Project A.N.E.W

Wake Up, Aiden

'Where am I?' Aiden feels drowsy, as if he is drugged. Around him, the world is blurry; its colours still spinning into focus. He hears the notes of bland elevator music.

Is it meant to be soothing?

'You're where you intended to be going. Except, you're not.'

The voice comes from a portly man, wearing a floral suit. His short hair is grey, and he sits down on the other side of a simple steel table standing between them. His eyes are unusual, a very pale shade of blue.

'What do you mean?'

'Teleportation,' the man says, looking down at a clipboard before him, and flicking through what appears to be a paper file. Glancing up at Aiden's confused look, he offers, 'ah, yes. Paper. Old fashioned, perhaps, but it can't be hacked. But then, you of all people would know that, wouldn't you.'

'Wha—'

'You're where we want you to be, Mr...' He quickly glances back at the file again, 'Witchowski. You travelled to Mars, didn't you?'

Aiden is beginning to feel sick. He had, by then, realised he is sitting on a steel chair—but, try as he might, he can't move. Only his head seems to be able to—and he uses it to look around the small room restlessly.

White. It is white, sterile. Yet there are green vines hanging against the sides of a digital display, to the right of the two men. Framing it, like curtains.

The "window" in the middle portrays lapping ocean waves, their sound peacefully echoing about the room, occasionally dispersed by the cries of silver gulls. But where is he, and why is he here? Why can't he move?

There is something cold at the back of his neck...

Sensing his distress, the man offers loudly, 'Ah, yes. That. We've temporarily disengaged your brain stem, Mr. Watchowski. Nothing to worry about, it happens naturally. When you're dreaming, or during sleep paralysis.'

He has a bow tie, Aiden notices. They were becoming popular again lately.

'...Am I dreaming now?' He manages to ask, his mouth dry. He swallows.

'Why on Terra would you think that?'

Aiden gestures with his head to the surroundings of the room. The portly man, taking his meaning, nods.

'Ah, yes. It's designed to be calming, you see. I told them that no amount of fluffing it up will soften the blow of waking up in a foreign place, unable to move, but that's designers for you.'

'So why am I—'

'Oh yes, of course. Down to business, then. I'm Bertrand, by the way.' He sits up and stretches across the table as if he would shake Aiden's hand, before remembering that he can't move.

Bertrand squeezes his hand shut, the green leather of his glove squeaking loudly between them. Slowly, he sits down again, and coughs loudly.

'Ah, anyway. We chose you because you have skills we need. You're a businessman, one who often travels between worlds. You make trade agreements, and transport sensitive files. In person. On paper. It's very rare, that. Not many travel by ship these days, mostly just the fanatics who argue that teleportation is immoral. But, anyway, even then, few travel as far as Titan, like you. We're lucky to have caught you taking a teleport for your holiday.'

'A... teleport?'

'Yes. You arrived on Mars safely, with your family, Mr. Watchowski. I've heard it's beautiful there, this time of year. But no-one knows that you're also here.'