Tyrial looked up from his book of applied physics. It may not have been his favorite book, but when you could directly manipulate the very elemental particles of the universe, such books took on new meaning.

— No, Tyrial thought, not again. He forced his will against the dream. —

*Flash*

Letting his illusion flicker and disappear, Tyrial stood and grabbed his book. “I’ll definitely get you some flowers after dinner then,” said Tyrial. He very much liked making his mother smile, perhaps because it was so easy to do.

— No! Tyrial thought in anger. He pushed harder. —

*Flash*

Wiping his hands and face on a towel, he gave the treacherous mirror no further consideration and headed back to the living room. While he and his father were Mages, his mother was a normal human. She could have left them at any time and gone back to something resembling normalcy.

— The dream would not leave. Tyrial pushed hard in desperation. —

*Flash*

As Tyrial sat in the chair watching his mother, he felt something. He didn't feel it with his skin, but with his mind. It felt strange, like his mind had been separated from the world around him.

— Tyrial reached for his Will, anything to free himself of this dream. He found nothing. —

*Flash*

Everything started to slow down, as if time itself began to stretch. In slow motion, Tyrial bolted out of his chair. His mother dropped the pan she was holding and moved towards the door and the Go-Bag next to it.

— Noooooo! Tyrial screamed in his mind. —

*Flash*

He began reaching out his hand towards his slowly falling mother. He knew he couldn't reach her in time. His outstretched hand would be as ineffective as all of their careful preparations had been. In the open doorway once occupied by the now shattered door stood two Conclave Mages. Tyrial stretched out his hand for his mother, knowing he would never reach her, never touch her again. His father, an expression of twisted rage and agony on his face, began moving for the door. Tyrial reached out his hand for his mother and screamed in his head.

— Tyrial raged against the dream, clawed desperately for his Will. Neither would obey him. —

As his mother's now lifeless body hit the floor, an entire bookshelf launched itself from the far wall at the two Conclave Mages occupying the doorway. One raised his hand with a surprised expression on his face before the bookcase, books and all, erased his presence from the doorway. A deafening crash could be heard outside the house as the bookcase slammed into the wall of the house across the street. The two Mages likely now an indistinguishable part of the mess.

Tyrial stood motionless, staring at his mother's body. Why, he thought, why was this happening. His mother was so kind, why had the Conclave killed her. Why? As Tyrial stood there, his father rushed past him to his mother's side. He delicately picked up her frail-looking body and cradled her bloody head in his arms. He began gently rocking back and forth, sobbing.

Tyrial reached his hand out towards his parents again. He took a tentative step towards where his father crouched. “Father…,” he croaked out.

His father's head jerked up, not looking at Tyrial, but somewhere behind him. With tears still streaming down his cheeks, his face contorted into a feral grimace. With a snarl that quickly turned into a scream, he bolted up from the floor and practically flew across the house towards the rear door.

As Tyrial stood there, staring at his dead mother, he could hear his father screaming from behind him. This couldn't be real, he thought to himself. He wouldn’t allow it to be real.

— Tyrial’s desperate clawing for consciousness began to eat away at his sanity. He had almost never had to relive this much of the dream before. And he no longer had the Void to hide in. His mind screamed and pieces began to flake away. —

A loud thump against the wall behind him snapped Tyrial from his stupor. He realized he no longer heard his father screaming. What little was left of his heart sunk even further into the cold deep recesses of the Void. He dashed into the open hallway behind him.

Laying there, in a puddle of blood, was his father. A few feet further down the hall, lay the bodies of three Conclave. One with limbs twisted at unnatural angles, the other two with blood pooling from small holes in their skulls.

Running over to his father, he fell to his knees and took his father in his arms. “Father,” he said, tears streaming down his face. There was no response at first, then his father's eyes weekly fluttered open.

“Tyrial…,” his father said quietly. His father tried to move but he groaned and then coughed. Blood began to seep out of the corner of his mouth. “Tyrial…” he said again.

“I’m here father,” Tyrial said. “Mother is… she’s…”

“I know…” Tyrial’s father said. “Tyrial, you need to get away from here. Take —” He coughed again, harder this time, and more blood ran from his lips. Breathing shallowly, he continued, “Take the Go Bag, hide in the woods for a few days. Then go find Vincent McCarl, you’ve seen him before. He’ll help you get away from here.”

“No, father,” Tyrial said, “you need help. I’ll get a doctor and —”

Tyrial’s father raised a hand and gripped Tyrial’s shirt with surprising strength. “Run, boy. Run and live,” he said. “Live so you can destroy the Conclave.” As he spoke those last words, his hand dropped away from Tyrial. He took one last rattling breath, and then nothing.

Tyrial watched his father's eyes fade, his heart obliterated by the icy tempest that swirled around the Void he now hid within. His mother and father, both taken from him by the Conclave in the space of a few minutes. He didn’t understand how this could be real. He refused to believe it was real.

The Void sheltered him from the pain, the insurmountable, overwhelming pain that floated outside. Inside the Void, there was only clear, cold logic. That logic told him he had to honor his father's wishes. He had to destroy the Conclave. And he knew right where to start.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he stood. Looking down at his father's lifeless body, he said quietly, “I will kill them. I will kill them all.” Turning down the hall towards the back door, he stepped over the twisted forms of the dead Conclave. Once outside the house he had spent the last several years in, he didn’t look back or slow down.

He walked slowly down the small alley that led from their house to the main street. His eyes were cold and determination was the only emotion showing on his face. Glancing up the long street, far in the distance, he could just make out the skyscrapers of the central city. Somewhere amongst that forest of steel stood one that the Conclave called home on this planet.

Moving with purpose now, Tyrial walked briskly down the street towards the city. On foot, it was almost a full day's walk. The prospect didn’t bother him. He walked, one foot after the other, and thought of nothing but revenge.

Most of the people he passed on his way had the good sense to ignore him. The few meddlesome individuals who bothered to try speaking to him received only indifferent disregard to their existence for their troubles. The one truly unfortunate individual who tried to physically restrain Tyrial until he would answer his questions received a small rock upside his head as repayment.

It took until almost midnight before Tyrial reached the inner city. Walking along the narrow streets he had to stop several times to read various signs and billboards to find the place he was looking for.

Finally, as he rounded the corner of yet another tall steel structure, he saw what he had been searching for. Down the short street before him was a large open plaza. The center of the plaza was taken up with well-manicured grass lawns and ornate fountains. And there, across from the plaza, stood the impossibly tall and foreboding Conclave Central Command.

The building was easily eighty stories tall or more, it overshadowed most of the buildings surrounding it. Looking the structure over, Tyrial began to have doubts about what he had planned to do. Shaking his head vigorously he gritted his teeth and growled to himself. Either they would die, or he would. He could not let what happened to his parents go unpunished.

Looking around and up, he saw that the building behind him had an observation deck on its roof. It was only about twenty stories tall, but it would do. Entering the office building, he walked calmly to the elevators and pressed the button to call one. The workers milling about the place paid him no attention. He was well dressed enough and looked young enough that they probably mistook him for another employee's child.

Tyrial scoffed inwardly at their ignorance. They would soon learn not to underestimate someone who looked like a child. As he waited for the elevator, he felt something on his cheek. Swiping at the falling tears in annoyance, he gritted his teeth harder. He had no time for such emotions.

Once he was on the roof, he stepped to the edge of the deserted observation deck and looked over at the building across the plaza from where he stood. It was certainly large, but it didn't float. Everything built on a planet relied on its structure to counteract gravity. So far as Tyrial was concerned, gravity was done playing nice.

— No!!! Tyrial screamed in his head, seeing his parents die again had been agony. That memory had been tucked away in the darkest recesses of his mind for decades. He couldn’t bear to see the rest. His sanity was stretched to the breaking point already. —

Tyrial knew that there were Mages in the building across from him. He knew they would do their level best to defend their building if someone attacked it directly. However, if they only felt a strong disturbance somewhere else, they might waste precious seconds trying to investigate rather than attempting to counter immediately.

Looking at the line of buildings next to the massive Conclave structure, Tyrial’s mind skipped back to a vague memory of a game his mother had once shown him called Dominos.

Tyrial reached forward with his hand and pointed to a spot near the base of a building three buildings away from but adjacent to the Conclave structure. Concentrating, he formed Gravitons from the fabric of spacetime. Formed them and concentrated them, as quickly and in as great a quantity as he could.

He felt the Will of other Mages press up against his own almost immediately. They were trying to investigate the disturbance they heard, but Tyrial already had control of the space. It was immensely more difficult to take control of space already controlled by another Mage, and the other Mages weren’t trying very hard yet. He piled the Gravitons up in as small a space as he could, and as he began to reach his limits, he piled on some more.

A dull pain began to form in his head, a warning sign that he was using too much Will Power. He didn’t care, he pushed harder. The building diagonally across from him groaned audibly and windows near the ground floor began shattering. The resistance from the Conclave Mages began to increase somewhat as they began to put more effort into countering him. Tyrial had so much Will Power invested in that tiny spot, however, that the other Mage’s stood no chance at this point.

Tyrial ignored the now sharp pain in his mind and pushed harder still, just a little more. He was almost there. As his vision began to blur and the sharp pain turned into an excruciating torment, the building suddenly shuddered and began to lean. There, he had it. The walls near the bottom floors suddenly bowed inward and the building's structure screamed in agony as it was torn apart.

As Tyrial’s gravitational singularity ate away at the structure of the base of the building, it began to lean ponderously towards the right. Tyrial held on for as long as he could but being so far past his limits he could no longer maintain the singularity against the rival Mages. It didn’t matter, the building was continuing to fall to the side now.

Tyrial fell to his knees, then to his side, unable to hold himself upright. He knew he was probably going to die shortly. He had pushed himself far past his limits and he knew what that meant. He still didn’t care, watching through half-lidded eyes as the massive skyscraper he had targeted began to fall ponderously towards the slightly larger building next to it.

With a deafening crash, the massive skyscraper hit the one next to it. For a few moments, it sat there leaning against its larger brethren. Then, as the larger building began to break apart from the massive weight it was not designed to carry, it too began to fall. Together the two buildings began to fall in the direction of the truly massive Conclave building directly in front of Tyrial.

Tyrial watched in satisfaction as the two buildings hit the Conclave structure with a truly thunderous crash. The aftershocks of the impact rattled and blew out many of the windows in the surrounding buildings. For an agonizing moment, all hung in near silence, as the two other buildings leaned against the larger Conclave Headquarters.

It almost seemed that might be the end of the massive destruction that Tyrial had wrought. But he knew better. These buildings had no form of reinforcement as the planet they were on was not seismically active. A few minutes later his predictions were finally brought to fruition as the massive Conclave building began to groan. With progressively loader groans and pops the Conclave building began to lean.

Tyrial could feel the Mage’s nearby exerting incredible amounts of Will, likely in an attempt to shore up the failing structural integrity of the Conclave building. None of them were as strong as him, however, and he was fairly certain even ten of himself would not have been sufficient to hold up such a massive structure. Again, his predictions were proven true as the Conclave building began to lean faster.

With a sound unlike anything Tyrial had ever heard, the three buildings began a free fall towards the much smaller buildings on the other side of the Conclave Headquarters. As Tyrial’s consciousness began to fade, he felt an odd mixture of satisfaction and regret. The collateral damage was unfortunate, but if it meant an end to all those Conclave, it was well worth it.

— Nooooooooo!!!!!! Tyrial screamed in his mind. Those buildings had been filled with people. Innocent people. He had killed them all. Thousands of people, all of their blood on his hands. And he knew, from memories he had tried desperately to bury beyond recollection, that this wasn’t even the worst thing he had done. —

*Shatter*

The dream broke apart and Tyrial finally awoke, awoke to the sound of screaming. His voice, screaming as loud as he could. One scream after the next, as quickly as he could draw breath. He couldn’t stop it. He realized his fingers were at his throat, clawing at something there. The reason for the screams suddenly changed, but the screams themselves didn’t slow down at all.

He clawed desperately at the Ragnacite collar choking him, choking his Will Power away from him. His voice began to strain as he screamed. He needed to stop, he couldn’t stop. With what little willpower he had left, between one scream and the next, he clamped his mouth shut. Clamped it closed so tight his teeth ached. The screams built up in his chest anyway, but he held them in.

Breathing through his nose like a bellows, he tried to regain some form of self-awareness. Now that the screaming wasn’t consuming his entire being, he was able to finally take stock of his situation. His hands were bound together, as were his feet. He could feel that he could only move them together.

Slowly opening his eyes, he saw the last thing he had ever wanted to see again. The inside of a Conclave interrogation chamber. The pure white walls and ceiling at odds with the pitch-black floor. He was laying on a small hard cot fixed to one of the walls. Looking down, he saw that his feet, on top of being strapped together, were also tied to a ring in the wall by a short length of cord.

Looking across the room, he saw the second most unwelcome sight he could have imagined. A well-dressed man in a white button-up shirt, tie, and black slacks sat in a comfortable looking chair observing him. The man's expression was… mildly amused.

“Well,” the man said, “done with the screaming already? How disappointing.” He steepled his fingers before him and cocked his head to one side. “I was going to wake you when I got here, but you seemed to be having such a stimulating discussion with your subconscious, I thought it would be rude to interrupt.”

With one corner of his mouth almost twitching in a smile, the man continued, “Now then, since you seem to be done torturing yourself, it turns to me to carry the torch.” Leaning forward, he picked up a tablet on the table next to him. Looking at the screen, he said, “I see none of this is any surprise to you.” He tapped the screen a few more times, “It seems you’ve been our guest a number of times, looking for those frequent flyer miles I assume,” he said with an evil grin.

“You can call me… Agent Smith, for now, or just Smith if you like,” he said. “I’m sure you won't be doing a lot of talking at first, that's fine. We’ll work up to that.” Standing, Smith walked over to a smaller table in the corner. It was covered with an assortment of syringes, knives, pliers, pins, and other implements of torture.

“You know, after reading your file,” Smith said, “I told them this was all a waste of time. Soft torture they call it, nothing that leaves a permanent mark.” Smiling over his shoulder, he said, “Well, not a physical one anyway.”

Picking up a small syringe, he turned and said, “Normally we’d start with some promises I have no intention of keeping, then maybe move on to the good old psychological stuff like sleep deprivation.” Stepping over to where Tyrial lay, Smith continued, “I don’t want to tire you with a boring review lesson, however, so let's get right to the good stuff.”

Reaching down swiftly, Smith jabbed Tyrial with the syringe and stepped back. The jab itself was nothing compared to the searing fire that lanced down his arm from the injection site. It continued up into his chest where it made his breathing labored. It then moved down the rest of his extremities until his entire body felt like it was being burned alive.

The pain was insignificant to Tyrial. His clenched jaw was all he needed to keep from screaming. The liquid fire racing through his veins was nothing compared to the utter torment his memories were causing. He clenched his jaw and glared at the Conclave interrogator.

“Nothing?” Smith asked. “Well, I thought not,” he said. “No matter, we certainly have plenty of other options to try.” Moving back to his chair, he sat down again. “Not that I suspect any of this is going to do any good, of course. I’ve read your entire file. Four level five interrogations and nothing useful. In fact, it seems you just keep coming back for more. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you enjoy it.” Smith put on a sickly smile and said, “A man after my own heart.”

In a flash, the smile disappeared and Smith continued, “At any rate, I’ve been ordered to subject you to levels three through five again anyway. Waste of time, but paperwork is paperwork. I’m sure you understand.”

Taping a few more times on his pad, Smith grimaced and said, “Well, might as well get this over with. I hate wasting time. They won't even clear me to continue to levels six through eight. Not properly trained they say.” Smith’s face contorted into a sneer, that expression seemed to fit him better than the others. Shaking his head, Smith stood again and retrieved a second syringe from the small table.

Walking up to Tyrial, Smith said with a perfectly emotionless face, “I’m not going to enjoy this, I hope you know. I enjoy a job well done, but this? This is just pointless.” With that, he quickly reached down to jab Tyrial with the second syringe.

As the man reached down, Tyrial quickly reached up with his bound hands. He grabbed the man's arm and yanked downward, while at the same time quickly throwing his head forwards.

Tyrial’s head collided with the man's nose. Unfortunately, Tyrial was still disoriented from his nightmare and the drugs racing through his body. He lost his grip on the man's arm at the last second, robbing the headbutt of some of its force.

Stumbling back slightly, the man reached up and touched his now bloody nose with his hand. Looking at the blood on his fingers, he raised an eyebrow and said, “Still a bit feisty I see.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small control module and pressed a button on it.

Tyrial’s body went rigid as pain surged from the color around his neck. He lost all control of his muscles as electricity flowed through his body. A few seconds later, the electricity stopped. As Tyrial tried to clear his head, he felt a sharp prick in his arm. Pain again radiated from his arm. Not the hot burning from the first drug, this one was more of a slow-building ache.

“Now then,” Smith said, “It seems I’m in need of a new shirt.” He lightly touched one of the small drops of blood near the collar. Glancing up, he said with a lopsided grin, “Don’t go anywhere now, I’ll be right back.”

Stepping to the door, he looked into the iris scanner, then walked through the newly opened door. It closed solidly behind him.

Tyrial took another look around the room as the pain of the two injections competed for his agony. Neither of them held a candle to what his memories had done to him. He noticed the two small cameras in the upper corners of the room. He gave them each a rude gesture involving his middle finger and did his best not to writhe too much. No need to give anyone watching a show.

Looking at the chair and tables across the room, he looked back at the tether connecting his feet to the wall. He didn’t think he would be able to reach any of those items, but perhaps it was worth a try. He knew he wouldn’t have long to succeed if he did try.

Quickly wiggling off of the bench he was laying on, he dropped to the floor below with a thud. He barely felt the impact for all the drugs burnings through his veins. He wormed his way towards the nearest table as quickly as he could. Raising his arms above his head he stretched the cord attached to his feet as much as he could.

He was almost half a meter too short to reach the leg of the table. Slumping where he lay, he breathed hard from the exertion. Glancing up at the tables again, then back at his feet, he shook his head and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t certain how long he lay there on the floor. The physical pain of the drugs in his body was almost a welcome distraction from the memories floating around his head. He knew he had to escape, but he also knew the meaning of patience. The last time he’d been captured it had taken him months to find an opening he could use. And of course, it got harder every time.

Eventually, the door opened again and Agent Smith stepped back in, a fresh white shirt and tie on. “Well,” he said, “I see you didn’t appreciate the luxurious bed we provided. No problem.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced the small control module again.

Tyrial braced himself for the electricity again, but instead after pressing a button on the control, the flat cot behind Tyrial retracted into the wall it had been attached to.

Walking up to Tyrial, Smith reached down and grabbed the restraints on Tyrial’s wrists. With surprising strength, Smith dragged Tyrial’s torso and arms back over to the wall the cot had been on. With Tyrial’s arms still above his head, Smith pressed another button and the restraints were suddenly yanked to the wall.

Tyrial tried moving his arms experimentally, unlike his legs which were still attached by a cord, his hands were securely fixed directly to the wall.

Satisfied with his work, Smith stepped back to his tray of toys and said, “You know, I had an epiphany a few moments ago. The drugs I gave you should have had you screaming in agony, yet you barely clenched your teeth.” Picking up a smaller syringe, Smith inspected it while saying, “So I thought, what could possibly have had you screaming like a schoolgirl when we first met.”

Turning, Smith stepped over to Tyrial and knelt in front of him. With a slight smile, he said, “How would you like some more quality time with your subconscious?”

Tyrial involuntarily backed into the corner behind him before he could stop himself. His eyes opened wide for a moment before he could regain mastery of his emotions. Without the Void, he was finding it harder to control his emotions than he would have liked.

“Ahhh, I see,” Smith said. His face almost had a believable grin on it. Leaning over, he stuck the syringe into Tyrial’s neck. “We’ll start with a few quality hours and see where that gets us. Pleasant dreams…”

At Smith’s last words, Tyrial was already fading fast. He desperately tried to keep his eyes open but he didn’t stand a chance against whatever Smith had injected him with. Tyrial fell into a restless half-sleep filled with dreams and nightmares.

Tyrial used what little conscious control he had to push against any dreams or memories of his childhood. He was forced to relive several parts of that fateful day his parents died, but thankfully never the entire thing at one shot.

Tyrial didn’t know how long he had been asleep, all he knew was that when he finally opened his eyes, it was dark. Only faint blue lights came from the two cameras recording the room. Tyrial noticed that his hands were no longer directly bound to the wall, but were instead connected to a cord attached to a ring, like his legs were.

Taking a deep breath, he was pleased that he hadn't woken up screaming this time. Jiggling the restraints at his wrist gently, he felt around them with his fingers as best he could. This design didn’t seem to have a simple locking mechanism like the ones he was used to.

These restraints were two perfectly oval rings, one around each hand. As he felt further, he noticed that they seemed to be molded together as if a single unit. He couldn’t feel any seams, keyholes, or pivot points. Definitely nothing like the handcuffs he was used to. And not something he knew how to defeat… yet.

Tyrial was hoping they would take them off at some point, perhaps to reposition him. He could get a better look at them then. Stretched between the two hooks his legs and hands were attached to, he couldn’t bring his hands into view. Sighing, he relaxed and tried to think. He was being impatient. Even the first interrogation he had escaped from had taken him days, and that was before the Conclave had known who they had.

This interrogator obviously knew who he was and they didn’t seem to be taking any chances. Even if he got out of this room, chances were the room itself was in a space station orbiting a barren planet with no space ships for lightyears around.

He would need to find a reliable method of escape he could execute at a moment's notice. Then find details of the supply runs made to the station so he would know when a ship was available. Sighing again, he tried his best to control his emotions, but without the Void he was having a great deal of difficulty. He could tell that this interrogation was going to be more difficult to withstand than the previous ones had been. He strongly considered utilizing the Mental Void again but immediately discarded the idea. He had already made too much progress without it to backslide now.

Suddenly the lights came on and Tyrial squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the new brightness. A few seconds later, the door opened and Agent Smith stepped in. Seeing Tyrial’s open eyes, Smith said, “No screaming? How disappointing.”

Closing the door, Smith stepped over to his chair and sat. Tapping on a tablet he held in his hands, he said, “In the mood to talk this morning perhaps?”

Smith waited a few minutes, but Tyrial kept his mouth shut. He knew how these went, like a dog with a bone, if you gave these interrogators anything they would drag it all over the yard.

Finally, Smith continued, “No? Alright. I’ll talk. It seems we have a few other guests here you might know. One Gabriel Vendal, quite a rugged man he seems to be holding up quite well to the torture.”

Tyrial stiffened slightly. Gabriel… No, it was unlikely he would have allowed himself to be taken alive. It was quite likely Smith was lying, that was certainly something most interrogators did well. But still…

“Also, some red head girl,” Smith continued. “Seems to have had some military background.” He paused briefly, then looking intently at Tyrial, he asked, “Perhaps you’d like to hear her screams for a bit?”

Tapping a button on his tablet, the sound of a woman's agonizing screams filled the room. Tyrial had never heard Sarah scream, but even so, whatever synthesizer they were using to produce the sound was almost laughably crude. It was all Tyrial could do not to laugh out loud.

With an annoyed flick, Smith turned off the noise. His usually self-confident grotesque smile was now replaced with a displeased grimace. “Not buying it,” he said flatly, a statement, not a question. Throwing the tablet into a corner of the room, he sighed heavily and slumped into his chair.

“I told them there was nothing useful I could do in two days,” Smith said with resignation in his voice. “Honestly, they refused to even give me one extra day. Until the transport arrived they said, not one minute more.”

Sitting up in his chair, Smith looked at Tyrial with an oddly neutral expression on his face. “They’re going to give you to Victor Lenchin you know,” he said. Not seeing a look of recognition on Tyrial’s face, Smith continued, “The man is the most brutal, ruthless interrogator the Conclave has. His only mandate is to ring out every scrap of information from his victims any way he can.”

Standing, Smith grabbed another syringe from the table next to him. “His victims are not expected to survive,” he said. “But don’t worry, by the time your death is imminent, you’ll be desperately looking forward to the reapers sweet release.”

Leaning down, he looked Tyrial in the eyes and said, “Last chance. Anything to say?” After a few more seconds of silence, he sighed, shrugged, and injected the entire syringe into Tyrial’s neck. “They told me you’ll have to be unconscious for the trip. Something about a near-magical ability to escape from Conclave facilities.”

Tyrial’s eyes began to droop almost immediately. He cursed the Conclaves uncharacteristic adaptation to his escape tactics. He would just have to hope wherever he woke up next held better opportunities.

“Seems stupid to me,” mumbled Smith as he turned from the quickly fading Tyrial. “Putting an escape artist on an inhabited planet with a starport, even if it is a backwater.” Turning back to Tyrial he simply said, “Good luck.”

As Tyrial fell into unconsciousness he was shocked. The revelation that he was being transported to an inhabited planet did not shock him. The fact that Smith’s final words almost sounded sincere, however, certainly did.