Work Text:
A void so deep it feels like existence itself has been erased.
Then, a sound.
Click.
Another.
A cascade of turning mechanisms, each grinding into motion. The gears awaken, their relentless churn splitting the silence, and with their first turn, the darkness is banished—shattered like brittle glass under an unrelenting force.
From the friction of their motion, a spark ignites, fierce and unyielding. It blazes into a glow, flooding the abyss with light, weaving existence where nothing once reigned.
The wheels do not move in a single plane; they turn on every possible axis, moving through each other in ways that defy logic—some rotating horizontally, others vertically, diagonally, folding into dimensions he cannot comprehend.
Some are made of brass, their surfaces engraved with symbols that shift with every rotation.
Some are made of bone, dripping with an oily, black substance that evaporates the moment it touches another gear.
Some are transparent, yet their outlines remain etched into the fabric of reality, as if they are more real than real.
Lyle does not know how long he has been watching. Perhaps he has always been here, staring into the heart of this impossible construct.
His gaze is drawn to the markings upon the wheels—thousands, no, millions of symbols, shifting and rearranging in real-time, rewriting themselves even as he looks.
Something is happening.
Something is changing.
Lyle feels it—like the pull of a tide he didn’t know he was standing in, like the weight of a hand pressing against the scales of destiny.
A great shudder moves through the structure.
One by one, the wheels begin aligning, locking into a new pattern, shifting to accommodate something new.
Something unaccounted for.
Lyle Prett understands, then.
It is him.
---
He jolted awake with a gasp.
Cold air seared his lungs—sharp, damp, heavy with the sour reek of rot, sewage, and a cloying sweetness that twisted his gut. His body spasmed as he coughed, curling inward, skin slick with a grimy mix of rain and filth. Shivers racked him, the wet sinking deep, chilling him to the marrow.
He was barely clothed, wearing only something that could scarcely be called rags.
His fingers twitched, grazing his own skin—bare, exposed, save for the tattered scraps clinging to his frame. What was left of a shirt dangled off his shoulders in jagged strips, little more than torn cloth held together by fraying threads. The sleeves had vanished long ago, and the front gaped open, useless against the biting cold.
His trousers—barely remnants—hung loosely at his hips, reduced to tatters, just enough to preserve a shred of modesty. The fabric was rough, crusted with dirt, ripped so raggedly he couldn’t tell if time or something worse had shredded them.
No shoes. No coat. Nothing to guard against the icy drizzle trickling down his spine, seeping through the gaps in his ruined clothes like ghostly fingers probing his flesh.
He tried to move, but his muscles throbbed, joints locked as if he’d lain there for hours—days, maybe? His bare feet pressed into the uneven cobblestones, their slick chill numbing his soles. Sharp debris—splinters of wood, shards of glass, tiny bones picked clean by scavengers—poked through the muck, pricking his skin. The cold chewed at him, his flesh prickling in vain as his body struggled to muster warmth.
The alley closed in around him, its damp stone walls—coated with moss and grime—looming tight on either side. Nearby, a heap of refuse sagged under its own rot: moldy food scraps, fabric too trashed for even beggars, and things best left unseen. A rat darted across the pile, sniffing at a dark stain before slipping into the shadows. The air hung thick with the stench of waste, stagnant puddles festering in cracked stone, and something foul lurking just beyond view.
Above it all, the red moon glared down.
He shuddered. He hugged himself, but it was pointless—his fingers only found more bare skin, more proof of how defenseless he was.
His mind was as shredded as his clothes.
Who was he?
Lyle Prett.
Yes. That name fit. It was his. But beyond that?
Nothing.
There should’ve been more—flashes of memory, faces, something. But his thoughts scratched at a void, grasping only faint echoes: clanking gears, strange symbols, a massive, impossible machine grinding in the dark.
Real? A dream?
He couldn’t tell.
---
Lyle shook his head, trying to dislodge the thick haze clinging to his thoughts. The cold gnawed at his exposed skin, the drizzle soaking what little remained of his clothing, making it cling to his trembling frame. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know who he was beyond a name, but one thing was certain—he couldn’t stay here.
With shaky legs, he pushed himself forward, ignoring the way the uneven cobblestones bit into the soles of his bare feet. Every step sent sharp jolts of pain through him, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself onward.
The alley opened into a crossroads, four paths stretching into the misty dark, each one leading deeper into the unknown. Lyle’s breath hitched, nausea roiling in his gut. He was exhausted, frozen, and afraid. He had nothing—no direction, no memory, no certainty. Where was he supposed to go?
Frustration welled up in his chest, a raw, burning thing. His throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers from the empty streets.
And then—
A pull.
A strange, twisting sensation in his gut, like an invisible thread winding around his ribs, tugging left. It wasn’t a thought, not a conscious decision—just an overwhelming certainty.
Go that way.
Lyle hesitated, glancing down the darkened alley, the shadows pooling thickly beneath the red-tinged drizzle. But before he could second-guess himself, the rain came down harder, turning from a light drizzle to a sudden, hammering downpour.
The cold bit deeper. He needed shelter.
With no other choice, he hobbled forward, taking the left path.
The alley twisted and turned, branching into more paths, more decisions, but the feeling remained—a push, a pull, a whisper beneath his skin guiding him.
Left.
Right.
Left again.
Every time doubt crept in, the sensation grew stronger, a clenching in his stomach, a tightness in his chest, until the only way forward was through.
The city began to thin.
The buildings grew sparser, the stone roads rougher, more cracked. The smell of rot and waste grew heavier as towering piles of refuse lined the outskirts. Then, ahead, half-hidden between two leaning heaps of garbage—
A wall.
Its stone was old, weathered, lined with deep cracks that spiderwebbed across its surface. At its base, just wide enough for someone of his size, was a break in the stone—a jagged, uneven hole leading to somewhere else.
Lyle hesitated, but only for a moment. The downpour showed no mercy, soaking him to the bone, and as if the heavens themselves demanded he move, a sudden clap of thunder cracked through the sky.
His body acted before his mind could catch up. He lurched forward, squeezing through the opening, twisting his shoulders to fit. The rough stone scraped against his skin, but he didn’t stop, didn’t care—because on the other side was shelter.
A building, forgotten and crumbling.
Its windows were broken, its wooden beams warped with age. The roof sagged, and parts of the walls had caved in, leaving jagged edges of stone and rotting wood. It should have been uninviting. It was uninviting. But as another shudder wracked his frozen body, all Lyle saw was a place away from the storm.
His eyes darted to the lowest open window, the frame warped just enough to allow someone desperate enough to squeeze through.
Another clap of thunder, closer this time. His body lurched forward on instinct, taking a running start before scrambling through the opening. His hands scraped against the rough wood, but he barely felt it.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of long-forgotten things. Furniture sat beneath heavy sheets, their shapes warped by time. Lyle didn’t think. He stumbled toward the nearest one, yanked the covering free, and curled into it without caring about the thick layer of dust that coated his skin.
He wanted to think about where he was, about what had happened to him—
But exhaustion won.
The cold, the hunger, the pain—it all faded as his body finally succumbed to sleep.
---
Lyle had the same dream again.
This time, he was closer.
The vast, impossible construct stretched before him, its wheels turning in an endless. Unlike before, when he had only glimpsed it from a distance, he now stood at its very edge.
The towering gears loomed over him, some larger than buildings, some as small as the palm of his hand—each one shifting, folding, rotating in ways that made his stomach churn. They moved through each other as if material and space were meaningless, interlocking yet never colliding, grinding forward with purpose that he could not grasp.
And they were marked.
Symbols, thousands of them, carved into the metal, into the bone, into the very essence of the gears themselves. They pulsed faintly, shifting and rearranging just like the wheels they adorned. Lyle’s eyes traced the intricate markings, but no understanding came to him. It was no language he had ever seen—no language he should know. And yet…
He could feel it.
Even without comprehension, the symbols thrummed with power, their very presence humming beneath his skin, setting his teeth on edge. Magic. The thought slipped into his mind unbidden, and he froze.
Magic.
How did he know that?
He had never seen magic before. Had never experienced it. And yet, he was certain—this was magical in nature, even if he had no way to explain why.
Lyle swallowed thickly, a creeping unease settling in his gut.
Why did I think that?
His mind latched onto the thought, and for the first time, he turned his attention inward—toward the void of his own memory. Who am I? The name Lyle Prett came, but nothing else. Where did I learn about magic? Have I seen it before? A sick, twisting sensation coiled in his stomach as he realized just how much was missing.
What had happened to him?
Determined, Lyle focused, trying to pull at the gaps in his mind, to force something to surface—
And then—
Stop.
The tugging sensation from before returned, stronger than ever. A force within him clenched, urging him away from his thoughts, as if something was trying to keep him from digging too deep.
Lyle frowned. No. He needed to know. He braced himself, preparing to push through, to resist—
The feeling changed.
A cold, suffocating weight settled over him, seeping into his very bones. It wasn’t fear, wasn’t hesitation—
It was certain death.
Lyle’s breath hitched. A dreadful certainty crawled up his spine, the same way an animal knows when a predator is watching. If he pressed further, he’d call Their attention.
Panic surged through him—
And then he fell.
The world dropped out beneath him, and before he could even think to scream—
THUD.
Pain exploded across his face as he crashed into something solid.
“Oww!”
Lyle groaned, his voice muffled by the rough, dusty fabric tangled around him. His body ached, the impact rattling his already sore limbs, and for a second, he just lay there, dazed.
The musty scent of the old cloth filled his nose as he struggled to push himself up. He coughed, wincing as dust swirled around him, and finally managed to free himself from the sheet he had used as a blanket. It pooled onto the floor as he sat up gingerly, rubbing his sore nose.
His muscles protested as he shifted, the stiffness from sleeping on the hard floor settling deep into his bones. He let out another quiet groan as he stretched, rolling his shoulders, wincing as his spine popped.
And then, realization struck.
He had just made a hell of a lot of noise.
Lyle froze. His breath hitched as he strained his ears, listening for any sign that someone had heard his commotion. His pulse pounded in his ears, but…
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No sign that anyone had stirred.
He exhaled in relief, running a hand through his damp, messy hair. “This place really is abandoned…” he muttered.
His heart still hammered, but curiosity slowly replaced his fear. If no one was here, then… what was this place?
Lyle forced himself upright, wincing as soreness stabbed through his muscles, but a restless urge to look around overpowered the ache.
The room sprawled before him, cluttered with old furniture shrouded in heavy, dust-caked cloths. His fingers brushed one of the draped shapes—maybe a chair, its contours vague beneath the stiff fabric.
The space felt lifeless, unremarkable, strewn with the abandoned relics of whoever had once called it home. No hints of recent footsteps, no warmth—just echoes of neglect.
Yet something stirred in him, a quiet, insistent tug, coaxing him to venture deeper into the building’s shadows.
---
As he wandered, his foot suddenly sank into the floor.
Lyle yelped, stumbling back as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg. Hissing in frustration, he quickly lifted his foot and saw the culprit—a loose wooden plank, partially caved in beneath his weight.
But that wasn’t what caught his attention.
Beneath the damaged floorboard, something was hidden.
Lyle crouched, heart pounding again, this time with anticipation. Carefully, he pried the broken plank loose, revealing a small wooden chest nestled inside the hollow space beneath.
It wasn’t anything special.
It was old, slightly warped from age, its surface marred by scratches and dust. But when he lifted it, it had weight.
Frowning, he ran his fingers over the worn lid before hesitantly prying it open.
Inside, stacked neatly, was money.
Lyle blinked. His breath caught in his throat.
---
"That's a lot of money," Lyle murmured aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.
Despite the holes in his memories, he knew the value of money. He could feel it—the weight of it in his hands, the sheer amount of crisp, aged bills stacked neatly in the box. And with that knowledge came something else—a deep, primal stirring in his gut.
Food.
The thought slammed into him like a hammer, and suddenly, his hunger was unbearable. His stomach twisted painfully, a hollow ache radiating from deep inside him. His mouth felt dry, his body weak, his limbs trembling not just from the cold but from sheer lack of sustenance.
And then there was the cold.
Lyle looked down at himself, at the sharp jut of his ribs beneath his tattered shirt, at the way his arms looked too thin, like he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. The fabric clinging to him did little against the damp chill sinking into his skin. His fingers were stiff, his breath fogging in the air as he shivered.
His gaze drifted back to the money.
A thousand pounds—maybe more.
His heart pounded as his mind raced. With this, I could buy food, proper clothes, maybe even a place to stay… He swallowed, fingers gripping the edges of the box tightly.
Then—
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
A cold, creeping sensation slid down his spine, so sudden and visceral that he froze completely. His breath hitched. He didn’t hear anything—no footsteps, no shifting floorboards—but the weight of something pressed against him, an unseen presence, watching.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. The dim, dust-filled room stretched out around him, empty. His throat felt tight.
“...Hello?” His voice barely carried beyond the wooden walls. “Is somebody out there?”
Silence.
The room remained still, nothing shifting in the darkness beyond.
Lyle exhaled shakily. His fingers curled tighter around the money, but now, his grip was unsteady. The initial rush of greed cooled into something more measured, more cautious.
Someone had left this here. Deliberately.
And whoever they were, they might come back looking for it.
Lyle knew better than to be too greedy. He wasn’t sure how he knew—his missing memories left him with more questions than answers—but the instinct was clear: taking all of it would only invite trouble.
Nodding to himself, he carefully took a hundred pounds and tucked the rest back into the box. He placed it exactly where he found it, pressing the broken plank back down as best as he could.
Standing, Lyle looked toward the doorway.
He hesitated. Then, after a moment, he turned back toward the empty house, giving it one last, searching gaze.
Something about this place unsettled him, but at the same time… it had sheltered him. Kept him safe through the night.
Bowing his head slightly, he murmured a quiet, “Thank you.”
And with that, he stepped outside, vanishing into the cold, misty morning.