The Time from Before

Not Alone

The capsule's lid popped open with a thunderous hiss, releasing a billowing cloud of cryogenic vapor that swirled through the stale air of the long-abandoned chamber. Allen Fletcher emerged from his metallic cocoon, blinking painfully as his eyes struggled to adjust to even the dim emergency lighting. Standing just over six feet with broad shoulders honed by years of military service, his face bore the grim determination of a soldier who had seen too much – even before the world had ended.

He remained motionless for several heartbeats, eyes closed as his consciousness slowly clawed its way back from the void. His muscles twitched involuntarily, nerve endings firing chaotically as his body reacquainted itself with existence. A sudden, blinding pain hammered behind his eyes, radiating outward until his entire skull seemed to throb in protest. Allen groaned, the sound unnaturally loud in the deathly silence of the bunker. When he finally forced his eyes open, the world swam before him, refusing to solidify.

The chamber around him told a story of catastrophic neglect. Once-pristine technology lay entombed beneath layers of dust and decay. The walls, reinforced concrete designed to withstand apocalyptic forces, had succumbed not to violence but to the patient malice of time itself. Hairline fractures mapped their way across surfaces like withered veins. The air hung heavy and oppressive, saturated with the unmistakable scent of rot and abandonment that seemed to penetrate his very pores.

Nausea washed over him in relentless waves, but decades of military discipline gave him the fortitude to push through it. With a sudden surge of adrenaline that his body shouldn't have been capable of producing in its current state, Allen launched himself upright. Instinct took command, overriding the weakness of his atrophied muscles. His eyes darted around the room, searching for threats as his right hand reflexively reached for the sidearm that should have been holstered at his hip but was conspicuously absent.

His breathing came in ragged gasps, echoing harshly in the confined space. As his cognitive functions gradually reestablished themselves, the initial panic ebbed, replaced by a momentary relief – only to be immediately succeeded by a creeping dread that settled in his chest like a physical weight.

Allen forced his gaze to methodically sweep the chamber again, this time searching not for enemies but for answers. How long had he been suspended in that artificial limbo? The state of decay surrounding him suggested far longer than any protocol would have dictated.

He staggered toward the nearest console, his legs trembling beneath him like those of a newborn deer. The screens flickered erratically, most displaying incomprehensible fragments of data or nothing at all. Those that functioned scrolled through diagnostics and status reports that made his blood run cold. The stasis duration calculations were astronomical – impossible – yet the evidence of his surroundings corroborated the unthinkable truth. One fact stood out with terrifying clarity: his capsule's life support systems had been mere hours from complete failure. The margin between his awakening and his death was razor thin.

Allen looked down at his uniform, a once-crisp embodiment of Arctos Dominion authority now reduced to little more than tattered fabric hanging from his frame. The insignia that had once proudly denoted his rank as Sergeant First Class was barely discernible, the edges frayed, and colors bleached by time's unyielding passage. A wave of existential vertigo threatened to overwhelm him as he confronted the reality of how much history had unfolded – and likely ended – while he slumbered in oblivious stasis.

"Focus." He commanded himself, his voice emerging as little more than a rasp that scraped against his parched throat. The word hung in the stale air, both a command and a lifeline to which he desperately clung. "Assess. Adapt. Survive."

The mantra, drilled into every Arctos soldier from day one of training, helped center his thoughts. He was a soldier, forged in the crucible of conflict. If anyone was equipped to face whatever waited beyond these walls, it was him.