A faint scent of sandalwood lingers in the stale air as they adjust their mask, waiting in silence for the elevation to begin. Their fingers brush the smooth surface of the porcelain cylinder embedded in the cyst. A lifeline, or so they’ve been told.
The elevation center is renowned, coveted by those seeking transcendence—an escape from the decaying worlds left behind. The universe’s best elevation site, they say, though it feels more like a tomb.
Thousands of tardigrades drift by, swirling in a dark, cosmic tornado that blots out the distant sun, casting long shadows over the facility. Their translucent bodies shimmer as they circle the site, a reminder that even the smallest creatures here defy the laws of survival. But nothing seems natural anymore.
The fragrance seller from Bhopal hovers beside them, adjusting their own mask, a slender figure in a simple white robe that flows like water. Beneath the veil of their rebreather, their eyes dart to the control panel, where the elevation process is initiated. A quick flick of the wrist, and the room hums to life.
They feel the tug immediately, as if gravity itself has decided to play tricks, pulling and pushing at them in waves. The porcelain cylinder in the cyst glows softly, signaling that the process has begun, but something feels off. They aren't rising.
At first, there’s only a dull pressure in their chest, a weight that builds slowly, like the feeling of sinking into quicksand. They squeeze the cylinder harder, willing it to pull them upward, but the pressure keeps mounting. Their breath comes in shallow, labored gasps, muffled by the mask. It feels as though the room is compressing, folding in on itself.