Nothing in the distortion realm was actually stagnant. Every sensation and experience was present, but seemingly ran through filters until it could only barely and distantly be perceived.

Cyrus had spent what may have been a day, may have been an eternity, like this. It had grown comforting in its pervasiveness.

The distant sounds of rushing water complimented the slowing rhythms of his own body. He focused on it like a lullaby as he closed his eyes for what his brain placatingly insisted would be a well-deserved rest.

As he should have drifted off, there came an expletive. It was muttered under the breath, but it felt blaringly aggressive compared to the realm it now occupied.

Cyrus' mind clawed against its own death to process the sensation of his wrist being picked up and held, and his eye being forced open by a pair of fingers so a light could be shone in it.

The sounds of the distortion realm were completely overrun by a voice he didn't recognize, with an accent he couldn't place, saying "get a bed ready. The stupid sonnabitch is on the brink".

More sensations overwhelmed his system. Warmth and pressure and motion as he was hoisted into someone's arms. A voice that was trying to be soft and reassuring, but was too deafeningly close to actually comprehend. Light that only grew more blinding as he was taken towards it.

Cyrus' brain began to shut down again, this time to protect itself from its rescuer.


His mind must have adjusted somewhat. He knew that the noise then was no louder or closer than what he'd heard before, but this one didn't seem as painful.

There was a rhythm to it which made it… what was the word…?

Music.

Someone was making music with their mouth which was…

Humming, right.

Those words, he knew, hadn't always been so hard to place.

His other senses were hard at work trying to make sense of the barrage of information around them. There was something firmly comfortable below him, and a scratch of rough fabric on the upper side of his limbs. There was a smell that registered to him as a work-intensive sort of clean. There was more light coming through his eyelids, then, than he'd grown accustomed to with his eyes fully open.

There was another noise, too, that was sharp and regular and he dug through his mind to remember what it was called because he was positive that he knew.

Beeping. That was it.

Cyrus' eyes creaked open as he tried to piece all of this together. His head lolled to the side to take in the machines with tubes and wires that seemed to match up with the ones connected to him.

This was a hospital, he concluded finally (and felt both proud and not to do so).

His head lolled to the other side to see the source of the humming. A girl dressed in black and gray, with a letter emblazoned across her chest.

After a moment of analysis he concluded that he did not know her. Nonetheless, she seemed happy once she looked up from her book.

"Ah, you're awake!" she said as she stood up. "I'll go get the Executive!"

She was gone before he could say that title didn't mean anything to him. Or rather, he would have if he could have. Disuse had made his tongue feel thick and useless in his mouth.

By the time a man in a crisp, white outfit showed up in his doorway Cyrus still hadn't managed to sit up. But his senses felt more focused, and he took that as victory enough.

"Well, aren't you the resilient one!" the man said with a brightly professional tone and smile. He sat down in the chair beside the bed, and laid a manilla envelope in his lap. "I was sure it'd be another day or two before you were alert."

The voice didn't match whoever had rescued him from the distortion realm. The accent did, though this one seemed distinctly more refined.

"My name is Archer," the man said, and elegantly placed a hand to his breast. His fingers barely touched the same letter that had been on the girl's chest.

Cyrus felt like he knew it, not just as a letter but as a symbol of something else. Both of them were on the tip of his tongue, and felt terribly important. But it would take too much time to force his mind to figure it out, so Cyrus turned his attention back up to meet Archer's eyes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Archer continued as he opened the folder and removed the papers that had been inside. "I've read over your file. You led a fascinating project. And we have another I'm sure you'll enjoy. But first-" He smiled and shrugged, apologetically. "We have some papers we need you to sign. Red tape and all that."

Cyrus opened his mouth to say something. It took some time for him to remember how exactly to form words after that, but Archer waited patiently.

His voice he managed to find was hoarse and sluggish. "I don't want another project."

Archer's smile didn't change. He took a moment to tap the stack of papers before he laid them back down.

"Cyrus. May I call you that?" He didn't pause for an answer. "It was not a small feat to get you here. The portal needed to be researched, constructed, and manned. You took quite some time to locate, and a specialized team to operate the rescue.

"Because of the state you were discovered in, you needed to be brought to our medical bay." He motioned to the room with a wave of his hand. "This requires its own specialized staff and equipment. And, as you can doubtlessly understand, none of this comes cheap."

Archer laced his fingers over the stack of papers. "If you truly wish to rot away in the distortion realm, we can return you. But we also aren't a charity. And if you leave now…" He shook his head as he pretended to sort his words out. "After we put in so much time and effort to save you from death's door… It seems rather rude, doesn't it?"

Cyrus' mind was still clouded. It could read through the lines well enough, though, and realized how little his weakened body could do.

"Where do I sign?" he finally asked.

Archer smiled a bit more broadly, slid the over-bed table into place, and laid the stack of papers on top. He offered Cyrus a pen, and eventually settled to fit it into his hand.

The text on the page was small and all seemed to blend together. What little he managed to read… He seemed to remember the word 'legalese', and he assumed this must fit.

Archer read him through the various forms, and pointed to places that needed either signatures or initials.

This one was a liability waiver, this one allowed them to act as a holding company (he didn't understand what the company would be holding, but he was assured that was alright), this one was a listing of duties. They flowed past him without interest or consequence, at least until the form which consigned Galactic personnel.

"What if…?" he muttered out.

"Hm?" Archer looked over from the paperwork to Cyrus' half-lidded eyes. "This is just a standard-"

"What if there aren't any Galactic personnel anymore?" Cyrus said, his words slurred from exhaustion.

Archer paused, and ultimately smiled as if the two of them were in on a joke. "Then there would be no consequence for signing it, would there?"

"I suppose not."

"Good. Right here." He scooped the papers back into the folder as soon as Cyrus had finished writing his signature. "And we're done!"

"What now?" Cyrus asked. His eyes struggled to stay open as Archer moved the table away and adjusted the blanket to cover the exposed arm.

"Now," he said, gently. "You get some sleep. We'll take care of everything until you've recovered."

"Can I ask something first?" Cyrus asked as he drifted off.

"Of course."

"What letter is that?" he slurred, "The other girl had it, too."

Archer blinked, and glanced down to the embroidery on his breast. He smoothed the blanket a bit more as he said, "It's an R."

"Is it important?"

"Just a bit." Archer collected the folder. "You'll get very used to seeing it. Sleep well."

Cyrus was out before Archer managed to leave the room.