The first thing they know is darkness.
It is an all encompassing kind of darkness, one that envelops, but doesn't smother. It is simply a fact. A truth of existence. Many things, they find, come to them like that- no process of creation or explanation, just existence. They just are. Things like self, of presence and recognition and I think, therefore I am.
It is a great surprise when the small space of existence they inhabit takes a turn and expands. One moment they are floating there, content to walk alongside the dark for the rest of forever, and the next they are stumbling through a doorway into the light. It burns, the bright spots that twinkle and shine through the void, but it is a good kind of burn, a beautiful kind.
Stars, a voiceless whisper echoes in the space they occupy and, belatedly, they realize it comes from within. They are stars.
The thought snags onto something new and they, curious beyond measure, tread closer, following a path that rises to meet their imaginary footfalls; it leads them to a stretch of transparent impressions and sensations, a pool of memory. Thinking nothing of its abrupt arrival and unorthodox placement, they kneel in the warm sand at its edge, peering into its reflective surface.
A face stares back.
It is familiar in the same way their existence is undeniable. Sharp eyes, colored with the water's touch, and a stubborn chin, continuing up to meld into an even sharper jaw, paint a picture that directly coincides with the memories that float in the water, moving with the ripples that arise with conscious thought. They are scenes of a long, lost dream, one that they recognize as theirs, but cannot place. It goes like this: a child standing at a distant shoreline, looking to the sky; the soft texture of feathers and a bird perching on a thin wrist cooing out a musical tune; the scorching touch of asphalt on bare feet; two warm hand cupping their face and a soft brush of lips onto their forehead; the jingle of chimes in the morning breeze; a loaf of bread, fresh out of the oven, hot and smelling of home.
Instinctively, they try to reach out- to hold, to touch, to feel- only to realize that they can't. Another discovery is made, the idea of limits.
It's odd, not having full access to what is rightfully theirs, but it does help bring to attention more aspects of their existence. The senses- touch, sight, smell, hearing, taste- they are all there. Already they can pinpoint small details of their surroundings; no longer are they a floating speck amongst a mysterious abyss, but something physical that could feel and be felt in return. Now there is experience that can connect with those tantalizing memories. The feel of stiff sheets running over naked thighs, the taste of mint, the smell of stale air, the quiet whisper of breath rushing past parted lips.
It is about this time that a voice, distinctively feminine in nature and not their own, breaks the internal inspection. "Everything is in order?"
Language, a string of words passing through his head. Each syllable is dissected, pulled apart and put back together almost instantaneously, translated from deep thought and even deeper emotion. A piece to a complex puzzle, one of two known to him, created by ancestors long gone, but not forgotten; it sticks to the roof of his mouth, cradled between his teeth, waiting to be made real and passed on.
"Yes, Healer," a different voice responds, nearly shocking them into movement because of its closeness. "All eight hundred and twenty seven points are latched to their designated niche along the spinal cord. Nerve control is synced perfectly and the sensory functions are working at an optimal ninety-six point zero one percent."
"Excellent," says the first voice. "Now all there is to do is wait for them to get associated with their new body."
A body, they have a body. Slowly, sensation seeps in, puncturing arteries and flowing through veins. A heartbeat, steady and strong, thumps against the cage of their ribs. Amazed of what it represents, they push to the very edge of their consciousness, following the strum of life as it circulates their entire system and discovering exciting things like organs and muscles and bones.
"It will be a difficult transition, especially with this being their first."
"They will find their way," the first answers with surety. Then, a soft huff. "Do you not remember your own first life?"
"Of course, and what excitement it was! Have I ever told you? I was born during an eclipse of the Dolphin world's third moon, during its singing festival, and my pod had let the calves join!" They sigh, wistful in nature. "For all the better- I do not think I would take well to these human bodies without any experience. Such emotion so early on would no doubt leave me dazed."
There's a hum of agreement and the two drift off in a comfortable silence. It's eventually broken by a question.
"What will we call them?"
The woman doesn't speak for a long time, thinking. "We have a name on file for the host. It will be suitable until they choose a new name for themselves." A short pause, broken by the rustling of papers. "Of course, they may end up assuming the host's identity- it is not unusual for those beginning their first life."
There's a touch to what they know to be their face, a soft trail of knuckles from temple to chin. But they ignore the sensation, focusing on the words spoken. A name? They have a name.
"I think Lance is a fine name."
Ah, yes, there it is. Lance.
The single syllable word sounds strong and right and him and oh, gender, what a concept. It's strange and arbitrary, but he accepts it without question, taking it on like one would a coat. It goes hand in hand with his name, newly discovered and proudly received, and he wants to say it aloud, wants to hear it for himself.
"Ah, did you hear that? They are already attempting at vocal communication. The sedation must be wearing off. It is only a matter of time til-"
A loud noise, muffled but demanding to be heard. The rustling of fabric, footsteps against a hard floor and the creak of a door, raucous in the quiet room. Whispered conversation, just failing in its attempt to be discreet. A pause.
"Who is it?"
"It's the Seeker again, Healer. She says she won't leave until she speaks with the new arrival."
A loud exhale of breath. A sigh. "Let her in- she won't be satisfied until she's seen them. And while I entertain our... guest, could you prepare the orientation video and pamphlets? It's been a while since we've had a first life here and I want everything to go perfectly."
"Of course, Healer."
The soft click of a door being opened and closed. A quiet exit, followed by a loud entry.
"For someone of your Calling, your hospitality could use some work," says a new voice, high and raspy and across from the first woman's. Weirdly, he's remind of the sharp points of a raven's talon. "You've kept me waiting."
"Apologies, Seeker. We have no protocols set in place for such a circumstance."
Someone hums, unsatisfied, but unwilling to say more on the matter. "And the new arrival? How much longer until they become responsive?"
"Whenever they are ready. They deserve the time to manage the situation however they find most comfortable- it's a disorienting process, to start one's first life in an experienced host. There must be a lot to take in. Doubly so when taken account of the condition the host was received- at death's door in an attempt of escape."
"We are a resilient species. They will pull through."
"Nevertheless, I hear it was quite a fall. Fractured the spine near the aorta and punctured both lungs. It's a miracle the body survived the trip to me." A sniff and the sound of papers being collected and straightened. "He's a local too, so it's quite a mystery why he was so close to the edge. Surely he would know of the dangers."
Without warning, his back arches off the table, muscles itching to get him away from the phantom pain that sneaks through his guard. It brings forth a memory, distorted with the fear of a past life; a scream, the feeling of weightlessness, and the agonizing snap of the silence that follows. He fights the feeling, pushing it to the back of his mind until his body relaxes once more.
A tense silence, and then, "We did not lead him over the edge."
"Of course not, Seeker, I would never think that. I just wonder if the infection of humanity has touched those who take on your profession," his Healer mused, her voice curdling with annoyance. The tone surprises him, the accusation hidden in the polite delivery almost making it seem as if the two were… arguing. "Does the violence you willingly participate in act as a lingering temperament of you body's? Or is it your own?"
Righteous fury colors the second's tone. "We do not choose violence- we face it. And it's a good thing we do, for our utopia would collapse on itself if some of us weren't strong enough to face the unpleasantness."
"One day, I think, your Calling will be obsolete."
"The error of your statement is in this room."
"One human boy, alone and unarmed. Quite the threat to our utopia."
The obvious sarcasm in the last sentence must not sit well with the Seeker, for she breathes out heavily. A hiss. "The problem lies in their simple existence. Where did he come from? How did he appear in the middle of Viñales Valley, an area long since civilized with Souls, seas away from any rebel activity? Was he really alone?"
Still trying to break the surface of consciousness, he belatedly realized that he was the subject of the conversation at present. And now that he was aware of the fact, a few words caught his attention. Soul and human. There was a clear-cut difference between the two, a connotation his mind could not deduce. Idly, he wonders which applies to him.
"That isn't my problem. My job is to help this Soul adapt to their new host as seamlessly as possible." Oh, so he is a Soul. How wonderful. How curious. How startling. How...contingent? He wonders if that's all there is to it. "Besides, hospitals are a place of recovery, not discovery. So I suggest you leave the questioning to when they are more habituated within both body and society."
Tapping along the surface he lays on, impatient and quick. "I simply wish to find the truth. To ensure peace."
"Eight days ago, you and your fellow Seekers were armed with killing weapons, hunting this body down. Was that done for peace?"
"You know just as I do that those weapons are for our own safety. Humans are violent by nature and don't hesitate to attack our kind. They would pull the trigger and kill us all if they had the chance."
His right index finger twitches.
"You speak as if we are at war."
"To what remains of the human race, we are." His body reacts to the words, heavy in their meaning. Beside the bed he lies on, a machine beeps along with the sudden increase in his heartbeat. The two individuals, far too tangled in their conversation, don't notice. "It will be for the best if the entire race is exterminated."
A moment of empty time, created by the powerful statement the Seeker had uttered. It left time for his body to relax and his mind to stretch. There were details missing, details that were pertinent to his existence and persona, and he scrambled to find them.
What he found was the line. The blurry line that separated him and him, where heavy flesh met ethereal nerves. There is a difference between the two, one under his possession and the other under his control; it's strange, for he can recognize himself secured snuggly under his own skin, long appendages digging into synapses upon synapses. It begs the question of self. What body did Lance belong to?
He searches deep, trying to find a time when the line didn't exist, but can't. As far as he looked, to the foggy memories of his first breath and then to what he had thought to be his last, he's always been there.
He was Lance and Lance was… him?
Wait, no. That wasn't right, was it? He is a Soul, that part was clear in the distinction of his antennae stretching far along the vertebral column of his body; they were separate, but connected. A paradox in its most physical sense. And the body was Lance and Lance, Lance was- is human. He is human. But he's not.
Something unpleasant buzzes in the space of his thoughts and it takes a moment to realize that he is frustrated. He doesn't like it, wants it gone. Wants to move past it and see the answers for himself.
And just like that, a call and response, his eyes are fluttering open.
Light, bright and painful, greets his eagerness; it takes him by surprise and he squeezes his eyes shut. He stays like that for a few moments, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing as his lids twitch. Slowly, he inches them open again, eyelashes kept low to act as a canopy of shade. Soon, sight becomes a tangible thing.
With growing confidence, his mind fixates on the shapes and colors his eyes are seeing, taking the time to click things into focus and distinguish what they are. Ceiling tiles, blindingly white with speckles of gray, consume most of his vision, their pattern broken by the long strip of lights keeping the room out of darkness. The room itself is average enough, walls colored a soothing blue and being the owner of multiple framed pictures featuring medical statistics and inspiring quotes over a shot of beautiful landscape. Cabinets, as unassuming as the counter and sink it hangs over, line the wall next to the door, leaving room for the single bed he lays on. Two figures lean over him, both female and more interesting in appearance. One is distinctively older, silver hair pinned in a tight bun, while the other sports chestnut hair twisted in complex braid.
"Hello," the younger woman says.
"Hello," comes the automatic reply and oh, what a sensation. Vibrations from deep in his throat make sound- so unique, so thrilling, so complex. He wonders what else he can do.
She shuffles closer. "Do you need assistance sitting up?"
He shakes his head, amazed at the simple action. "No, I wish to try on my own."
"Very good," his Healer says, and Lance has the distinct idea that she is proud. "Take your time."
It takes little effort for him to rise to a sitting position. Long limbs, knitted together with nerves and muscles, follow his every command, easily flexing and stretching in ways he never thought possible; one moment he is thinking it and the next his body is moving, stomach muscles clenching as his torso straightens and arms move to brace against the thin mattress. Simple. Natural.
"And how do you feel?"
How does he feel? He doesn't even know where to begin to answer that question.
There are a great many things he feels. He feels the sheets underneath him, the shirt that brushes his chest with every breath, the breeze of the fan on his back. He can also feel the excitement coursing his veins, frantic when he wiggles his toes and takes in a breath- it's all so new and strange and amazing.
"Fine," is the watered down version. He looks down at his hand, watches how the tendons pull when he spreads his fingers wide and how the skin wrinkles when the hand closes into a loose fist. There is strength hidden there. "Though I have so many questions."
A manicured hand is placed on his bicep, a gesture of support and comfort, and he looks up into the kid face of his Healer. She has wide brown eyes, accented by white eyeshadow, and smells of lavender. "You will get your answers. I am your assigned Healer, Trigel, and will be with you every step of the way."
"Thank you," he says, sincere.
Someone clears their throat, stealing his attention. The Seeker is shorter than what he expected, with sharp features and strange, red markings lying underneath her almond shaped eyes. Her skin is darker than his own tanned skin, showing wrinkles at the crease of her mouth where she frowns at him. For some reason, the sight of her makes him want to duck under the covers.
Ignoring the stray thought, he offers a hand. "Hello."
One of her eyes twitch, but she takes his hand nonetheless, grip stone-like. When she speaks, it is with a clipped tone, "My name is Haggar and I am the Seeker assigned to your case."
Lance wonders idly if the peculiar names come from a previous life off world or are bred from the imagination of a human mind. "You're trying to find out where I- my body, came from."
"That is correct. The main reason for your insertion in such a host was in the hopes to procure information about its origins. If you remember anything of substance or-" Haggar spares his Healer a glance "-need help adjusting, do not hesitate to call us. We are here to help."
Though the concern runs flat, it is easy enough to pull his lips up in a small smile, knowing how his dimples make the expression all the more genuine. He deems it rude and unnecessary to point out that her explanation for his mere existence makes him uncomfortable and that he doesn't particularly find himself eager to take her on her offer. "I will keep that in mind, Seeker. Thank you."
Taking the cue that the meeting is over, he stands. The two other Souls follow suit, a ripple of movement in an otherwise motionless room, and his Healer offering guidance to his temporary boarding off site. He accepts graciously and she starts to lead him from the room.
"Oh, and Lance?"
He turns to look over his shoulder, hand already braced on the door handle. The Seeker is still standing, her clothing crisp and without a single wrinkle. Skin stretches uncomfortably as Haggar smiles.
"Welcome to Earth."
Life on Earth is perfect.
Lance learns this almost as soon as he takes a step out the door of the hospital five hours after his insertion. The sun, a great, big ball of gas that this planet orbits, shines brightly above, causing goosebumps to erupt along the length on his arms in the most exhilarating feeling. A breeze, cool and fresh, playfully tugs at his hair, guiding his gaze to the long palms that sprout along every street and frame every Moorish building. There is a low buzz of sound that envelops him, a song with many verses, all sung to the bustle of life; the drum of laughter, the warble of cars, the trill of gossip, and the chime of music.
It's full, bursting with soul and Lance feels like he's coming home.
Something sweet and colorful fizzes in his chest, bubbling over in a delicious laugh.
"I know, right?" A voices ays from beside him and he turns to smile at the Healer's assistant, who had introduced herself as Plaxum, eager and bright and kind enough to take him to the resort he'll be staying at until he finds a permanent place to stay. Her turquoise hair matches that of the sky. "Out of all the worlds I've lived on, Earth is by far my favorite."
"I can believe that."
And he can. After all he had learned in the past hour, fidgeting in a stiff chair and trying to suppress his questions while his Healer talked him through the mindblowing existence of their race and the worlds they have colonized, this is the one truth he will accept without question. No other planet compared to that of Earth; not Blind World with its bat-like hosts and their singing woods, nor Fire World with its violent ecosystems, and not even Mist World with its crystal castles and stormy mountain ranges. Despite his quickly, biasedly made opinion, he had shown a certain avidity in learning about these places, a deep rooted need for adventure and love for the stars spurring him forward.
Plaxum laughs. "Wait until your next life. The other worlds have their charms and, who knows, maybe you'll be convinced otherwise."
Lance hums noncommittally.
Truthfully, Lance can't imagine living anywhere else. Sure, he had wanted to see the stars, to explore the great expanse of space, but he had always entertained the idea with the promise of returning to Earth once he was done. It's uncomfortable thinking about waking up one day and being someplace new, of being someone new. Lance had always belonged to Earth and the sentiment doesn't change with the presence of a Soul under his skin.
He follows the girl down the walkway and towards the parked car waiting for them. The interior smells of pine and the leather seats squeak whenever he shifts, the middle-aged driver giving him a cheerful grin when they make eye contact through the rearview mirror. The drive is pleasant, Plaxum going on to make small talk with the man as Lance rolls down his window and leans his head out, wind buffeting his face as he takes in the sights in real time.
Palm trees shoot from the ground every few feet, reaching for the sky with their canopy of branches, leaning over traditional and modern buildings alike. The traffic is mild and people shuffle through the streets, giving him a tease of Havana life; a gaggle of children throwing a ball around what looks to be a schoolyard, two women peering into the window of a specialty shop, and a family of tourists taking pictures in front of a bronze statue. A small plaza breaks through the streets and he smiles when he sees a band playing in the kiosk at its center. And when they pause at a light, Lance takes the chance to peer over the sidewalk bustle of bodies, spotting a couple dancing a quickstep to the lively music.
They look to be having fun, flushed cheeks and hair whipping behind them as they spin, and he watches their bodies move and the way their audience claps and has the sudden impulse to join them. The taller woman dips her partner, laughing when a heeled foot kicks into the air dramatically.
The sight plucks strangely at his heart strings.
There must be a break in the conversation, because Plaxum speaks, startling him into bumping his head against the window pane. "It's beautiful, isn't it? The way these bodies feel and show their emotions. It's so strong, stronger than any other host we've inhabited, but delicate at the same time. Like, did you know that humans fought over who could love who? Can you imagine that- putting limitations on what you feel simply because a selected few disagreed with it?"
A memory flits across his consciousness. In it a fifteen year old Lance watches fireworks next to a boy with curly, blonde hair and brown eyes, shoulders pressed together and pinkies touching in the shadows of the summer night; the warm ambience is tempered with another, this one more raw in nature as cutting words are thrown his way as he walks home from school, head down and shoulders hunched. Shy smiles exchanged for rough shoves
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looks away from the couple just as one leans in for a kiss, and tries to go for casual as he says, "No, I can't."
"Yeah, everything's better now." Plaxum says it in such a way that Lance is inclined to believe her, though he doesn't look back at the happy couple.
It takes only a few more minutes before they reach their destination: a resort. It looks to be eight stories high, with an extravagant looking driveway next to and even more extravagant pool. A castle in all but name, it looks more fit for royalty than Lance's hospital scrubs. When they stop at the entrance, a valet runs up to open his door, giving a kilowatt smile.
Lance gapes. "Wow."
Both Plaxum and their driver notice, laughing at his expense. He would feel embarrassed if it wasn't for the kind way they go about it.
"C'mon," Plaxum says as she pushes him forward, "you're going to freak when you see your room."
With a parting wave to their driver, the two follow the bellhop into the building. It takes everything in Lance not to swoon, because wow. He has never stayed anywhere this nice before; the squeaky staircase of his parents' house and the bland walls of his Garrison dorm have nothing on the high ceilings and and gaudy chandeliers of Cuba's National Resort. It almost feels like a dream.
"Are all first lifes housed here?" he asks.
"Not all, no. Most them stay in the hospital's ward wing. An exception was made for you, because, well, you are a special case," she tells him. "Those under the Seekers' jurisdiction stay here, so as to not undergo any additional stress beside what the case they're involved in might provide."
He draws his eyes away from front desk and the pretty blonde that had handed them a keycard with a practiced welcome, brows furrowed. "Case? How am I- how is one human important enough to warrant such scrutiny from the Seekers?"
Plaxum shrugs. "I wouldn't know. The Seekers thought the human was important, so he must be."
The thought doesn't settle well with Lance, but he doesn't express it, letting the topic drop as the girl guides him to the elevator. Though while they rise to a pleasant tune of music and the girl's accompanying hum, he searches his mind for anything that could be the reason behind the Seekers' interest and finds… nothing. Nothing out of the usual- no criminal misdemeanors, no highly classified secrets and no dubious decisions made on the fly. Just the average memories of boy from Cuba.
They finally arrive to his room and Plaxum bounces excitedly on her heels as Lance swipes them in. Unsurprisingly, his room is just as extra as the rest of the resort, big and extravagant and smelling of jasmine. Within seconds of entry he's throwing himself onto the queen bed pushed against the farthest wall, soaking in the feeling of cool sheets sweeping over warm skin. The entire wall to his right is made of glass, overlooking a balcony and the beach. It's beautiful.
"It's amazing, right?"
"So amazing, I can't even believe it's real."
Plaxum claps her hands together. "Healer Trigel will be so pleased to hear that."
He nuzzles further into the sheets, sighing contently. "Yes, please tell her thank you for me. You all have been so nice to me and I've hardly done anything to deserve it."
"Kindness isn't deserved, it is given." The words are offered with a complete sense of sincerity, leaving Lance overwhelmed. He wants to say something equally as profound in return, but his guide is already continuing on. "But I'll leave you to get settled in. It's been a long day and you must be tired."
He is tired, Lance realizes. It's eerie how as soon as the girl had suggested it, the tell-tale signs of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones. Though the sun doesn't set for a another few hours, it already feels like the day is over; the excitement and wonder over his new life has leveled into something more manageable, leaving him spent and ready for a break.
Plaxum must understand, because she gives him this smile. "It'll take some time, but you'll begin to get more intune with your body's needs and limits. Rest now and we'll talk again soon."
Nodding, he rises to walk her the short distance to the door. She gives him a hug before she leaves, and Lance would be lying if he said he didn't lean into the touch.
And then he's alone.
It's a startling notion, solitude. Though the world keeps moving beyond the four walls of his room, the space he occupies is stilted. There is something raw about it. A sense of helplessness that threatens to overcome him, brewing to a boil as he continues to stand there with his arms loose at his sides and only his breath to keep him company. With no one there to watch and guide him, he's at a lost on what he should do- how he should act or who he should be.
He wrinkles his nose, uncomfortable at the indiscernible shift, and he forcefully wills the thoughts away. Those worries are for another day. For now, all he's going to think about is that bed and him in it.
With that, he wastes no time in stepping out of his shoes and under those plush covers. The mattress swallows him, molding to him like a cloud, and it's futile to fight off the dip of his eyelids after that. So he doesn't.
Lance falls asleep like he wakes, slowly and with a smile.