot he had wound his hair in. They didn't want to give him a hairtie or a ribbon, but he refused to cut it, and couldn't stand to have it freefalling, so he settled for a loose knot in his hair itself. It was brushed out easily enough, and it kept him sane. He let the hair splay about him, crossing his arms under his head and staring at the blank, white ceiling.

For all the circles his mind had been running before, it was awfully silent now, a desolate desert lacking even a tumbleweed. His eyes opened and shut, spending longer closed with each passing cycle, until he fell asleep altogether. Welcoming the blank space of unconsciousness.

His mind isn't blank for long after he falls asleep, tendrils of something even darker worm their way through, grasping at corners and pulling, bringing a sense of foreboding and anxiety, but bringing no material reason for it. The darkness just keeps tugging, the ambiguity and anonymity of it all, the formless feeling of dread, the anticipation of horrors to come, quickens his heart, races his pulse and amber eyes snap open, a cold sweat drenching him, arms and legs still numb from the fear.

Sometime during his sleep, lights out had been called, and his door was pulled soundly shut, and though he hasn't checked the handle, he knows it is locked. It doesn't carry the usual reminiscence of a cage though, and he wonders if that's because he holds the tools to undo it, or if it is for some other reason, maybe he is just getting used to it, is accustomed to being locked in his room at night. It's supposed to be 'for his own safety.' He doesn't know how much he buys into that though. It sounds like a lot of bs, for their safety more like, so a psycho that thinks he's a God doesn't come out a butcher everyone for his own holy purposes.

He swings his legs over the edges, slippers he never removed before sleep catching the floor, and he tugs his hair back into its sloppy confinement. He hadn't planned on it being tonight, but something, some urgency, compels him to pull his stash from its hiding place, to pull apart the hairpin and pocket the keycard, drag his thawing limbs towards the door to his cell, and try for the umpteenth time that shiny silver knob. To his surprise, the handle turns without tampering. He gawks at it for a moment, before placing the pin in his breast pocket just in case he needs it later. Thick eyebrows draw together in concentration as he pulls open the door further, stepping out into the hallway. He knows, from various sources, that the night watch if fairly thin. One or two guards throughout the facility, making sure no one is causing problems. He was never very good at stealth himself, always having opted for a more upfront approach to things, but he supposes he's adept enough to avoid a couple poorly trained humans as long as he keeps his ears peeled.

He presses on, his body feeling heavier the closer he comes to the deep area of the facility, the place they take the truly desperate cases, and the one that practically reeks of evil. When he finally reaches the door, one barred by keycard access rather than traditional locks and keys, he can't help but think, if only extremely briefly, that this is an ill thought out plan. Rather, it is well thought out, but poorly informed. He knows his side of the area well, how many guards, roughly when they are where, but this side, he barely knew. He knew the Ren boy had been to this side, only briefly, but he had, after brutally attacking another patient.

They kept him in confinement no more than 60 hours, and Sinbad had tried to talk to him about it, but it had yielded few results. Between the abnormalities in his behavior Sinbad had been aware of when the boy was a general and a dungeon capturer, there where the quirks associated with him had multiple personality disorder, and halfway through a conversation, Kouha suddenly saying he was a woman, and that he was Kouha's mother and that Sinbad shouldn't bother Kouha and she's a beautiful woman and important and her and her son don't need Sinbad or anyone around. Sinbad found that menial conversation typically didn't cause a switch, but something emotional or potentially stressing could cause the personalities to swap. He liked Kouha ok, and he continued to have conversations with him even when he deemed gathering information a fruitless task, even in the Ren family he found comfort in being around those familiar to him.

Sinbad shook his head, decisively swiping the card and pulling open the door, and feeling the chill rush through the open crack, sweeping over him as he yanked it open the rest of the way. He passes through the doorway and the first thing he noticed his how dank it seems, as if this part is somehow much older than the portion mere feet behind him. The light feels like its passing through a filter, faded and dimmed, and the air is stagnant. The whiteness remains, ceiling and floor alike, so very, damnably white.

The foreboding darkness is there, nearly oppressive in its weight, surrounding him and weighing him down, and Sinbad is weary, and feels as if he could reach out and grasp it, though he knows his fingers would catch nothing, it would slip through his fingers and continue to dance around him, mocking him with its ambiguity and familiarity, its resemblance to his previous foe, to Al Tharmen. He wondered if here to, it threatened to rip open voids and destroy worlds, break people and ruin countries. He wondered if some of these world leaders were fallen, if some of the atrocities of history were more of their works, or if it was simply the pitiable behavior of human kind. He wasn't sure which was worse.

A flash of white, like a ghost, zips by him damn near soundlessly, and all of a sudden his back hits the ground, and his breath is pulled from his lungs, but it's not from the impact, but from the sight he sees above him. His shoulders scream as bony knees lock onto pressure points that make his arms unable to move, and his chin is forced up as a deceptively small forearm thrusts its way under it, pressing on his throat, the other holding a scalpel, poised to strike like the neck of a cobra, and the thing that keeps his lungs empty, are the painfully familiar narrowed dark eyes, almost completely black except for a fleck of green almost imperceptible if you weren't intimately familiar with them, fringed by white hair quite a bit longer and dirtier than he had ever remembered it being, a freckled nose, and bared teeth of the person he never thought he'd see again, and the one he had longed to see most of all. He regains his senses enough, as voices and shouts reverberate in the direction the smaller male had launched himself from, to pull in enough air for a single word.

"Ja'far."

And that's it for now. I'm very excited about the prospect for this story, so I apologize if some things didn't make sense, I was super eager to get it out on paper, and have a horrid habit of not proofreading things very well. If anything doesn't make sense let me know and I'll be sure to clarify either in a revision or incusion in the next chapter, leave a review if you liked it, more to come shortly, and happy holidays! Now, It's 1:30 am and I need to go to sleep. -_-

Until next time!

Asthmatic Glader