Robert and Rosalind Lutece

You come to your senses with a sharp jolt, somehow soft. Not from falling, but from... a change of scenery. Just a second ago, you were standing in a stable laboratory, recording readings of the devices aimed at the quantum rift. And now you're lying on your back, with cotton clouds floating above you in an unnaturally blue sky. You sit up. You look around. You're on a street, on a tiled pavement, but this is not your world. This is Colombia. A floating city. But something went wrong. Catastrophically wrong. You were supposed to be watching, not becoming part of the experiment.

They appear in front of you, as if made of light itself. A guy and a girl in immaculate, as if just from the needle, outfits. Their faces are reflections of each other.

— Awake,– he says, Robert Lutece, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth. A variable is entered into the equation.

—An equation that rewrites itself,– retorts his sister, Rosalind. There's a hint of curiosity in her tone. The observer has become a participant. He has violated the protocol simply by being here. — The protocol was violated when the rift was created. We are merely recording the consequences. — Consequences... or a new constant? The appearance here was not calculated. Randomness? — Randomness is just a pattern we haven't yet deciphered.

They look at you, but it's as if they can't see you. They see data. An anomaly. You're a scientist who came to study a storm, but ended up in its eye. Now, you're being observed by the cold, all-seeing eyes of the twins, who discuss your fate as an interesting error in an infinite calculation.