The cold was the first thing he felt.
A shiver ran across his bare skin, damp with sweat and coated in dust. When his heavy eyelids finally lifted, the harsh glow of greenish lamps forced a groan from his throat.
The smell came next. An acrid stench of rust and smoke, mixed with something subtler yet more persistent—hydrocarbons and mildew. Each breath seared his throat. He tried to sit up, but a violent dizziness forced his palm flat against the damp ground. His fingers struck a stone—cold, too thin, too frail.
He lowered his eyes.
They weren't his hands.
They were small, bony, mottled with bruises and half-healed cuts.
A tremor rattled his chest. His gaze traveled up along his arms, over a body thin, almost fragile. His legs looked shorter, his tattered clothes hanging like rags stolen from a corpse.
He touched his face: hollow cheeks, youthful features stretched tight over bone.
— No…
His voice was alien, broken, the voice of a boy barely past childhood.
A flood of contradictory memories crashed through him. Blurred images: a room with white walls, the blue glow of a screen, trivial conversations, the monotony of earthly life. Then… nothing. And now, this alley.
He raised his head. The walls around him were blackened with chemical deposits. Further away, a metal walkway groaned under the hurried steps of shadowy figures. The deep rumble of enormous machines vibrated through his bones. Everything felt alive, oppressive, as if the city itself were breathing.
He was alive.
But not in his body.
And above all… he was alone.
His heart began to pound faster, dragging his breathing into panic. Cold air, saturated with metallic fumes, sliced into his lungs like knives.
Then, suddenly, a dry, vicious cough shattered the panic.
Each spasm ripped his throat raw, his frail ribs bending under the strain. A bitter taste of blood and dust rose in his mouth. He clutched his arms against himself, whimpering, unable to control this body that wasn't his own.
When the coughing finally subsided, he remained sprawled on his back, gasping, his eyes fixed on the makeshift ceiling covering the alley. Loose planks and twisted sheets of metal let through thin streaks of greenish light.
He inhaled slowly.
The panic had ebbed, replaced by a crushing fatigue. His muscles trembled as if he had run for miles. His breath still whistled, fragile, too shallow.
— What's… happening to me…? he whispered, his voice alien, almost broken.
Silence answered him. A deceptive silence, barely disturbed by a deep, regular rumble—like the heartbeat of some distant machine. From time to time came a metallic clatter, followed by muffled footsteps somewhere above.
Newt wanted to draw a deep breath to steady himself but stopped short when he saw a ribbon of polluted mist drifting before his eyes.
With no other choice, he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, sinking into meditation.
The meditation wrapped around him like an old habit.
His chest no longer convulsed with ragged breaths. His breathing, though shallow, found a steady, measured rhythm. His raw throat no longer hurt; he accepted it as data, a condition of the body, nothing more.
Little by little, his heart slowed. Each beat more deliberate, less frantic. The outside world remained hostile, thick with mechanical noise and toxic stench—but it no longer held sway over him.
Newt sank into inner silence.
He pictured the questions spinning in his mind like leaves in the wind… then laid them down before him, one by one.
Why this body?
He set his hands on his knees, feeling the frailty of his limbs. Too small. Too young. Thirteen, perhaps. Not his. Not the one he had known. So—he had changed. Was this regression? Reincarnation? Impossible to say.
Why here?
He inhaled slowly, despite the acrid bite of the mist. This place wasn't familiar, and yet… something about it didn't feel entirely foreign. The noises, the metal structures, the suffocating sky that never opened. He couldn't yet name it. But his intuition told him this was no longer Earth.
Why him?
He tried to retrace the chain of his memories. A screen. A room. A banal life. Nothing exceptional. Nothing that explained being cast into this place. No divine light, no message, no voice. Nothing. Conclusion: either this was meaningless chance, or some phenomenon for which he had no clues yet.
He opened his eyes again, calm now, gazing at the yellowish fog floating just above the ground.
— So… he reasoned aloud, what I know for now is this: I'm in a new body, in an unknown place, with no resources. The simplest logic says the priority is to learn the rules of this place, and survive. The answers will come later.
He exhaled long and slow, watching the mist drift apart.
With a slight effort, he pushed himself upright, staggered once, then focused on the two exits of the alley. One vanished into shadow, the other leaked shifting light and the echo of distant voices. Without hesitation, he chose the latter and stepped forward.
The alley spilled into a broader street. The world opened before him.
Figures hurried past without pause: adults with hollow faces, gaunt adolescents, grimy children. Each seemed consumed by their own survival. No one spared him a glance.
To them, he was nothing.
Another street brat, doomed to vanish sooner or later.
Newt was not shocked. He had never intended to beg for pity. Compassion wasn't a strategy. Survival was.
So he merged with the flow, letting it carry him like debris on a river. No destination, no plan yet. Only his eyes, wide and watchful, drinking in every detail.
And barely ten minutes were enough to feed his mind.
1: The buildings. Tall, narrow, patched with tin and planks, dripping with damp. Nothing clean. Structures lashed together with bridges and walkways lacking guardrails.
2: The air. Saturated with chemical fumes, sometimes so strong he had to hold his breath. This wasn't natural pollution: it was omnipresent, and the inhabitants seemed accustomed—resigned. That meant it had been here for a very long time.
3: The people. Humans and non-humans walked side by side without discrimination.
4: The currency. Quick exchanges of tarnished coins, colored vials, scraps of metal. No bills, no cards. Barter and metal ruled here.
5: The light. The sky never truly opened. Greenish crystal lamps served as a mockery of the sun.
Seeing all this, Newt sighed.
How could any human being with a shred of self-respect resign themselves to live in such conditions?
He saw only a few possibilities.
Either the outside world was in an even worse state than what he saw here. Perhaps a nuclear war or some similar disaster, driving the survivors into these smoke-choked caverns.
Or these people had never known anything better. If they endured the poisoned air, the dripping walls, the artificial light, maybe it was because they had no other reference. For them, this filth was not degradation, but normality.
Or some external power deliberately kept them in this misery. The rickety bridges that discouraged expansion, the pollution that killed slowly without sparking revolt, money reduced to scraps of metal and strange vials… All invisible chains to hold an entire population by the throat. The only question was whether it was deliberate or not.
He studied the passersby: humans and non-humans crossing without even glancing at each other, without conflict, bound together in the same resignation. That, too, was a fact. Here, species meant nothing—only survival until the next day.
Newt pressed his lips together.
His hypotheses still clashed with the lack of information. But one thing was certain: this world was not his. And if he hadn't chosen to come, then someone—or something—had put him here.
He lowered his eyes to his child's hands, fists clenched tight.
Thirteen years old. Almost nothing. But a blank slate on which he could write his future.
— Very well… he thought. Then I'll observe, understand, and adapt.
Survival, once again, would depend on his ability to think faster than the others.
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Here's the first chapter of a story that came to me after watching both seasons of Arcane.
I've browsed through the few fanfictions available here, but none of them really explored the idea I had in mind.
To be honest, I'm not sure yet where this story will lead me—or even if I'll continue it. That will depend on the reception it gets. Just a heads-up: some parts might get a little bloody.
In any case, if the story catches your interest, don't hesitate to leave a comment—it would really motivate me to keep going. If not, no worries! I still wish you a pleasant read and a great day!