Where the Worlds Collide
Kane x Reader / 3,290 words / Annihilation
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Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.
Tags: Strangers to something more / gender-neutral reader / touches on psychological, cosmic, and body horror
The air itself shimmered like a mirage, twisting in and out of colours that shouldnât have belonged to any known spectrum. At times, it burned a molten orange, pulsing with a heat he didnât feel, then fractured into streaks of blue and violet, pooling like oil slicks in the hollows between trees. At the right angle, it seared a luminous red, a colour so impossibly rich it felt aliveâwatching. A slow, iridescent slither of light wound through the fractured canopy above, less a beam of sunlight and more a living thing threading its way between the leaves.
Kane had no way of knowing how long heâd been here. The rations suggested a few days had passed, but his body disagreed. There was no hunger, no thirst, only the mechanical memory of eating. Had he eaten? He must have. Yet when he tried to summon the taste of food, nothing came. The absence of time pressed against his skull like a persistent ache, like a memory he couldnât quite reach.
Each time he stepped outside the tent, the world was different. The trees leaned at unfamiliar angles, their bark slick and too smooth, as though they had been molded rather than grown. The moss on the ground pulsed in patches, an almost imperceptible rhythm, like the slow rise and fall of breath. The only constant was change. That, and his morning coffee.
He sat with the tin cup cradled in his hands, listening to the songbirds mimic a new sound they had learned overnight. Sometimes, it was the usual chirps. Other times, it was warbles that carried an uncanny human lilt, as if an echo of a voice had been stretched and repurposed into their calls. Once, he had heard the scratch of a cricketâs legsâbut it had come from high up in the trees, from something far too large to be a cricket. There had been whispers too, barely there, like words dissipating just before he could grasp their meaning. The forest was listening. Worse, it was remembering.
When the decision had been made to split up, it had come down to a vote. Two medics on the teamâone would stay, one would go. The others had chosen the Tower, that nameless structure that had no right to exist on any map. His group had remained at base camp, performing the work that was expected of them. But Kane knew his true function. He wasnât here to keep them together. He was here to keep them alive.
And yet, the question remained, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts like an animal worrying at bone.
What happened to the ones who came before?
Expedition Eleven. Ten had come before, and none had returned. Not a single one. Their presence still lingeredâtraces in the disturbed earth, in the equipment left behind, in the notes that trailed off mid-thought. But the people? Gone. Absorbed, perhaps.
He had tended to the Linguistâs wounds that morning, wrapping gauze over something that refused to heal, something that seemed to shift beneath her skin. When he had finished, he had found himself untethered. Free to roam, to wander, to slip further into the spaces between certainty and something else. The others made no effort to keep him close. He had long since lost the need to belong. There were no rules anymore, not ones that mattered.
âHow long do you think the other groupâs going to be gone for?â he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of camp. He was packing the last few items into his rucksack, shoving emergency supplies into the worn fabric. Preparing, though for what, he wasnât sure.
You barely glanced up from your microscope. âI donât question the Psychologistâs decisions,â you said. A measured response. âJust like Iâm not questioning yours.â
A strange turn of phrase. Almost an accusation.
He let out a small breath, a ghost of a laugh. âIâm going to scout the immediate area. See if thereâs anything we missed. Donât miss me too much.â The words were meant to be light, to defuse whatever unspoken weight hung between you. He had expected pushback. A reason to stay.
âI wonât,â you said instead, detached, eyes still trained on your work. âDonât go too far.â
Then, after a pause, âYou got your shooter?â
Shooter.
That wasnât a word you had ever used before.
Kane glanced at you, but you didnât meet his gaze. He could hear the Geologistâs accent buried in your voice, the same tone, the same inflection. The Geologist, who had asked to be left beneath the tree weeks ago. âLeave me to decompose,â they had murmured, curling into the roots, their breath already slowing, eyes glassy with something more than death.
No one had gone back to check.
âRifleâs right here,â Kane said, his voice overly cheerful, too loud in the stagnant air. He patted the strap, making sure you heard.
Then he left. He always had to be the first to leave.
The forest swallowed him whole.
With no real direction, he wandered. The deeper he went, the more the world unravelled. He had no name for half the things growing here. Vines hung in thick, twisting curtains, flowering in unnatural patterns, their petals curling inward like clutching fingers.Â
He found an old road, forgotten, reclaimed. The trees had leaned in, pressing their roots through the cracks, warping the pavement into something organic. It looked almost ceremonial, a wedding procession of ivy and creeping moss, arches forming over the path as if nature itself had arranged it for something unseen.
His wife would have known the proper names. The Latin, the origins. He had never cared for any of that. To him, they were just flowers on the same vine.
Then he heard it.
His name.
It echoed from the trees, disembodied, panic threaded through each syllable.
Your voice.
Kaneâs pulse spiked as he turned, eyes scanning the undergrowth. He called back, voice tight with urgency, but the echoes folded in on themselves, dispersing into the layered hum of the forest. He moved faster, breath sharp, feet crushing the damp earth beneath him. The direction felt wrong, but he followed it anyway.
The lake appeared suddenly, framed by the remains of a boat cabin. The sight of it made his stomach twist. He knew this place. It wasnât possible, but he knew it. A memory clawed its way to the surfaceâfishing trips, his father, the scent of open water. He had thought this was where his love of the lake had begun. But something in him rebelled against the thought.
Had he always loved the water?
Or had something been waiting for him in it?
The air hummed. The birds had gone silent.
He called your name again.
Nothing.
The absence unsettled him more than the voice had.
That night, he had written about it in his journal, flipping back through previous entries only to find his own handwriting slipping away from him. Sentences collapsed inward, layer upon layer, like something had rewritten them over and over again until they were unreadable.
Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead-
He knew it was wrong, but he kept going back to that cabin.
Like the Linguist, who had torn at her own skin, convinced something writhed beneath it.
Like the Geologist, who had whispered leave me to decompose and done just that.
âTheyâre not coming back,â Kane announced one morning.
You finally looked up. âWhat makes you think that?â
He gestured around them, frustrated. âLook around. Itâs just you and me. We lost all the others.â
âThey arenât lost,â you murmured. Then shrugged, as if it didnât matter. âMaybe weâre the ones who are.â
Kane stilled. His throat tightened.
âHow? Weâre at base camp,â he pressed, âthey shouldâve been back by now.â
âItâs been less than a day.â
The words slid through him like cold metal. âNo,â he whispered. âWeâve been here for days. I shouldnât be here. I shouldâve gone with them.â
You reached for his shoulder, steadying him. âTake a deep breath. You want to go? Fine. But give me two minutes. Youâre not going out there alone again. Youâve not been the same since youâve been back.â
Kane hesitated. His hand brushed against yours as though to say thanks, but you pulled away first.
It didnât take you much time to pack your bag. You tried to keep it light, who knows what you were walking into. Rations, emergency equipment, and a field kit to take samples while on the go.
As you walked over to where heâd waited for you, you glanced at the camp one last time. Certain you would never see it again.
The ground beneath your boots felt unstable, as though something just beneath the surface was shifting in response to your presence. Moss underneath offering a spring in each step. The forest exhaled around you, the hush between sounds stretching longer than it should. Even the insects, which had once filled every quiet space, seemed to be waiting.
Kane stood rigid, his posture coiled, his gaze locked onto the cabin as if looking at it too long might pull him inside. His breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers twitching slightly where they hovered near his rifle strap. You reached for his hand, grounding him, but he didnât react. Or maybe he couldnât.
âThis isnât the tower,â you murmured quietly.
No response. If he had heard you at all, he gave no indication.
Your attention shifted. The derelict boat overturned near the water, barely visible beneath its cocoon of vines, caught your eye. Its hull had been split by roots thick as a manâs arm, curling into the wood like grasping hands. But it wasnât just overgrowthâthis was something else entirely. The plants had fused, their species indistinguishable from one another, blending into an unrecognizable tangle of colour and texture. Leaves that should not have existed in the same climate pressed against each other, petals rippling in colours you had no name for. The vines pulsed faintly, as though drawing breath.
Your curiosity pulled you forward. Kane remained still, locked in his personal war with the past, leaving you to slip ahead. Your pack slid from your shoulder, landing softly on the damp earth as you crouched near the boat. The scent of wet wood and something faintly metallic filled your lungs.
Carefully, you reached into your field kit, retrieving a scalpel. The blade caught the strange ambient light filtering through the canopy, flashing red, then blue. You steadied yourself, choosing a section of vine where two distinctly different plants had merged, their cellular structure braided impossibly together. A light incision. Just enough toâ
The moment the scalpelâs edge touched the vine, something shifted.
Not just the plant. The entire forest.
The background hum, the constant thrumming of unseen life, stuttered. The trees did not sway, but the light around them flickered, as if a veil had momentarily lifted and revealed something beneath. The air thickened, pressing against your skin. The ground beneath you feltâwrong. For a fleeting second, your senses betrayed you, your body insisting you were tilting sideways despite crouching perfectly still.
Then, the vine moved.
Not a natural movement, not the slow, creeping growth of a plant. It coiled toward your hand, deliberate, reactive, the wound you had made closing over itself like flesh knitting back together. A faint wet sound. Something between the slow tear of muscle and the slip of damp leaves unfurling.
A pulse of heat shot up your arm before you could recoil. The cut you had made sealed itself in an instant. The plant had accepted the woundâand returned it.
A sharp sting bloomed just below your wrist. You looked down.
A thin red line, identical to the one you had made on the vine, now marred your skin. Blood dripped down towards your hand.
âKaneââ you called for him.
Before you could finish, he was there, yanking you back, his fingers tight around your arm as he dragged you several steps away. His breathing was shallow, his pupils blown wide, darting from your face to the plant and back again.
âWhat the hell was that?â you stumbled.
He shook his head. âWe need to go.â
You hesitated, glancing back at the sample you had failed to collect. But the plant had already begun to change again. The colours shifted subtly, and where you had touched it, the surface darkened, as if absorbing the memory of you. The moment you had shared with it.
Kane didnât wait for you to make up your mind. His grip on your wrist tightened, his pulse thrumming against your skin, his urgency contagious.
He pulled you away from the boat. Away from the cabin.
Away from whatever had just recognized you.
You were sitting staring into the makeshift bonfire while Kane cleaned your arm and bandaged your stitched wound. Heâd used some of the heated water to make you both coffee but you werenât drinking yours. After he was done, heâd tossed the old bandages into the water and sat back down beside you on the log.
âI donât think weâre going to find them.â You say quietly.
âWhat makes you say that?â Kane asked, reaching to put an arm around you.
âI dunno, a feeling.â
âWell whatâs the plan now? Do we go back? Keep going forward?â
You hesitate to respond. âI want to stay here. With you.â
âYouâll be with me whichever direction we go.â He grinned.
That wasnât what you meant and you shook your head. âI donât want to go back. I feel like Iâve already lost you if I keep going.â
âYou havenât though. Iâm right here. I didnât marry you to give up on you.â
âWhat?â You say confused. You try to remember when you married him and it was there. The flowers, the perfect day. The memory was far enough away to feel like it wasnât yours.
The fire crackled between you, casting warped shadows against the canvas of your tent. The flames flickered too quickly, too erratically, as though something unseen was breathing over them. Kane sat close, his body warm beside yours, his arm draped around you with a weight that should have been comforting. But something was wrong.
You stared down at the bandage wrapped around your arm, the clean white cloth already beginning to darken at the edges. The sting beneath it felt deeper than a simple wound, something curling under your skin, remembering the touch of the thing you had disturbed.
His voice reached you again, softer this time. âYou havenât lost me.â
But he was lying.
Or worse, he believed what he was saying.
The memory sat in your mind like a misplaced object. Your wedding. A day that should have been carved into you, vibrant, tangible. You could see the flowersâpetals in soft, muted colours, a breeze stirring through them. You could hear the distant murmur of guests. Could feel the weight of the ring on your finger.
But when had it happened?
Where had it happened?
The edges of the thought were blurred, soft, like a painting left too long in the rain. The details felt secondhand, like something recited from a dream you had overheard rather than lived.
Your breath hitched as you turned to look at Kane. âSay that again.â
His brow furrowed. âYou havenât lost me.â
âNo, the thing before.â
âI didnât marry you to give up on you?â
There it was again. That certainty. Like he knew it to be true.
Like he had always known.
But the longer you stared at him, the more you questioned if you had always known him.
A sharp pressure bloomed at your temples. The fire crackled louder, though neither of you had moved.
âWhere did we get married?â you asked.
Kane blinked. âWhat?â
âWhere?â you repeated, each word weighted.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. He frowned, gaze flickering away, toward the trees, toward the nothingness that surrounded you both. You could see him grasping for it, for a detail, for a single thread to hold onto.
The wedding was real. Wasnât it?
The firelight made his face unfamiliar for the first time. Shadows caught in the hollows of his cheeks, casting angles that hadnât been there before. The longer you looked, the more those details refused to sit right.
âKane,â you whispered, not sure anymore if you were calling his name or testing it.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. A short, humourless laugh left him, but it was frayed at the edges.
âI donâtâI donât know.â His fingers flexed on his knee. âItâs like itâs right there, butââ He exhaled sharply. âShit.â
The fire let out a loud pop, sending a spark spiralling up into the dark. Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched.
Then, finally, he met your gaze.
âDo you remember?â he asked.
The question sent something cold curling down your spine.
Because he wasnât asking where.
He was asking if.
And for the first time, you werenât sure of the answer. You shake your head.
The fire sputtered, low embers pulsing with uneven light, as though struggling against some unseen force pressing down on it. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the perimeter of the fireâs glow, something movedânot a rustle, not the natural disturbance of undergrowth, but a slow, deliberate shift. The forest itself was listening.
Kaneâs shoulders sagged, his fingers tracing absent patterns into the dirt beside him with his free arm. His breath came shallow, a quiet tremor beneath each exhale. âI think I know where the others have gone,â he murmured, the words barely making it past his lips. Then softer, almost reverentââItâll be me soon.â
A pulse of unease rippled through you, settling deep in your gut. The words werenât spoken in fear. They werenât a warning. They were a certainty.
âDonât talk like that.â You reached for his arm, half-expecting the heat of his skin, the familiar solidness of himâbut he flinched. Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant.Â
âIâm not going to let that happen to you.â You reassert.
His head turned slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch his profile, the shifting glow casting moving shadows across his face. He looked like himself, but at the same time, he didnât. The bones of him were the same, the slope of his jaw, the curve of his nose. But something beneath itâsome small, imperceptible wrongnessâmade him feel like a memory poorly recalled.
He exhaled, his shoulders shaking with something between laughter and grief. âIf you stay, you wonât ever be able to get back out. Youâll be stuck here with me.â
The words settled over you like a damp cloth. Heavy. Stifling.
There was no argument in his tone. Just another truth.
âAnd I canât make you stay.â He finally murmured as though it pained him to say.
You swallowed, your throat dry, though you hadnât noticed the thirst until now. Had you drunk anything today? The coffee still sat beside you, untouched, the surface unbroken. It looked wrong, as if it had been sitting there for longer than you had been at this fire.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants.
You should have wanted to leave. You should have recoiled at the thought of being trapped, of being swallowed by this place like all the others. But when you searched for that instinctâthe one that should have screamed at you to runâyou found only stillness. A quiet, creeping sense of inevitability.
Maybe this had always been where you were supposed to be.
âMaybe I donât want to go.â
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