1099—
Somewhere in Rivens—
Krista's eyes fluttered open like a moth caught in a jar—jerky, confused, desperate for light that didn't hurt. Pain came first. Not the polite kind that taps you on the shoulder. No. This was the kind that kicked down the door, stomped on your chest, and laughed while it lit a cigarette off your burning spleen.
Her vision swam. Trees. Not normal trees. Think Jurassic Park meets Hellraiser. Twisted trunks, bark like charred flesh, branches bent at angles that made Euclid roll over in his grave. The air? Thick. Like breathing through a wet sock stuffed with rotting meat and sulfur candles. Smelled like a landfill after a meth lab explosion.
Ground beneath her? Cold. Wet. Not mud. Not soil. Something… alive. Squelched when she shifted. Like it was digesting her.
And then—the roars.
Not lions. Not bears. Not even the T-Rex from that one Spielberg joint. No. These were deeper. Slower. Like tectonic plates screaming as they ripped apart. Echoed from everywhere and nowhere. Made her spine do the cha-cha down to her tailbone.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Vision sharpened just enough.
Three moons.
Blue.
Green.
Red.
Hanging in the sky like a fucked-up traffic light designed by H.R. Giger after a bender. Their glow painted the forest in hues that didn't belong on any Pantone chart. Purple shadows. Orange highlights. Everything looked like it was rotting in real-time.
Krista groaned. Tried to push up. Her arms shook like she'd bench-pressed a Buick. Head? Throbbing like a dubstep bassline. Ribs? Sore. Thigh? Oh, sweet baby Jesus—that was the main event. Fiery. Pulsing. Like someone had shoved a branding iron into her leg and left it there to sizzle.
But worse than the pain?
The wrongness.
Not fear. Not panic. Something deeper. Like her soul had tripped on a cosmic rug and was now dangling over an abyss it didn't even know existed.
She turned her head—slow, like her neck was full of rusty ball bearings—and saw it.
The Subaru.
Upside down. Half-swallowed by vines that looked like veins. Windows cracked. Hood crumpled like tinfoil. Smoke curling lazy from the engine like it was taking a post-apocalyptic cigarette break.
And inside?
Olivia.
Still strapped in. Head lolled to the side. Blood trickling from a gash above her left eyebrow. Pale. Too pale. But breathing. Shallow. Steady.
Krista's lips moved before her brain caught up.
"What. The. Fuck."
Krista coughed. Blood speckled her palm. Tasted copper and regret. Her right eye burned—glass shard still embedded near the brow. She didn't pull it. Not yet. Priorities.
Seatbelt. Jammed. Of course it was. She yanked. Twice. Cursed. Kicked the door. Once. Twice. Third time—the hinges screamed like a banshee giving birth, and the door gave way. Glass rained down. Glittered in the triple-moon glow like cursed diamonds.
She half-fell, half-crawled out. Cheek hit the squelching ground. Dirt. Moss. Something that wriggled. She didn't look.
"Get it together," she muttered, voice raw. "You've had worse hangovers."
Lie. She hadn't.
Elbows. Knees. Dragging ass across glass and goo. Every inch, her thigh screamed. Bullet wound. From before. From the FBI-LAPD joint raid. The one where a stray 5.56 went through her walls and struck her after she let the Browning roared.
Now? Now it was pissed.
She reached the backseat. Duffle bag. Thank God. Zipped open with trembling fingers. Medkit. Tweezers. Flashlight. Duct tape. Protein bars. Guns. Grenades. A boatload of ammunition. Spare blades. Standard apocalypse starter pack.
She jammed the flashlight between her teeth. Beam shaky. Illuminated the wound.
Entry point: angry. Swollen. Pulsing. Skin around it purple-black. Bullet still in there. Probably. Maybe. Hope so. Better than it migrating to her femoral artery.
"This is gonna suck balls," she hissed around the flashlight.
Tweezers in. Deep. Deeper. Metal scraping bone? Maybe. She bit down. Hard. Plastic cracked. Flashlight died. Didn't matter. She could feel it now. The slug. Nestled like a turd in a birthday cake.
Pop.
Clink.
Bullet hit the moss. Blackened. Misshapen. Looked like it had been chewed by a pissed-off god.
Then—alcohol.
Bottle. Twist cap. Pour.
Scream.
Not a scream. A howl. Animal. Primal. Echoed through the trees. Birds? What birds? There were no birds. Just the roars. And now… something else. Rustling. Closer.
She wrapped the wound. Tight. Duct tape over gauze. Looked like a middle-school science project gone wrong.
"Fucking Hollywood," she panted, leaning back against the wreck. "Rambo made this look like a spa day."
Olivia.
Always Olivia.
Krista crawled back. Knife out. Serrated edge. Sliced through the seatbelt like it was wet paper. Eased her sister out. Gentle. Like handling a bomb made of glass and guilt.
Olivia's head lolled. Blood matted her blonde hair. Still breathing. Good. Good.
Krista looped the backpack straps around Olivia's waist. Secured her own duffle to it. Double-knotted. Triple-checked. Couldn't afford to lose gear. Not here. Not now.
Then—the lift.
Gritted teeth. Screaming thigh. Arms trembling. But she got Olivia onto her back. Piggyback style. Like when they were kids. Except now Olivia weighed more, and Krista was bleeding internally.
She reached into the duffle. TAR-21. Israeli bullpup. Reliable. Heavy. Chambered in 5.56. She checked the mag. Still full. Fresh. Safety off. Slung it across her chest.
One last look at the Subaru.
Smoke. Twisted metal. Their old life, buried under alien vines.
"Useless now," she whispered.
Turned.
Forest ahead.
Orange-purple daylight filtering through canopy like stained glass in a cathedral built by madmen.
Every step? Agony.
Every breath? Rot and regret.
"Hang in there, Liv," she whispered, voice cracking. "We'll find help. I promise."
Lie. She had no idea what "help" even meant here.
They walked.
Or rather, Krista limped. Dragged. Stumbled. Olivia's weight a constant anchor. The forest thickened. Vines snaked across the path—if you could call it a path. Ground squelched. Trees whispered. Not wind. Whispered. Like they were gossiping about her.
Then—
The sound.
Not a roar.
A screech.
Guttural. Wet. Like Mitch Lucker gargling broken glass and battery acid while being electrocuted. Came from everywhere. Nowhere. Getting closer.
Krista froze.
Heart? Jackhammer in her throat.
Eyes? Darting. Scanning. Nothing. Then—movement. Left. Right. Ahead.
She lurched for cover. Fallen tree. Hollow. Moss-covered. Smelled like death and feet.
Lowered Olivia inside. Gentle. Too gentle. Like she was made of smoke.
Rifle up. Safety off. Click-clack of the charging handle. Familiar. Comforting.
Then—
It stepped out.
Eight feet tall. Maybe nine. Armor? Black. Jagged. Looked like it was forged in a volcano fed by nightmares. Helmet? Horned. Eyes? Glowing red. Slits. No face. Just hate.
Sword? Longer than Krista. Wider than her thigh. Dripping something black.
It saw her.
Locked on.
Didn't roar. Didn't charge.
Just… tilted its head.
Like a cat deciding whether to play with the mouse or just eat it.
Krista didn't wait.
Squeezed the trigger.
Ratatatatatat!
Bullets tore into its chest. Sparks. Black blood—thick, oily, stinking of sulfur and week-old roadkill—sprayed like a burst sewage pipe.
The thing staggered. Snarled. Took three more steps. Collapsed.
Silence.
Krista didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then—
More rustling.
More screeching.
More them.
Three. Five. Ten. Emerging from the trees like shadows given teeth.
"Oh, come the fuck on!" Krista screamed.
Opened fire.
Headshots. Chest shots. Whatever. They dropped. One. Two. Three. Four.
Click.
Empty.
"Shit!"
Reload. Fresh mag. Clack. Fire again.
They kept coming.
One broke through. Sword raised. Faster than it looked.
Krista dropped the rifle. Reached into her hoodie. Wakizashi. Short blade. Polished steel.
She ducked. Rolled. Slashed at its legs. Tendons? Snapped. The knight howled—real sound, not screech—and dropped to one knee.
Krista didn't hesitate.
Spun. Ducked under its arm. Blade up. Across the throat.
Schlick.
Black blood—hot, burning—sprayed across her hands. Skin blistered instantly. Smelled like melting plastic and regret.
"FUCK! SHIT! GODDAMN IT!" she screamed, stumbling back, shaking her hands like she'd grabbed a live wire.
Knight collapsed. Twitched. Died.
She scrambled. Grabbed rifle. Reloaded. Fired. Last mag. Last bullets.
Dropped the rest.
Silence.
Again.
Krista slumped. Knees hit the moss. Hands blistered. Thigh bleeding again. Stomach churning.
Corpses everywhere. Black. Twisted. Not human. Not demon. Something… else. Armor still steaming. Blood pooling, eating into the ground like acid.
She stared.
"What the fuck are you things?" she whispered.
Looked at her hands. Blisters weeping. Skin peeling.
"This can't be real."
But it was.
Had to be.
Because Olivia was still breathing.
And Krista was still alive.
And in worlds like this? That meant you kept moving.
Moonless sky now. Orange-purple faded to bruise-black. Stars? Wrong constellations. Too many. Too bright. Like someone spilled glitter on a funeral shroud.
Krista found the cave.
Shallow. Rocky. Smelled like wet dog and old bones. Good enough.
Laid Olivia down. Adjusted her head. Checked pulse. Steady.
"Stay put," she muttered. "Need fire. Need water. Need… not to die."
Wandered out. Forest darker now. Sounds louder. Closer.
Found a stream.
Crystal clear. Babbling. Peaceful.
Drank.
Immediately regretted it.
Tasted like battery acid filtered through a gym sock. Gagged. Vomited. Stomach twisted like a wet towel in a fist.
"Goddamn it!" she choked, wiping mouth. "Even the water's trying to kill me."
Stumbled back. Gathered wood. Dry. Brittle. Snapped like old bones.
Fire. Finally. Flickering. Warm. Shadows dancing like drunk puppets on the cave walls.
She slumped. Exhaustion hit like a freight train made of anvils.
Checked Olivia again. Breathing. Good.
Bandaged her head. Gently.
Olivia stirred.
Eyelids fluttered.
"Krista…?" Voice weak. Drugged-sounding.
Krista's heart did a backflip. "Hey, you. Took you long enough."
Olivia blinked. Looked around. Confused. Terrified. "Where…? Why cave?"
Krista grimaced. Clutched stomach. Still burning. "Not Earth," she rasped. "Long story. Rest first."
Olivia's eyes fell to Krista's hands. Blistered. Raw. "Your hands…"
Krista hid them. "Doesn't matter."
Olivia frowned. Tried to sit up. Krista pushed her down. "Don't. You're hurt."
"I'm always hurt," Olivia whispered.
Silence.
Fire crackled.
Olivia's gaze drifted. To the pistol. 1911. Black. Gleaming. Beside Krista's thigh.
Dark thought slithered in.
If I wasn't here… she'd be free.
Hand trembled. Reached. Fingers closed around grip. Cold metal. Heavy.
Thumb flicked safety.
Click.
Pulled slide.
Chhk.
Chambered round.
Krista's eyes snapped open.
Instinct. Training. Survival.
In a flash—she had the pistol. Yanked it from Olivia's grip.
"What the FUCK are you doing?!" she roared. Echo bounced off cave walls like a trapped scream.
Olivia froze. Tears. Instant. Rivers down her cheeks. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I just—"
"You were gonna shoot yourself?!" Krista's voice cracked. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
"I'm dead weight!" Olivia sobbed. "You'd be better off without me! I can't walk! I can't fight! I can't even pee without help! All I do is slow you down!"
Krista's face went stone. Cold. Hard. "Dead weight? You think this—" she gestured at the cave, the forest, the blisters, the blood—"is easier without you? You think I want to do this alone?!"
Olivia flinched. "I just wanted to help—"
"HELP?!" Krista laughed. Bitter. Broken. "You think blowing your brains out is helping? You think I wanna carry your corpse and your guilt?!"
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Worse than the forest air.
Olivia whispered, "I hate you."
Krista froze.
Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Olivia turned away. Faced the wall. Voice small. Shattered. "I hate you… but I hate myself more."
Silence.
Then—
Olivia's voice, quiet. Bitter. Resigned.
"Ironic, isn't it? We both had two completely different stances on isekai. Me? I wanted the cozy one. Tea. Books. Fluffy blankets. You? You wanted the realistic one. Blood. Grit. Survival. And now?" She wiped her tears. Snuggled into her jacket. Voice flat. Dead.
"Fuck this Dark Souls-ass world."
Krista didn't answer.
She just stared into the fire.
And for the first time since they'd crashed…
She didn't have a plan.
Just pain.
Just fear.
Just her sister.
And a world that wanted them dead.