This is not real.
He'd been here before, Daniel Ryland, this Not Real place.
Flames licked his body, tugged at his clothes, spattered wet on his face. No, not flames. Leaves. Tendrils wrapped themselves around his bare legs, their thorns catching his skin, tearing, burning like fire. No, not fire. Vines. Up his legs, into his face, clinging, ripping his thin uniform. Hot sweat and thorns.
Foliage. Dense forest.
His comrades had animal faces. Ready to tear him apart if he moved.
The orange gas had settled.
That wasn't real.
He saw his hand burn. And felt no pain.