The world that greets Glacius is one that should be simultaneously familiar and foreign. Gone are the plants, pictures, and papers that normally adorn the bedroom; no longer are there walls around them, the entire landscape having changed in the blink of an eye. What is in its place is an endless wasteland, one even more devoid of color than Carlisle himself. Were it not for the lack of hue, one could mistake it for the desert planet they were on before, the dunes and outcrops identical in many ways. The horizon is dotted with the occasional shape, odd protrusions from the ground the only notable features this place has to offer; however, they are not entirely organic in appearance, some of them smooth and branching, others angular and threatening, seeming to move toward any who would approach as though feeding upon their apprehension.

This is no illusion, no trick of the gods, as they have done before; though the ground beneath Glacius' feet holds no warmth, the sand upon it -- so cold and lifeless, like ash -- clings to his icy body as though he were truly there, not merely a traveler of the spirit. There is just enough of a wind to pick up the particles, allowing them to attack the alien's eyes. The gusts cause no sound, as they should; it is painfully quiet.

Well, quiet save for one noise: hushed muttering from beneath a nearby outcrop, what little shelter it offers the perfect place for a frightened man to hide, curled against the earthen wall, his head in his hands as he suffocates in his own doubts. The closer Glacius gets, the more words he can likely make out of the frantic muttering.

"... that this isn't- I know it isn't real, but- but what we had was. It- it was, and he- he felt... something. Something for me. We were partners, and I know his face -- I know his face! I- I can't see it, but- I- if I could just remember what it is that- please don't do this to me! Please, I- this was important to me. He was- he was everything, and I- what- what was his name?"