- Beginning 1.2 -
o-0-o
T-shirt, check. Glasses, check. Backpack, check.
Now, then…
I hesitate for a moment, my gaze shifting toward the mirror hanging on the wall. There's a subtle fear, a gnawing uncertainty, about what I might see reflected back at me. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously step in front of the mirror, half-expecting an otherworldly version of myself to materialize.
To my immense relief, I'm greeted by the familiar sight of my own reflection. Messy, shoulder-length black hair, freckles dotting my face, an average look that I've known for years—yeah, it's just me. No glowing, bright lines. No luminous eyes. It's a stark contrast to the reflection I saw earlier.
I release a sigh of relief, the tension easing from my shoulders. What was that anyway? A ghost? A figment of my exhausted mind playing tricks on me? I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to dispel the residual unease. The room is silent, and the mirror reflects nothing but the mundane reality of my existence.
What happened after the meteor shower continues to elude my memory. According to Dad, I made him an apple pie. A wave of confusion washes over me. Did I sleepwalk? Or was there something more to it?
Maybe I should consider seeking professional help—a therapist or perhaps a psychiatrist. The notion flits through my mind, but a quick dismissal follows. No, better not. The last thing I need is for others to start suspecting me of harboring mental illnesses.
Well, time to leave, I guess. School's time, it should be fun! Yay!
But the enthusiasm in my internal cheer quickly fades into a hollow echo of forced optimism. The reality of what awaits me at school casts a looming shadow, and the facade of excitement crumbles. I can already predict the scenes that will unfold—the taunts, the sneers, the relentless bullying that has become an unwelcome routine. Why does it have to happen to me anyway? What did I do wrong?
I sigh as I grab my backpack, the weight of anticipation settling heavily on my shoulders. The desire to enjoy a peaceful school life, devoid of the constant turmoil, seems like an unattainable dream. The mere thought of facing the dreadful trio—Sophia, Madison, and the once-close friend, Emma—sends a shiver down my spine.
"Oh, Emms," I murmur quietly, addressing the absent friend who turned her back on me. "If only you could tell me what I did wrong for you to turn your back on me."
The unanswered questions linger in the air like an ominous cloud as I reluctantly step out the door, leaving behind the relative sanctuary of my home.
"I'm... off," I mumble to no one in particular, the words dissipating in the emptiness of the house. Dad has already left for the docks, his early departure leaving the dwelling in a haunting stillness.
As I glance up to the sky, I notice that black clouds are beginning to gather, obscuring the once-clear blue canvas. The distant rumble of thunder echoes in the air, a precursor to the impending storm. Funny how it mirrors my everyday mood—a tempest of uncertainty and brewing turmoil.
With a resigned shake of my head, I adjust the straps of my backpack and start the familiar walk to school. Each step feels like a countdown to the inevitable confrontation with the trio of tormentors. The atmosphere around me seems to reflect the impending storm, the weight of anticipation pressing down as I navigate the quiet streets.
o-0-o
No sooner do I arrive at school than a certain aggressive woman decides to make my day infinitely worse. And by "screwing me around," I mean really, really screwing me around.
"Hebert, what in the fuck are you still doing here?" Sophia Hess sneers, her tone dripping with disdain. The retort I want to throw back at her lingers on the tip of my tongue, a defiant response eager to escape. But experience has taught me that any retort would only escalate the cruelty that is about to unfold.
Sophia Hess, the embodiment of physical aggression, blocks my path. There has never been a day when she didn't find some twisted pleasure in inflicting pain on me. The best day I've had involving Sophia was when she decided to call it quits after tripping me twice. A dubious victory, to say the least.
She seizes me by my collar, slamming me against a nearby locker. Her eyes bore into mine, a blend of disgust and sadistic glee. To her, I am nothing more than prey, a plaything for her amusement. It's as if my very existence is an affront to her, and she revels in asserting her dominance.
"Not gonna say anything?" she taunts, her voice dripping with venom. "Look at you, a pathetic worm, can't even stand up for yourself."
I summon the courage to speak, my words wavering with a mixture of fear and defiance. "Let—"
"What?" she interrupts, her tone demanding submission.
"Let me go... please," I weakly plead, my voice barely audible over the din of the school hallway. The desperation in my eyes reflects the helplessness I feel, trapped in this twisted dance of torment.
Sophia leans in, her face uncomfortably close, relishing the intimidation she exudes. "Let you go? Why would I do that?" She punctuates her words with a cruel chuckle, the sound echoing in the narrow hallway.
The pressure on my collar intensifies as she tightens her grip, a malicious grin playing on her lips. The surrounding students either avert their eyes or watch with a morbid curiosity, unwilling or unable to intervene.
"You think you can just waltz through here without consequences?" Sophia sneers, her fingers digging into my collarbone. "Pathetic."
I gasp, my attempts to free myself met with futile resistance. The locker's cold metal bites into my back, leaving me at her mercy. Panic and humiliation churn within me, but I fight to keep my composure.
Sophia continues her assault, releasing her grip on my collar only to grab a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. The pain radiates through my scalp, a sharp reminder of my vulnerability. "Maybe if you begged a bit more convincingly," she taunts, her laughter cutting through the hallway.
With a cruel twist, she shoves me against the locker once more before finally letting go. I slump to the floor, a mix of pain and shame coursing through my body. The bell signaling the start of classes echoes in the distance, but Sophia's torment is far from over.
She looms over me, triumphant. "Consider this a warm-up. Next time, it won't be so easy." With a disdainful smirk, she saunters away, leaving me battered and broken on the unforgiving hallway floor.
The indifferent crowd disperses, and I'm left to gather what remains of my dignity. The scars of Sophia's aggression, both physical and emotional, linger as a haunting reminder of the daily struggle I face within the unforgiving walls of the high school. As I slowly pick myself up, I can't help but wonder how much longer I can endure this relentless torment.
As I gingerly rise from the cold floor, a strange realization washes over me. The expected pain, the dull throb that typically accompanies Sophia's physical assaults, doesn't manifest as anticipated. Confusion furrows my brow as I assess my body, half-expecting to find additional bruises, evidence of her sadistic handiwork.
To my bewilderment, there's an odd absence of physical discomfort. It's as if the impact of Sophia's aggression didn't register the way it usually does. I run my hands over my arms and torso, searching for the telltale soreness, but there's nothing. No tenderness, no lingering ache.
The realization leaves me perplexed, a strange mix of relief and disorientation. Sophia's cruelty, although emotionally scarring, didn't leave the usual physical mark. Was this a bizarre twist of fate, or was there something more to it?
As I gather my belongings and make my way to class, I grapple with this newfound revelation. The ordinary chatter of students around me becomes a distant hum as my mind replays the encounter with Sophia. It's not lost on me that the absence of physical pain doesn't diminish the emotional toll of her relentless bullying.
Entering the classroom, I take my seat with a mix of gratitude and confusion. Grateful for the respite from physical harm, yet perplexed by the unexplained shift. Perhaps this is a fleeting anomaly, a momentary break from the relentless cycle of torment.
As I open my math textbook, attempting to immerse myself in the mundane routine of a high school class, a familiar voice pierces through the air like an unwelcome dagger. "Tay~."
My heart sinks as I glance up, and there she is—Emma, accompanied by Madison. Emma's fiery red hair sways in the air like a mocking dance as she approaches, a bottle of soda dangling casually in her hand. Her smile is nothing short of smug, as if she already relishes the mental image of how I'll react to her so-called gift. Madison, standing alongside her, wears a smirk, seemingly eager to witness whatever verbal assault Emma has in store for me.
Emma's voice cuts through the air, dripping with condescension. "Hey, Tay. Thought you might need this." She extends the soda bottle toward me, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of malice and amusement.
I eye the soda bottle suspiciously, fully aware that Emma's so-called gifts usually come with a cruel twist. As she extends it toward me, a sly grin playing on her lips, I take it cautiously, my guard up.
"Just a little something to brighten your day," she sneers, her tone laced with mockery.
Before I can react, she attempts to tip the bottle over my open textbook, a mischievous glint in her eyes. The realization of her intent hits me like a punch to the gut. Another one of her calculated humiliations.
But this time, something unexpected happens. As the soda begins to spill from the bottle, my instincts kick in. Swiftly, almost reflexively, I reach out and grab her hand, halting the cascade of liquid mid-air. The classroom falls into an astonished hush as students witness the unanticipated turn of events.
Emma's eyes widen in disbelief, and for a moment, time seems to freeze. Even I am left stunned by my own reaction. I never thought I'd be able to thwart one of Emma's calculated attacks. The room hangs in suspense, the unsaid question echoing through the air—how did this happen?
In that brief moment of defiance, I glimpse a flicker of uncertainty in Emma's eyes, a crack in her façade of cruelty. The power dynamics shift, if only for an instant, and the unexpected turn leaves us both grappling with the implications.
Mr. Quinlan's arrival rescues me from the spotlight, but the weight of the unspoken tension still lingers. As I release Emma's hand and the soda bottle retreats, the classroom returns to its normal cadence, yet my mind is a tumult of conflicting emotions.
With each passing minute of the lecture, the yearning to escape intensifies. The walls of the classroom seem to close in on me, and the air becomes stifling. It's at times like this that the desire to run away, to find a sanctuary far from the echoing corridors of this school, becomes almost overwhelming.
The teacher's words continue to fade into the background, and my internal struggle intensifies. The desire to escape clashes with the harsh reality of my situation, a perpetual cycle of torment with seemingly no way out.
As the class is halfway to its end, the anticipation of returning to the torment weighs heavily on my shoulders. The mere thought of facing Sophia, Emma, and Madison again sends a shiver down my spine. There's no escape, no respite, unless they decide they're satisfied with the damage they've inflicted.
Why not run away now? The voice echoes in my mind, gentle and comforting. I freeze, glancing around the classroom to identify the source, but everyone is focused on the whiteboard. Even Emma and Madison, usually the instigators of my torment, seem oblivious.
A conflicted smirk plays on my lips as I contemplate the possibility of hearing things. The notion of seeking a therapist briefly flits through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. Weakness is not an option. I can't burden Dad with the troubles of a supposedly fragile child.
It is fine to admit your weaknesses, the voice persists, soothing and persistent.
"Stop!" I blurt out, my eyes darting nervously around the room. The voice persists, undeterred by my attempt to silence it. Is this the breaking point? Have the relentless torment and the internal battles finally pushed me over the edge?
"Miss Hebert? Mind telling me why I should stop my lesson?" Mr. Quinlan, the math teacher, directs his question at me, his voice calm even as I'm sure he is seething deep inside.
"No, I–" I stutter, my words caught in my throat as Madison seizes the opportunity to taunt me.
"What's wrong, Hebert? Cat got your tongue?" she sneers, prompting snickers from the rest of the class. The pressure intensifies, and for a moment, I'm tempted to follow the compelling voice in my head, to escape from the classroom.
Then, something wholly unexpected transpires. My hands... they begin to move autonomously! My feet, too! I-I don't understand—what's happening? In a surreal sequence, my hands effortlessly place the book into my backpack.
"Hebert, explain yourself!" Mr. Quinlan demands, his voice rising in frustration. My bewildered expression must resemble a deer caught in a spotlight, as much as I yearn to provide an explanation, I find myself equally in the dark.
"Ah–I–." Before I can articulate a coherent response, my feet propel me out of the classroom, away from the stifling confines of Winslow High School.
S-someone! Please, stop me!
The hallway blurs as I dash through the corridors, a whirlwind of confusion and urgency. Students and teachers alike turn to watch my impromptu escape, their expressions a mixture of surprise and curiosity. The voice in my head remains a constant companion, its gentle guidance urging me onward.
In the blink of an eye, I burst through the school doors, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The outside air, crisp and liberating, greets me as I find myself standing on the school steps, free from the suffocating atmosphere within.
o-0-o
Panic courses through my veins as I find myself propelled forward against my will. The voice in my head has fallen silent, leaving me with nothing but the rhythmic beat of my footsteps echoing in my ears. A gentle force guides me, urging me forward with a relentless determination.
The streets of Brockton Bay blur into a disorienting montage as I struggle to comprehend the inexplicable situation. The meteor shower from the previous evening flashes in my mind, and an unsettling realization begins to take shape. Did that celestial event trigger something within me?
As the cityscape unfolds before me, my feet seem to be leading me toward the docks of Brockton Bay. Confusion gnaws at me, heightened by the fact that I'm not the most athletic person. Yet, I run for miles without breaking a sweat or feeling the slightest hint of fatigue. It's as if my body has transcended its normal limitations.
The only sweat I feel is a cold one, a result of my disconcerted state. Nervousness and the inability to comprehend the unfolding events make me perspire profusely. The docks draw nearer with each step, and the unknown destination looms ahead like a question mark hanging in the air.
The bustling sounds of the docks grow louder as I approach, the scent of saltwater and industry filling the air. I can't fathom why my feet have brought me here or what awaits me at this destination. The force guiding me persists, unwavering and insistent.
Despite the distance covered, my body remains unaffected by the exertion. It's a paradoxical experience—physically untouched by the demanding journey, yet mentally overwhelmed by the uncertainty of my circumstances.
I stand at the docks, my breath steady, my body seemingly immune to the winter breeze that should be chilling me to the bone. The ambient sounds of the harbor surround me—the creaking of ships, the distant hum of machinery, and the rhythmic lapping of water against the docks.
The sun hangs directly above, casting a cold, wintry glow across the scene. It's an odd contradiction; the weather should be biting, but my senses don't register the cold as they should. Perhaps it's the adrenaline coursing through my veins or some peculiar side effect of whatever force compels me forward.
The ships' graveyard unfolds before me—a haunting collection of vessels, their skeletal frames standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time. It's a desolate place, yet the force guiding me has brought me here for a reason.
As I traverse the docks, my confusion deepens, and a torrent of questions floods my mind. Why the docks? What significance does this place hold? The skeletal structures of the ships loom around me, each creak and groan echoing the mysteries hidden within their rusted hulls.
The air I inhale invigorates me, the salty breeze from the ocean waves momentarily soothing my nerves. Regardless of the season, the rhythmic dance of the waves has a way of momentarily sweeping away the weight of my problems. I pause, taking in the serene view, finding a brief respite from the chaos unfolding within.
My mind races as I try to piece together the events that led me to this desolate place. The figure I saw in the mirror this morning—resembling me but not quite. A ghostly specter haunting my reflection. I'm not a religious person, skepticism ingrained despite the existence of Parahumans and Endbringers. But what if, against all reason, I've been possessed by a ghost?
The thought lingers, casting a shadow over the rational explanations I attempt to conjure. Could this spectral presence be the force guiding me, pulling me toward the docks? A shiver runs down my spine as the possibility takes root in my mind.
With these swirling thoughts and unanswered questions, I decide to find a spot on the docks where I can sit down and mull over my situation. The wooden planks beneath me offer a sense of stability amidst the uncertainty, and I lower myself, resting against the cool, weathered surface.
The ships' graveyard unfolds before me, the skeletal structures creating a surreal backdrop to my contemplation. The rhythmic sounds of the waves continue to soothe, providing a strange comfort as I grapple with the inexplicable circumstances that have brought me to this point.
Part of me considers the option of returning to Winslow High School, attempting to resume some semblance of normalcy. However, the image of Sophia, Emma, and Madison waiting like predators in the halls dissuades me. I don't have an explanation for my absence, not one that would make any sense, and the prospect of facing their torment fills me with dread.
Instead, I entertain the idea of skipping the day entirely. I can't explain what's happening to me, and I have never felt this vulnerable before.
The winter breeze brushes against my face, and I find a strange solace in the cold air. The open sky above, unburdened by the walls of Winslow High, allows my thoughts to expand beyond the confines of my usual struggles.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to find some semblance of inner peace.
The attempt to find inner peace is abruptly shattered by the discordant sounds of an argument not far from where I sit. My eyes snap open, and I scan the area to identify the source of the commotion. There, not too far away, I witness a group of dock workers and tourists being harassed by a gang of thugs brandishing swords and knives.
The armbands they wear—green and red—bear the unmistakable mark of the Azn Bad Boys, one of the largest crime gangs in Brockton Bay. The notorious Lung leads this gang, a cape villain known for his formidable abilities. The realization sends a chill down my spine, knowing that crossing paths with the Azn Bad Boys is never a trivial matter.
The scene unfolds before me, a tableau of vulnerability and exploitation, a stark reminder of the sinister underbelly concealed beneath the surface of Brockton Bay. My heartbeat reverberates in my ears as I crouch behind a stack of crates, desperately attempting to meld into the shadows, avoiding the prying eyes of the Azn Bad Boys—the notorious gang notorious for their unscrupulous methods.
The grim reality of the situation sinks in, the dock workers and tourists left defenseless against the intimidating presence of the Azn Bad Boys. The once serene dock, now a battleground, pulses with an energy I never sought to engage with.
As I observe the escalating tension, fear courses through me, a visceral reminder of my own powerlessness in the face of Brockton Bay's criminal elements. However, my paralysis is shattered by a chilling realization—among the innocent victims caught in this crossfire, there are children. The thought of their safety being compromised propels me into a mental space where I question my own inaction.
In this moment of contemplation, I imagine my mother, a paragon of courage. Would she have stood idly by, allowing the injustices to unfold? The answer is a resounding no. She would have confronted the gang members, unwavering in her pursuit of what she deemed right.
I glance at my trembling hands, questioning my ability to make any meaningful impact. What can a seemingly weak and powerless girl do in the face of such danger? Then, a whisper of encouragement surfaces in my mind—I can help, even if only a little. It's a notion that contradicts my own self-perception, leading me to scoff at the audacity of such a thought.
Yet, the voice persists, telling me that I can help. Summoning the remnants of my courage, I scan the surroundings for any object that might aid me. Spotting a small pebble at my feet, I snatch it up, clutching it in my hand. Hesitation lingers, but with a deep breath, I commit to the impromptu plan.
Standing tall, I hurl the pebble towards the Azn Bad Boys, the seemingly insignificant projectile soaring through the air with surprising accuracy. To my astonishment, it connects with the back of one gang member's head, rendering him unconscious. The sudden shift in dynamics leaves me in disbelief, struggling to comprehend how such a modest throw could yield impactful results.
Seizing the moment, I watch as the dock workers and tourists, guided by the distraction, make a hurried escape to safety. The fallen gang member lies on the ground, a testament to the unexpected impact of my feeble throw. The Azn Bad Boys, now focused on their incapacitated comrade, exchange glances of confusion and anger.
My heart races with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. I hadn't anticipated the success of my impulsive action, and uncertainty swirls within me. The voice in my head, silent during the critical moment, leaves me to grapple with the consequences of my newfound ability.
As the gang members regroup, I retreat into the shadows, attempting to navigate the docks unnoticed. The voice resurfaces, its tone firm yet gentle.
Good start, Taylor.
Startled, I glance around, confirming that no one else is nearby.
My breath catches in my throat as I hear the approaching footsteps. Panic sets in, and I try to make a hasty escape, my heart pounding in my chest. However, the distinctive sound of my boots against the wooden docks inadvertently reveals my location.
The Azn Bad Boys, alerted to my presence, emerge from the shadows with menacing grins. Brandishing their weapons—knives and swords—they encircle me, cutting off any potential escape routes. Fear grips me, and I take a step back, only to find myself cornered against a stack of crates.
The leader of the gang, a burly man with a red armband, steps forward with a malicious glint in his eyes. "Look what we've got here. A little rat playing hero."
I swallow hard, my mind racing to find a way out of this perilous situation.
"Thought you could mess with us and get away, huh?" the leader sneers, his cronies closing in with predatory intent.
"You're gonna regret sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," one of the thugs warns, raising a knife threateningly.
As the thug swings his knife menacingly, a surge of adrenaline courses through my veins. Without conscious thought, I close my eyes, bracing for impact.
To my astonishment, my hand intercepts the man's wrist mid-swing. The collision sends a shockwave through me, but the grip holds firm. In that moment of vulnerability, I seize the opportunity. With a swift motion, I sweep his feet from under him, causing him to lose balance and stumble.
My body acts autonomously, as if guided by an unseen force. In one fluid motion, I hoist the disoriented thug over my shoulder and, with an unexpected surge of strength, hurl him into the cold depths of the sea.
The splash echoes in the silence that follows, and the remaining gang members stare in disbelief at their incapacitated comrade now struggling in the water. I stand there, my hand still extended from the impromptu maneuver, a mixture of shock and confusion etched across my face.
"Who the hell is this chick?" one of the thugs mutters, eyeing me with a mix of confusion and apprehension.
The gang's leader, unfazed by his comrade's misfortune, scowls and steps forward. "Enough games. You're gonna pay for that."
As I attempt to explain, my words sound absurd even to my own ears. "I didn't do that! It was... it was like someone else was controlling me!" I gesture to emphasize my confusion, but my shaky voice and wild-eyed expression only make me appear more erratic.
The gang members exchange incredulous glances, their skepticism evident. "Controlling you? You're loonier than you look," scoffs one of the thugs.
I can't blame them for their disbelief. After all, I'm struggling to comprehend the inexplicable events unfolding around me. The voice in my head, the newfound physical prowess, it's all beyond the realms of rational explanation.
"Look, just let me go. I don't want any trouble," I plead, aware that my words hold little weight. The thugs, undeterred by my feeble attempt at reason, advance with a renewed determination.
Step back, Taylor.
Without questioning, I instinctively take a step back, my body responding to the unseen guidance just in time. The leader of the gang, wielding a menacing sword, swings it through the air where I stood moments ago.
My heart pounds in my chest, the reality of the situation sinking in. The voice saved me. But who—or what—is guiding me?
The gang members, now visibly unnerved, exchange wary glances. "What the hell just happened?" one of them mutters.
Jump into the sea.
As their attention falters, the voice in my head urges me to seize the opportunity and jump into the sea
"What?!"
Panic rises within me; the winter sea is frigid, and I'm not a strong swimmer. The logical part of my mind screams against the idea, but my body, once again under the influence of the mysterious force, moves of its own accord.
As I plunge into the icy depths of the harbor, bracing myself for the expected cold shock, an unexpected warmth envelops me. It's not the biting chill of winter water that greets me; instead, I find myself encased in a luminous, red sphere. Eyes wide open in disbelief, I marvel at the surreal scene unfolding around me.
The sphere, glowing with an otherworldly radiance, shields me from the harshness of the underwater world. The muted sounds of the harbor become a distant murmur, and I can feel the gentle current as it brushes against the protective barrier. It's as though I'm suspended in a pocket of warmth within the frigid sea.
The warmth of the sphere continues to cradle me in its gentle embrace, shielding me from the biting cold of the harbor's depths. As the surreal experience unfolds, the events of the day finally catch up to me, and the fatigue of both body and mind becomes overwhelming.
With each passing moment, the weight of the day's unexpected twists and turns bears down on me. The encounter with the Azn Bad Boys, the mysterious voice guiding my actions, and now this inexplicable protective sphere—all of it weaves a tapestry of confusion and uncertainty.
As I surrender to the soothing warmth, consciousness slips away like grains of sand through my fingers. The sounds of the harbor, the muted whispers of the water, and the distant echoes of the city blend into a tranquil symphony, lulling me into a deep sleep.
o-0-o
I gasp as I reluctantly open my eyes, my consciousness returning to a reality both alien and mesmerizing. The sky above is a tapestry of vivid hues, a kaleidoscope that defies the familiar blue canvas. Floating lands beneath me add to the surreal spectacle, defying gravity and logic.
Anxiety grips me, rendering each breath a challenge in this unfamiliar environment. The ethereal landscape pulsates with an otherworldly energy, leaving me to grapple with the unsettling realization that I am no longer in the world I once knew.
A thunderous sound ruptures the strange tranquility, diverting my attention to the distance. There, a silver giant engages in a fierce battle against monstrous entities, grotesque in forms I could never have imagined. The sheer spectacle renders me breathless, caught between awe and terror.
Is this a dream, a fantastical illusion conjured by my fatigued mind? The battle between the silver giant and the nightmarish creatures unfolds like a cinematic sequence, blurring the lines between reality and the surreal.
In the midst of the cosmic clash, a single word echoes in my mind, unbidden and enigmatic. "Ultraman," I mutter, the syllables escaping my lips as if guided by an unseen force. The name resonates with an inexplicable familiarity, intertwining with the unfolding spectacle.
Ultraman, with deliberate movements, crosses its arms into an L-style. From its right arm, a radiant beam emanates, piercing through the monstrous foes and disintegrating them into cosmic dust. The display of power is both mesmerizing and daunting, raising more questions than answers.
The alien sky then splits open, giving birth to a swirling wormhole that tears through the fabric of reality. Emerging from the celestial gateway is an organic sphere, its unfolding revealing an immense, worm-like creature, an embodiment of cosmic dread.
Ultraman, undeterred, readies itself to confront the colossal adversary as it undulates toward him. The impending clash paints a cosmic tableau, each movement echoing in the caverns of my bewildered mind.
o-0-o
Abruptly, I awaken on a dry section of a beach, the sensation of sand beneath me a stark contrast to the cosmic battleground I had witnessed moments ago. Sitting up, I shake off the clinging grains from my hair, trying to reconcile the surreal events with the mundane reality of the beach. The sun still hangs high in the sky, casting its warm glow over the tranquil scene. I surmise that not much time has elapsed since my altercation with the ABB thugs.
With the ships' graveyard visible to the north, I speculate that I must be somewhere around Shantytown. How I arrived here is a mystery, and the disjointed transition from a cosmic battlefield to a desolate beach leaves me grappling with the inexplicable nature of my experiences.
A shiver runs down my spine as I ponder the possibility of the ABB thugs discovering my whereabouts. The threat of their retaliation lingers in my thoughts, urging me to remain vigilant. A quick glance around reveals no immediate threats, providing a momentary respite. The distant cry of seagulls and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore create a stark contrast to the chaos I had witnessed before.
Standing up, I wrestle with the surreal memories that linger in my mind. Was it all a dream, a vivid manifestation of my subconscious, or something more inexplicable? The uncertainty grips me, and fear gnaws at the edges of my thoughts. The lingering warmth of the cosmic sphere contrasts with the cool sea breeze, leaving me with a sense of disorientation.
I have no answers, no understanding of what is happening to me, or if anyone can offer help. For now, a decision forms in my mind—I'll head to the library. Knowledge has always been my refuge, a place where I seek solace and answers. With a keyword in mind—Ultraman—I hope to unravel the enigma that has woven itself into the fabric of my reality.
"Achoo!" I sneeze, the sudden chill in the air a reminder of my damp clothes. Never mind. I better head back home first and change into dry clothes.