#wrong planet

Initially, she didn’t realize she was dreaming. The real world and her own brain are both confusing enough—who can blame False for the mix-up? A landscape that refuses to remain unchanged; pulsating; restless; hungry. Home is murky liquid slipping through False’s fingers, and her mind is left scrambling for the image it left behind. She can’t wake up—she’s tried, over and over again. No matter what she does, she remains stubbornly asleep.

Being trapped within your own subconscious is a terribly fickle thing.

False walks. What else is there to do? She follows crossing paths down to the city, rows of office buildings and apartment complexes, neon signs advertising non-existent businesses and, inexplicably, a mayoral candidate, to empty streets. Perfectly manicured hedges sit within rectangular planters that line the sidewalks. Every interior behind the white-stained windows False glances into is bare.

False walks until the footpaths become wider roads and the roads lead into the central tower. Looking up at it from the city hadn’t done the tower’s sheer scale justice; False has been shrouded in its long shadow for what feels like forever—time is a logical artifact of the real world; it has no place here—and the sun is entirely invisible behind the tower’s looming silhouette. She steps inside.

If the outside had made False feel small, she feels positively miniscule within it. Sunlight pours through the topmost dome and each of the tall windows that run down the sides of the tower, catching against the glass of each of the higher levels’ balcony railings before hitting the mirrored floor beneath False’s feet; the effect is dizzying. Four different wings, accented by harsh blue lights and soundless water features branch off from the main room. Something about it puts False on edge.

False casts her gaze sharply downwards, a shield against the kaleidoscope above her, an old habit that still clings, and mistakenly catches a glimpse of herself at her feet before flinching away. She doesn’t recognize the stranger in her reflection with features so similar to her own.

Suddenly desperate to be away from the mirror, False strides into the wing closest to her—a pair of elevators. The thought of being confined within such a tiny space sets panic prickling at her palms. The promise of the higher vantage point found on the upper levels leads False to finding a set of emergency stairs and climbing them until the back of her shirt collar is damp and her breaths wheeze from her lungs.

The highest level of the tower is a circular hallway, with doors spaced evenly around the glass-floored center of the room directly beneath the domed roof. Storage rooms filled with strange mechanical parts and offices with desks piled high with mostly indecipherable paperwork blur together as False riles through them. The windows whose ledges she climbs to see through them overlook views of unmoving robots upon bright cyan land; blank hexagonal plates laid out over a calm blue sea. Where is she?

The last of the doors, the one furthest away from the elevators and stairs, is locked. Its mechanism appears to be a surprisingly simple key lock, not at all what False would’ve expected amidst such a space. Curiosity and dread gnaw at her core in equal amounts. She makes quick work of picking the lock open.

The light of the hallway pours into the pitch-black space. False feels for a light switch along the wall; when she flicks it, hanging lights flare to life one by one along the center of the ceiling, casting the room in a cold white. The onslaught of a headache casts its accusing finger behind False’s eyes.

Half-filled shelves line the walls and metal pipes run along the ceiling above them. Empty racks on wheels lay abandoned on the floor in front of a long, stark-white counter. In the back corner is a tube-like chamber, large enough for False to stand in, the last remnants of its glass walls clinging to its copper frame in wicked shards. Leaves of crumpled and torn paper litter every surface of the room. A clock ticks on the far wall.

False doesn’t know what to make of it all. The answer feels so close. Acrid foreboding curdles in her stomach.

She bites her tongue in frustration and approaches a corner of the counter, upon which an askew clipboard rests. With unsteady hands, False picks it up and squints at the shred of paper still caught beneath its clip.

The words are unintelligible, a hasty scrawl written with a heavy hand, but the sliver of blonde hair and pale skin surrounding too-bright blue eyes is unmistakable. False’s face, for once her own, stares back at her.

She drops the clipboard and runs. All but stumbling back down the stairs, she skids across the mirrored floor and sprints blindly for the nearest exit. The clock’s ticking rings in her ears.

False flees back to the hollow city and drops into a crouch in the middle of the road. It’s not familiar yet, but she’ll become acquainted enough with the landscape until it morphs into its next iteration, and then her memory will melt away with it and she won’t have to think about all of this anymore. She’ll sit right here while she waits, away from the tower and its mirrors and its unsettling rooms. It’s not real. It’s not real.

The ticking finds her even down here, echoing through the barren streets, maddingly loud against the silence. False ignores it until she can’t take it anymore. The sound of her boots hitting pavement as she wanders another lap around the city is a blessed respite. By her third loop around the block, something green and impossibly animated on the corner catches False’s eye.

An explosion of foliage blooms in the alleyway between the buildings at the edge of the intersection. Long, curving vines climb the orange and white buildings on either side of the alley. Colorful flowers tucked between lush leaves sway in a breeze False can’t feel, collected around a dirt path that leads up to a silver metal gate, left invitingly ajar.

It’s a trick. It has to be, right? The garden is just something her brain’s thought up and put in place to torture False with some new, fresh horror. It’s not real.

Despite every instinct screaming at her to run, False tentatively takes a step towards it. What’s there to lose at this point, right?

When nothing leaps out of the bushes and attacks her, she inches forwards again. With every step closer, the stillness of the city falls away. The ambrosial freshness of foliage fills False’s senses, and she swears she can hear birdsong. Even False herself changes; when her feet touch the dirt, feeling floods her limbs, connecting them to her body in a way False hadn’t even realized she’d missed. Her vision glows sharper, the world more vivid. The ticking of invisible clocks falls away entirely.

False touches a single hand to the gate. The world goes dark as she’s pulled through.

—☾—

Warmth. The first thing False notices is warmth, beaming down upon her and pooling in the places her skin meets itself. Blinking open bleary eyes, False squints against the sudden, harsh light, and quickly shuts them again. Everything aches.

Awareness comes back to her all at once, and False registers that she’s sprawled on hard ground. Her eyes flare open—ow, right into the sun, that’s what the warmth is—and she almost falls scrambling to her feet, so False settles on sitting upright, digging her fingers into the earth around her. When she brings her hands to her face to pass them over her cheeks, the dirt clings beneath her fingernails.

After giving herself a moment to come fully to, False slowly rises to her feet and takes in the space around her. The path she stands upon is dark dirt, accompanied by wooden steps where the land slopes upwards, continuing on beneath what looks to be a cave, its underbelly leaden with hanging vines and ripe glowberries.

False’s stomach, she realizes with a jolt of shock, grumbles at the thought of them. It’s been so long since she’s felt hungry. Maybe she could investigate the rest of her surroundings and come back to them—who knows what could lurk beyond the vines? She’s not even sure if she’s dreaming anymore.

The cave turns out to be more of an arch, and the other side of it is breathtaking, bursting with bright, undeniable life. Sepia-toned buildings stand proud between fields of wheat and patches of trees that all dance in the same wind that lifts the ends of False’s hair. Low stone walls line the path and contain the fluffy foliage present throughout. A cat perches upon one of the ridges, regarding False with vague interest. There are sunflowers everywhere, all facing towards where she had just come from.

It feels terribly, frighteningly safe. False never wants to leave. It’s not real. It can’t be.

Soft chatter floats through the air, its source a group of people in vibrant shades of green and yellow, laughing as they work near the edge of one of the fields. False freezes. Of all the things she’s had to deal with, people haven’t been one of them. Should she go to them? No, definitely not, right? But they could at least tell her where she is…

Her dilemma is interrupted by the soft crunching of dirt under foot. A playfully musical voice calls out, “You alright there?”

She’s intimidating. The broadness to her shoulders and solidness of her stance speaks to a strength that worries False. She’s beautiful. Golden feathered wings fan out on either side of her, the same color as the petals of the sunflowers that adorn her rich brown hair. Her green dress falls to her knees, and freckles dance across her bare skin. Sweat streaks dirt lines along her forehead as it drips. She feels real.

At False’s lack of response, the woman in green tilts her head. “You’re looking a little heat exhausted there, mate. Can I take you to the tavern for a drink and some rest?”

What does she do, what does she say? Social niceties have never been False’s strong suit, but they fail her completely now. “Um…”

The woman’s brow crinkles with concern. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No! No, I’m alright. Erm.” False wishes she had her elytra. Perhaps a pit conveniently beneath her feet to fall into. “…A drink sounds great, thanks,” she finishes lamely.

Looking unconvinced, the woman shrugs. “Right this way, then. Are you from around here?”

Does False lie? Admit that she’s completely at this woman’s mercy? She decides on, “Not from here, no. I’m a… traveler.”

“A traveler! Well, welcome to Gilded Helianthia, mate. I’m Pearl, and I don’t believe I caught your name?” Pearl starts forward in what False hopes is the direction of the tavern.

“False,” she supplies, falling into tentative step behind her. She’s never heard of Gilded Helianthia, certainly never Pearl. Pearl doesn’t seem particularly inclined to hurt False, at least.

“Nice to meet you, False!” Pearl’s voice is as warm as could be. “It’s nice to have visitors. Tourists tend to go for Mythland, y’know? I don’t blame them, it’s very pretty this time of year.”

“Mythland?” False echoes without meaning to, then winces.

Pearl gives her an odd look. “Mythland? Ruled by King Sausage? Has that whole blood sheep thing going on, but really quite lovely. You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

False gives a nervous laugh. Her head throbs.

Pearl waves a reassuring hand. “No worries at all; nothing wrong with being new! Mythland is a neighboring empire, and one of our allies. Sausage has had some… weird stuff going on lately, but he’s friendly.”

“Got it,” False says, if only to keep moving. Sweat prickles at the back of her neck. Discomfort itches at her gloved palms. Empire?

“Gosh, I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?” Pearl gives a slight shake of her shoulders and picks up her pace.

“No, it’s okay, I like explanations,” False says awkwardly. “Learning how things work… yeah.”

“You do strike me as the type,” Pearl says. “Are you at all interested in magic? Crystal Cliffs’ magic academy will be opening soon, open to all students!”

Magic? False isn’t so sure. “I like… making things. Machinery and such,” she says, hoping Pearl doesn’t take offense.

Pearl brightens. “I get that!” Leaning closer, conspiratorially, she says, “This empire’s rooted in magic, but between you and me, I’ve always preferred getting my hands dirty.”

“Your dress is an interesting choice for that,” False says, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

“I’ve got to look queenly in some regard!” Pearl laughs. “You ought to give The Grimlands a visit at some point. Inventor-types, the lot of them. You with your goggles would fit right in,” she says, her tone teasing but not insincere. False reaches up to touch her goggles. She’d forgotten she has them on.

The conversation flows uncomfortably well between them as they walk. Pearl notes the purpose of each structure as they pass them and in return False tells her a bit about the inventions that sit upon her workbench back in Cogsmeade, trying to ignore the pain in her chest when she speaks of it. In another life, Pearl would’ve been a good ally.

The trek to the tavern is a reasonable one. The tavern itself is a large, inviting building with a wooden sign out front that labels it The Golden Sunflower, its namesake planted by the handful around it. The scent of meat pies and warm pastries that wafts from it fiercely rekindles False’s appetite.

“And finally, that’s the…” Pearl falters, stopping in her tracks entirely. She glances at False, and for a split second, all familiarity falls from her face. False takes a step back.

Pearl opens her mouth as if to speak when her entire form flickers. Her beautiful wings smolder and the end of her dress charrs, scattering ash upon her now-bare feet. Her eyes glow bright; burning. False almost stumbles over her own feet in her hasty retreat, and hits a stone wall hard enough to force all the air from her lungs. The ticking starts anew.

“Pearl?” False hesitantly calls out. She feels like the floor’s disappeared beneath her when she’s only just started to find her footing.

White-hot eyes meet False’s own; it’s hard to hold them. She looks away.

“False. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” Pearl says. Her accent is the same, shaping her words into something strong, but her voice almost seems to echo.

“Pearl?” False tries again. She’s not sure what else to say.

“We don’t have much time.” Pearl clasps her hands together. Bewildered, False stays silent. “Listen, False, you’re not as alone as you think you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? That’s not comforting, if it’s supposed to be.” It’s a miracle False can hear anything through the damn clocks.

Pearl continues, “You’re stronger than you know.”

How could False be strong? These hands of hers wield a sword she doesn’t remember picking up; her mind is something to be escaped.

“And you’ll make it through, okay?” Something in Pearl’s fiery eyes shifts.

“Through what? Make it through what?” False thinks she may be pleading. The clocks’ relentless drum multiplies.

Pearl draws closer, stopping squarely in front of False. She regards False with a firm line of the mouth and soft set to her eyes. Raising her hands, she places two calloused fingers on each of False’s temples. False finds herself too shocked to move.

“It’s time for you to wake up,” Pearl says gently.

As the world fades into darkness, it changes, lightning-fast: Gilded Helianthia in flames, the sky above shrouded in storms. The rubble’s smoke reduces to wisps and the ruin disappears into the ground, reclaimed by the earth once more as soft green grass and tiny saplings grow tall in the blink of an eye. Right before it all goes black, the ash dissipates from Pearl’s form and the damage to her dress and wings is undone, and False swears the light around her head forms a halo.

—☾—

In her own bed, tucked away in a corner of Cogsmeade, False gasps awake. Morning sunlight pours through the window behind her, and the cat that's been asleep at False’s feet lifts its head and meows. The docked airship outside hums its mechanical tune as the iron farm contained within churns away. False’s headache is a dull throb. The faint scent of sunflowers lingers in the air.