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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jun 14, 2023 15:44:29 GMT -5
I found the theological discussion to be an interesting read. The character who is a priest with my name seems really cool, and I think he fits well with the story.
Regarding the topic discussed, I have my own religious beliefs, of course. Based on my understanding of the Bible, which is where I base my religious beliefs, it is true that there is much evil within many people. However, this does not exclude the existence of intelligent spiritual beings who are also evil. To start the conversation, we would need to define what is good and what is evil. And before we can define that, we would have to answer the question: who has the right to determine what is good and what is evil?
This is because accepting the existence of God does not necessarily mean that you accept that He has this right or that you accept that He is the best person to exercise this right.
In the Bible, the Devil is not portrayed as the person who directly causes all the evil that exists, but rather as the first person to question God's right to decide what is good and what is evil. He also argues that intelligent beings would be happier if they themselves decided what is good and what is evil.
I completely agree that the doctrine of torture after death is not biblical or true. Death is the opposite of life, and that's all there is to it. There is no way to torture someone after life. And even if it were possible, the belief that God would create a place to torture people forever at the hands of His greatest enemy... That doesn't make sense. This belief stems from ancient pagan peoples who had gods of the underworld in their mythology. Using this belief was really a great propaganda to try to make people serve God for the wrong reasons. The feelings that should bring us closer to God are love and gratitude, not fear.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jul 7, 2023 11:16:51 GMT -5
Chapter Nine – Once an Empire
When I last spoke to you, I told you that history was about to repeat itself, and now I know that to be more true than I could ever have imagined.
Beatrice read those words over and over, as she had done countless times since she had first laid eyes on them. Each time she prayed for some new meaning or understanding to unlock itself from that sentence, but none was yet to reveal itself to her. She folded up the letter and gently placed it back inside the envelope, her fingers tentative and delicate, scared that the fragile parchment would peel away to nothing.
With a heavy sigh she leant backwards in her seat, turning to gaze out at the scenery passing by her window. The car was trickling along at a lethargic pace as they headed deeper into the heart of the city, the traffic compacting itself around them. Tension was building throughout her body, knotting her muscles into thick wiry snakes that trembled with nervous energy. She hated asking her parents about anything, but it was the only option she could see, the only idea she had had.
For the past few weeks Beatrice had grown obsessed with the letter, desperately trying to find out anything, and she had learnt nothing. She had gone back to that park each day, fruitlessly hoping to find that strange woman who had passed it to her, but there was no trace to be found. It was as if the woman had simply vanished. Perhaps she had not ever been there, only a figment of Beatrices' tired imagination. The rehearsals for the play were stepping up, and the intensity of everything was almost overwhelming. She was tired and delirious, on the edge of exhaustion. Could she have been hallucinating? But no, she had the letter. That was proof of some kind of reality, but it didn't help her understand anything.
And then there were her dreams. Every night she was lost in a sea of unknown images and characters, places she had never been to or seen before. There was the boat, with its lost crew, floating on their sea of stars. There was the drowning woman, and the strangers in black and white, asking her questions she could not hear in a language she did not understand.
For no reason other than pure instinct, Beatrice was sure the two were connected. She told herself that if only she could understand what was in the letter, then her dreams would stop. Or at best, she would understand what they were going on about. It was like she was reading a book, but the chapters were out of order, the words all jumbled up and out of place. She needed to fit the pieces together, somehow, and this letter was the only clue she had.
It did not help that she had kept all of this to herself. She had considered confiding in Bertrand, but somehow she felt that actualising what she was experiencing would only make her seem foolish. If She did not understand it herself, then how could she explain it to somebody else?
So she had been isolated in her thoughts, her endless attempts to crack the puzzle. But there was one thing that she kept coming back to, over and over again, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it. That name.
It must have taken about half an hour, but the car finally came to a stop. She looked out at the tall, narrow building, the windows reflecting the dull gray pallor of the leaden skies above. She hesitated, almost reconsidering, before steeling herself and exiting the car.
Once Beatrice had paid the driver, she stood for a few moments on the pavement, looking up at the cold grey steps that led to the olive green front door. She had considered calling ahead, but her parents were reluctant to see her at the best of times, and she could not take the chance that they would bat her away, ignore her insistence of needing to talk and find an excuse to suddenly head out of town.
Gingerly, she reached out and pushed the small round circle of the doorbell, and waited for some sign of reaction from inside. Silence responded, and she sighed, She knew her parents better than anyone; they were sure to be inside at this time of morning, but she knew they simply had no interest in answering the door. Beatrice rummaged in her pockets, and took out an old and rusted key, it's almost comical size betraying its age. She slid the key into the lock, twisted it to one side, and gave the door the heavy push.
The foyer was dark, the only source of light being a single dusty window and small square of glass to the right of the door, but what little light they gave to the room did not travel far. As usual, it was full to the brim with an odd assortment of furniture, clothes, books, antique ornaments, and boxes containing countless items unknown.
It had always been this way with her family, at least since they had been forced to 'downsize' when Beatrice had only been little. 'Financial difficulties' would hardly be an adequate phrase, but there was a dissonance in their refusal to accept the reality of how much they could fit into their abode, and to accept that they no longer lived in the mansion that her father had inherited.
'Hello?' Beatrice called, the accumulated junk absorbing most of her voice. 'It's me, Beatrice!'
She waited a moment, and could hear no sounds of reply, but she decided that she couldn't simply stand there all day. She crossed the room, heading to a small and narrow staircase taking her upstairs. Everything about the house was narrow, the entire row of houses squashed together to take up as little space as possible. They were property of the bank, a place for its workers to live nearby, and so it had been an easy investment for my father to secure. They had moved here when Beatrice was still a child, and she could barely remember living anywhere beforehand, yet it had never quite felt like home.
Beatrice knocked on the door to her parents bedroom, her hands still shaking with nervous energy.
'What do you want?' came a cross voice.
'Mother, it's me. Beatrice.' said Beatrice, helpfully.
There was a rustling, and a sigh. 'Yes, I know. I saw you out the window.' There was a moment's pause. 'Well, come in then.'
Beatrice pushed open the door, and found her mother sitting in front of her dresser. It was a monstrously huge beast, three mirrors reflecting her mothers ghostly visage back at her. Her face tightly drawn, thin lines stretching along her pale cheeks drawing to tightly puckered lips. Her eyes were pale and hollow, a dull cloudy blue. and her hair, once dark as night like her own, was now grey and thinning. Her mother did not rise to greet her, nor even turn her eyes in Beatrice's direction. If anything, she scowled a little at the sight of her.
'What do you want?' she asked, and continued to powder her already ghostly cheeks.
'I wanted to speak to Father,' said Beatrice, hesitating in the doorway.
'You're in the wrong place then.' She replied, her powdering becoming increasingly furious. 'Unless you really are as dumb as you look.'
'Where is he?' said Beatrice, her mouth drying.
'Not here.' Her mother sighed. 'I imagine he is in his study again, That's where he spends most of his time.'
'Okay' said Beatrice. Conversations with her parents always went like this; awkward and hesitant, and with a lingering uncertainty whether the conversation was over or not.
'I'll go and talk to him then.' she said, making to leave the room, only for her mother to call back.
'What do you want him for anyway?' Her eyes were still focussed on her own reflection, not caring to look at her daughter.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, you must want something from him. You always want something, or need something. Why else would come here? It's not money is it?' Her expression hardened. 'You know we don't have any money, you shouldn't even be asking.'
Beatrice sighed. 'No, mother. I just want to talk.'
Her mother snorted. 'Well, I'm sure it will be most enlightening. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting on. We are out to dinner this evening and it seems to take me longer to get ready every day. It'ss a very expensive establishment, so I need to look my best.'
'I thought you said you didn't have any money?'
'Oh, I meant that we don't have any money for you.' she said, shaking her head indignantly.
Deciding to get away as quickly as possible, Beatrice turned to leave, but the next moment her mother leapt up from the chair and dashed towards her. For a split second Beatrcie thought she was trying to strangle her, hands reaching out towards her neck, but she relaxed as her mother took a hold of the locket resting around Beatrice's neck.
'This is... beautiful' she said, her eyes fixated by the small metal bulb. 'Where did you get this?'
Beatrice froze, her heart pounding rapidly beneath her chest. 'Bertrand... he's a friend.' She stammered out the word even though they were true, but somehow it felt deceptive. 'He gave it to me.'
'Why?' Her mothers eyes were sharp, interrogating, and pernicious. 'This is very fancy for someone like you.'
'It was a present, for the play.'
She scowled, her eyes hesitant to move away from the locket. 'I see.... well, your fathers very busy. I hope you don't keep him long.' She let go of the locket, and ambled back over the dresser, not even glancing back at her daughter.
Over the years Beatrice had grown used to her mother and the odd detachment between them. It still bothered her, but it was expected. She had no interest in her daughter's affairs, professional or otherwise, and that was never going to change. But why did she ask about the locket?
In her dreams there was a man, dressed in neither black nor white, and with hooks instead of hands. He was wearing the locket around his neck, exactly the same as the one she had been given. It was the only physical connection she held between the real world and the one in her dreams, and she did not know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Whatever it meant, there was something deeply unsettling about her mother questioning it.
As Beatrice wound her way through the narrow corridors, she simply washed the conversation from her mind.
She found her father in the attic, just as mother had said. The rickety wooden ladder was already descended from the ceiling, and she bounded upward quickly, pulling the steps up behind her.
The attic of the house was a small, tiny room, one whose purpose should be little more than storing a few scant items unable to find residence elsewhere in the building, but her father had contrived to stuff a desk and chair in there regardless, and there were piles and piles of books stacked up on either side of him. The room was lit by a single dull bulb hanging from a wire, a few cobwebs draping its surface. There were windows hidden away in the roof, but they were dark and grimy, preventing any light from permeating the room. Overall, it was a dull and depressing place, and Beatirce had never liked it.
Her father was staring intensely at a mass of paperwork on his desk, and barely acknowledged her arrival. His eyes continued to move back and forth over the pages speedily, stubbornly refusing to look up at her.
Beatrice waited for a few moments, trying vainly to make out the words on the ancient paper, faded handwriting scrawled at great haste that was difficult to read at any angle. Her fathers hair was grey and thinning, and she couldn't help but notice the distant reflection of light coming from the shiny bulb of his head as he bent further over the page.
Eventually, he raised his head towards her. He had a kind face, but he wore a constant expression of disappointment. It was one tinged with reluctance, a feeling that he shouldn't really be there or talking to you at all.
'Hello darling. What is it? As you can see I'm rather busy' He gestured with a piece of paper at the mess of the desk below him.
She smiled at him, the edges of her mouth curving up despite herself. He was always busy, or at least that's what he said. Most of his time seemed to be spent pouring over old notes and records, examining and searching through a lifetime of research and investigation, trying to find new truth and meaning, to find all the right answers to all the wrong questions. Or at least that was what he told himself. The truth was much sadder.
'I know you are father.' she said. 'I wouldn't have come if it wasn't important.'
There was a noticeable slouch in his shoulders. 'You don't want money again do you? I've told you, it's not like it was before. The family fortune is not what it was, and since our expulsion from the organisation -'
Beatrice shook her head, colour rising In her cheeks in embarrassment. 'No, no. It's not that. It's just that I wanted to ask you about something.'
'Well ask your mother, she's much better at... well, things, than I am.'
'No, not that kind of thing.' Beatrice took a deep breath, readying herself. And took out the letter in her pocket. 'I received this letter a few days ago. It's nothing important but it, well, it jogged something in my memory.'
Her father looked utterly perplexed.
'There was a name in the letter, a name I haven't heard for such a long time. Well, at first I thought I had never heard it at all. It took me a long time to realise, to remember it. Anyway, I wanted to know if you could tell me how to get in contact with him.'
'I'm sorry, I don't think I quite understand you.' Her fathers brow was furrowed in confusion, thick lines joining knitting themselves together across his forehead. 'Who exactly are you talking about?'
'Rasmussen.' said Beatrice, 'Dr Rasmussen, wasn't it? You used to work with him, long ago, back when I was still a child. I can remember his name, or at least I can now I hear it, but there's something about him. I can't even picture his face, or remember what he looked like, but I know that I've met him. '
Her father seemed to no longer be listening to her, continuing to stare down at his desk. Beatrice noticed that there was a large spherical ball resting on her father's desk. It was made out of silver, its surface dull and blotchy. Her father had owned the object for as long as she could remember, yet she had never once asked what it was. He surveyed the object intensely, thinking, as if asking it a question.
'Can I see this letter?' he asked, his eyes sad and heavy, hand outstretched towards her.
Beatrice clasped the paper tightly in her pocket, resisting. She was worried what he might think, that he might laugh at her for being so stupid. But there was something about her father, something that always made her succumb to his wishes, Beatrice knew that if she said no he would not press her any further, and he might yet tell her what she wanted to know regardless. But somehow it felt like she was cheating him, withholding information from him when it was not her right to do so, even if she didn't understand it herself.
Reluctantly, she passed him the letter.
Beatrice stood, her arms hanging feebly at her sides, as he read the letter. She played the words over and over in her head as he read, anticipation building as she wondered what he would make of it all.
After several minutes, Beatrice realised that her father had finished reading and was simply staring at the paper, held nervously between his hands, prolonging the moment at which he would have to respond, and to answer the question.
He remained like that, motionless, for several minutes more, as though he had been paused. Eventually, and with a look of resignation, He reached down to a drawer from underneath his desk and took out a blank square of paper.
'I don't know how you got this letter, or what you think it could possibly mean, but I know that there is no point in arguing with you. When you have an idea in your head, there's no changing it. I suppose it's my own fault. We were never exactly honest with you, my darling, about everything that happened when you were a child. Curiosity was always our downfall, and now I suppose it will be yours.'
He began to write on the square of paper, in thin shaky handwriting.
'This address is the last place I saw Rasmussen. I don't know if he is still there, but it would not surprise me if he was. I give you this not because I want to, but because I feel as though I must. I hope and pray that you will not go there, but I fully expect that you will. If I had a choice, I wouldn't even give it to you, but it seems that I have already set you on this path. I suppose you could say that it's the least that I owe you.'
He rose from his chair, and gave her the address. As their hands passed over the desk he gripped her tightly, and pulled her in close toward him. Beatrice could see tears in the corners of his eyes, and it worried her more than any words he had said. He was a proud and noble man, and never one to show emotion. What could make him feel so distressed?
'Beatrice.' he said, smiling sadly. 'Can you promise me something?'
She found that her throat was impossibly dry, and unable to speak she gave her head a slight nod.
'If you go to this place, Whatever you learn, whatever it is that you see, whatever you are told - please try to forgive me.'
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jul 10, 2023 4:30:40 GMT -5
So Beatrice's parents were part of VFD. But that's not the biggest secret. This isn't even a secret. Something involving Dr. R seems to be more important. He must be part of that caduceus sect. Did Beatrice's father do some kind of ritual with her?
Bertrand presented Beatrice with a locket, old and ornate, with an eye image on one side. The locket has a damaged casing matching a scar on Beatrice's eyebrow. When Beatrice opens the locket and examines the photograph inside, she heardHer mother knows this item. a strange voice whispering, "What do you want?". Her mother knows this item.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jul 10, 2023 14:51:03 GMT -5
It's interesting that you have made some assumptions that I did not expect, though they are not perhaps incorrect. I think the role and prehistory of the caduceus sect is complex, and therefore difficult to pin down (I do have the answers, but I don't know if the story will allow space for them), but the sect is not perhaps what matters. Remember, Jean acts with disgust at Rassmussen, yet Jean's church is a part of that sect. Rassmussen is now his own agent, someone who much like Beatrice's father was cast out of the organisation - both VFD and it's offshoots. So the sect itself is irrelevant at this present moment. What matters is its ideas, and what Rassmussen has taken from them.
On another note, I wanted to ask you about chronology. You said at the start of this story that it would be impossible to put things togehter because there are mystical or magical elements at play.... but I think there enough puzzle pieces here that one should now be able to say if not what is happeneing, but at least when. (And maybe make a guess at why?)
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jul 10, 2023 15:31:49 GMT -5
I didn't really get the chronology, and as you said, I abandoned the possibility of putting together a detailed chronology from the beginning. But now that you commented, I can see that it wasn't a good idea. At least it would be interesting to make the chronology in the sense of the order of events. I don't know why I'm lying a little bit on the LOST show. An ancient evil on an island and time travel... But in this case, it's an ancient evil on a boat, driving people crazy. So this must be the oldest part of the story. The locket belonged to Fernald. Years passed. We have Beatrice and Bertrand. Generations later apparently. And finally Father Jean is his pupil. Three epochs linked, as in Dark.
Is there some kind of time travel going on? I don't know yet if people travel to the past, but information is being sent to the past via dreams. If a serpent eating itself represents an infinite shekel, what does two serpents wrapped around a stick represent? An organization trying to control the flow of time? I don't know where to go... Maybe I'm traveling too much. If chronology is so important, and dreams are connected, whose voice is it? And why exactly are these people chosen to hear this voice and have these dreams? What makes them special?
If we take Beatrice's case as an example, we can suggest that something in these people's childhood makes them special. A moment that connects them with the whole story told over generations. Not exactly told, but lived. And can past history be changed by future history?
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jul 10, 2023 15:44:17 GMT -5
Two Serpents on a stick, two forces moving either side around.... something.... but, of course, those definitions are just our perception. Perhaps the stick is the serpent, and the serpents are sticks? It's all to do with perspective. After all, there are three epochs, not two.
Anyway, I think before Part one is concluded you will know.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jul 10, 2023 15:56:27 GMT -5
What you just said is fascinating. Incredibly fascinating. Your text has a religious aspect in its essence. And in the Bible, the first miracle that God taught a human being to perform was to turn a stick into a serpent. And the second was to turn the serpent back into a sitck. Furthermore, when Moses first spoke as God's representative to Pharaoh, he performed this miracle before Pharaoh. But Pharaoh's masters of magical arts made several rods become serpents. But then, the serpent that was Moses' rod swallowed up the serpents that were the magicians' rods. So staffs and serpents are well connected in biblical history. Anyway, going back to its history, three connected times intertwined with each other, it seems to be a very interesting symbol. Unlike Dark where there was no central time, if the symbol is taken seriously, the serpents connect around a center, which makes me think that there is a central axis in all of this. But I'm just rambling too much...
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jul 21, 2023 10:51:08 GMT -5
Chapter Ten – Do you remember what you came for?
'What do you want?'
Fiona could see her again, floating aimlessly in the water, drifting further and further away from her, the darkness of the ocean swallowing her up.
She hammered relentlessly against the glass of the porthole, but she knew it was useless. She did not have the key, it would not open.
'What do you want?'
There was something out there, unseen through the depths of her blurred vision, but Fiona could feel it. She could sense some being, drawing her mother away from her, second by second. Time was running out.
Fiona reached down into her pocket, desperately searching for something that would help. She felt something strange; a long, thin wooden tube, with a piece of glass slotted over one end.
'What do you want?'
Suddenly a scream echoed through the water like waves rippling across its surface. Fiona snapped her head upwards, and then she saw it.
Thick black tentacles were reaching out, a writhing mass of tangled limbs, clawing their eager way towards her mother.
'What do you want?'
And then Fiona could feel it, a cold hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see the strange figure, dressed in black. His eyes were hollow shells, and his face serene.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, she heard the voice echo loudly in her ears.
'What do you want?'
Fiona tried to shout, to call out for help, but the sound was lost for a moment, as if paused, and Fiona knew, knew what it was that was happening.
Eventually, the sound forced its way out, a roar echoing across her mind.
She woke with a scream, sat bolt upright, back in the relative safety of her cabin. Her heart was beating fast, and her body was caked in sweat and fear.
Just the same as it always was, every night.
Fiona rose, ripping off her bedclothes in frustration. The room was boiling hot, stifilied and full of tension and unease. The air was thick and heavy, and her lungs felt weak and claggy, starved of oxygen.
It had been three days now, and each day it worsened. They were losing everything they needed, not to mention their own sanity. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take.
Fiona rested her hand on the locket, weighing heavily on her chest. The metal was cold and leaden, and as she twisted it between her fingers she could feel the coolness seeping into her. She turned the locket over, and traced her fingers along the image of an eye set into the metal, digging her nail into the small chink scratched into its surface.
Then the moment suddenly echoed back to her across the years; Her brothers shouts, the feeling as the needles pressed their way into her skin, and the unanswered cries of a child.
With a gasp. Fiona let go of the locket. It felt hot now, tingling against her skin. She was back in the room, her cabin, but for a moment she had felt as if she were somewhere else, lost in a sea of dreams.
Fiona steadied herself, trying to regain control of her breathing, but knew it was no good. Nothing was ever going to get her back to normal, not here.
When Fiona came up on deck, she was not surprised to see Andrew leading the massed crew members in yet another sermon. She loitered, hanging back in the shadow of the doorway, desperate not to be seen by the amassed throng of his followers, hanging on to his every word.
'The bible tells us to worry not about what we will eat or drink, or about our bodies. It tells us that life is more important.' Andrew preached to them, his arms outstretched, the crew assembled before him with an eagerness and obedience that she had never been able to muster. 'Look around you, my brothers. It matters not if our bodies hunger and thirst, and if our minds continue to weaken and falter. What we are experiencing, what it is that we are seeing, this is something remarkable and unimaginable. A gift from god, a miracle of incomprehensible majesty. We are flying among the heavens.'
At this, Fiona noticed the hesitancey with which the congregation responded. It may be that this was just a step too far for some of them, or perhaps they did not want to believe the evidence of their own eyes. A few dared to look around them, but most remained with their faces fixed firmly on Andrew. There were even a few who did not even lift their eyes from their feet.
Fiona had no such reluctance. She peered over the edge of the ship, down at the stars swarming around them, folding themselves up into endless circles.
At first, the crew had simply given way to panic and hysteria. The chaos of confusion and terror had descended among them, as the sheer weight of the unknown had hit them. Their situation was impossible, illogical, sheer madness, and yet it was happening, right before their very eyes.
Six of their number died that first night. Some had thrown themselves overboard, disappearing into the nothingness below them. One, Jasper, had simply slit his throat with a knife, unable to cope with the lack of comprehension in his mind. Fiona wasn't sure if it made any difference. They were lost anyway, whether they were alive or dead seemed inconsequential.
The most surprising reaction had been Tamsons. He seemed to have taken the latest development in his stride, and had spent much of the last few days free of his cabin, studying charts and maps and trying to plot their way out of this mess. It seemed like nothing more than a waste of time to Fiona, but she was glad that he seemed to have gained some kind of vigour where others had squandered and failed. Secretly, she suspected that Tamson felt that the burden of secrecy had been lifted from his shoulders. Now everybody knew that they were lost, and Tamson was making it his responsibility to make sure that they would be found once again. The burden wasn't his carry alone anymore.
At first Fiona had been unsure what to think. She studied the stars as often as she could, and she would occasionally try to plot out the various constellations, but she soon realised there was no point. The stars made no sense, at least not when it enveloped the world like this.
It was as if somebody had taken the sky and folded it around them, the stars stretched out and spaced apart, with new planets and constellations dotted inbetween at random intervals. There was no moon and no sun, an eternal night that lasted forever. And yet somehow the ship was moving onwards, sailing through the sky, propelled forwards by an unseen hand, pushing ever further into this unknown world.
The only way Fiona had found to indicate any passage of time was the movement of the stars. The sky was rotating slowly round them, at a speed so slow as to be imperceptible to the human eye, but yesterday she had been able to confirm that the entire pattern had shifted back to where it had once been. There was no identifiable 'night' or 'day', but Fiona returned to her cabin when she felt she could no longer keep sleep at bay. Each night she dreamed the same dream, and she would wake up after only a few hours and begin the cycle all over again.
None of it mattered though. She knew the truth now, for certain.
Absent-mindedly Fiona picked at the irritated skin on her hand. The black mark of the caduceus was reflecting the eerie starlight, and the skin around it was red and cracked, bloody from itches scratched away in the night.
By now the sermon was over, and Andrews' throng had started to disperse around her, but Fiona had barely noticed. She had long since tuned them out of her consciousness, her mind and thoughts lost to the astronomical wonders surrounding her. It was only when she noticed Harry standing next to her that her attention was caught once more.
He leaned on the railing next to her, staring out into the sea. For a while she stared forwards, trying not to pay him much attention, but she couldn't help herself for too long. His thick blonde hair was tied back with a thong, and she could see his deep blue eyes staring out inquisitively. It was nice to look at him, even for a moment, and forget everything else that was happening to her.
'What do you think?' said Harry, smiling at her with an air of relaxation. 'About what Andrew said?'
'I didn't really listen.' Fiona sighed. It was half true. She would tune in to his words and make sure that he wasn't protesting her own failures and evils, and that they should curse the woman who has led them to their dooms and throw her overboard, but once she was fairly certain that was not the case she tried to ignore as much of the religious fervour as she could. 'What did he say?'
'Well that we're dead, or dying, and that it's really quite a wonderful experience, so we may as well sit back and enjoy it.' said Harry, still smiling gently.
'That sounds nice,' said Fiona. 'Not much legwork involved.'
'Exactly. We can just sit back and relax. Enjoy the ride. Watch the silent stars go by.'
Fiona knew that Harry was having none of it. Of everyone on the ship, she trusted him the most, and not just because of how good-looking he was. There was something discerning about him, a feeling as if he was somehow expecting this, as though strange and extraordinary circumstances were comfortably familiar to him.
'What else is there to do?' said Fiona.
Harry shrugged, barely listening to her.
Fiona stared at him for a few more moments, before asking the question that was preying on her mind, an all-pervading thought that was an almost overwhelming burden.
'Why are we here, Harry?' she asked
'Hmm?' Harry replied, quizzically.
'What's the point of this? What do you think we're going to achieve?'
Harry looked confused. 'I thought we were escaping?'
Fiona sighed. He had no idea. 'It doesn't matter.'
They stood for a while in silence, watching as they drifted effortlessly through the stars.
'I think we should give it another try.' said Fiona
Harry lifted his arm, checking the watch buckled to his wrist, and raised an eyebrow as though surprised at what he saw.
'Shall we take another look?' asked Fiona
'Already?', Harry sighed
Fiona nodded, took hold of his hand, and pulled him below decks.
She led him down, deep into the heart of the ship, as she had so many times these last few days. He held her hand tightly, and she didn't look back until they reached their destination.
Fiona rested her hand gently against the cold steel of the door, and pressed herself lightly up against It. She could feel this resistance, an almost electric hum tingling through her fingers as she did so. It was probably just tension, or excitement. Or more like frustration.
'So.' spoke Fiona. 'Have you had any bright ideas?'
Harry reached into the pocket of the coat, and for a moment he seemed to hesitate, his hand coming to rest on something hidden in his pocket. He shook his head, a smile nearly forming on his face.
'I'm afraid not.', he said.
Fiona smiled back at him, and the two of them stood side by side and stared at the impenetrable door.
For the past few days Fiona had made a habit of coming down here and trying to find a way to get into the door and see what was inside. She had become obsessed with finding a way in, even though she doubted if she would ever succeed. In her dreams, at least sometimes, she would just open the door and walk inside. Sometimes the door was always open already, the process of its opening kept hidden and concealed from her. But none of that reflected the reality of the situation.
The door was welded shut, the steel melted into the framework, with no visible handle or lock, no hinges or latch, nothing. It was an impenetrable and immovable fortress, and they did not have the tools on board to open it, at least not by themselves. The last thing Fiona wanted to do was draw further attention to herself, and showing her obsession with an unopening door was bound to do just that.
Except for Harry, though. Somehow she could trust him. He seemed willing enough to go along with her, to accept her instructions and orders without so much as a question. Fiona felt this was not just obedience. There was something about him, as if he understood what she was trying to do. It made her feel comfortable with him in a way she couldn't define.
Harry moved to push and shove against the door. He took a metal pole out of his pocket, and tried to work its way between the floor and the bottom of the door, trying to create some kind of leverage to prise it open. It had been a fruitless endeavour so far, but it did Fiona no harm to stand and watch as he threw his weight into every pull and tug.
In the unlikely event of the door opening, Fiona could not be sure what they would find inside. In her dreams there were barrels full of a strange black liquid. And there was the man, the stranger in black, always asking those same questions. She was doubtful thet would find anything like that inside, but there must be something. Why else would the organisation have gone to the trouble of welding the door shut if there wasn't something inside that they wanted to be kept locked up? The ship had been abandoned when they had found it, and perhaps with good reason. Perhaps they wanted to keep as far away from this room as possible.
Whatever it was, Fiona knew it was important, that it would answer all of her questions.
Hatry grunted, and the metal pole clattered to the floor and he rose back up, shaking his head.
'Nothing. This door wouldn't budge if we stayed here forever.'
Fiona smiled at him. 'So we'll keep trying?'
Harry lifted his arm, checking the watch buckled to his wrist, and raised an eyebrow as though surprised at what he saw.
'Why not?' He grinned at her.
He bent down to pick up the metal bar again, but instead Fiona took hold of his face and pulled him in towards her.
His lips were soft and full, and she could taste the warm heat of his breath. Her nostrils filled with the accumulated scent of several weeks worth of dirt and sweat, but there was a pleasant sweetness to it. She pushed herself against him, moving her legs against his. He didn't resist, but neither did he respond to her touch either. Fiona simply worked her tongue against his, moving her hands across his body. It was her fantasy, she could do what she liked.
She had worked it out, that first night after the stars had appeared. This was her madness, her insanity. The infection had finally taken hold of her, and everything around her was falling to pieces. She was lost in a sea of her own madness, an illusion her mind had created whilst the darkness consumed her. She would be dead soon, just like all the others. She might as well enjoy herself while she can.
Suddenly, the world was rocked apart.
There was a tremendous crash, and Fiona was thrown to one side. She banged her head against the wooden boards of the floor, tasting blood in her mouth, and she could hear a tremendous roaring in her head, a mad shriek of fury.
Everything was spinning around her, and Fiona scrambled to gain some semblance of direction. She pressed her hand against the metal door, suddenly burning with heat. She pulled her hand, and saw thick black lines running across the surface.
'What's happening?' cried Harry, as he helped pull her back to her feet.
'I don't know.' Fiona replied. The room was no longer spinning, but her head was dazed and confused, difficult to balance upright. She could feel the locket around her neck, it too was burning with intense heat.
There was another tremendous roar, and Fiona could hear screams and shouts coming from above. Without wasting another moment, she turned and ran back along the corridor and onto the deck.
As soon as Fiona stepped out into the open, wind and rain whipped across her face, water lashing against her eyes so that she could barely see. There were people shifting about below her, running and screaming. There was no order, no control, just sheer terror. The rain and the noise made the scene indecipherable, and Fiona took a moment to find her bearings.
She looked up at the sky; There were thick and heavy clouds, the rain cascading down, drumming against the skin of the ship like iron sheets. The clouds were back, was that a good thing?
There was a terrific crash of lightning, and then Fiona saw him, standing across the way from her. The stranger dressed all in black, his face hidden in darkness, and yet she could tell he was looking straight at her.
There was an almighty cracking of thunder, and the deck shook violently beneath her. Fiona grabbed hold of a wooden beam, and when she looked back the stranger was gone, as suddenly as he had appeared.
'Fiona!' came Harry's cry, but as she turned he was pulled away from her in the confusion, people rushing from one place to another, the torrential rain sweeping across the deck.
Fiona heard a roaring shriek once again, a guttural unearthly sound, like waves cracking through glass.
Waves?
Fiona ran to the side of the deck, and looked over into the water.
The waves were rocking and crashing against the ship, the sea being torn in a thousand different directions by the wind and storm above them. Fiona closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the salty tang, breathing in deeply. They were back.
There was another roar, this time coming from behind her.
Fiona whipped around on the spot, and she could see great wisps of foam and spray leaping over the side of the deck, opposite to her. There was nothing she could see, nothing to identify the source of the noise. Not at first.
A great tentacle, as thick as a man and twice as long, smashed over the side of the deck, writhing its way over and pulling itself forward, sending huge splinters of wood flying in her direction.
Another tentacle, twice the size of the first, smashed its way over the side, the thick shiny blackness reflecting the moonlight back at her.
And like a swarm, a mass of tangled arms, each writhing and wriggling, began to latch themselves into the bulk of the ship, as the great creature began to pull them ever deeper into its grasp.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jul 27, 2023 4:42:31 GMT -5
This part of the story really fascinates and confuses me. Things seem to make no sense: the ship is currently floating in space and then back at sea. This strikes me as a kind of collective hallucination. I've said this before, but I'm sorry to bring it up again. And it's interesting that when Fiona accepted her madness and stopped resisting her desires, at that very moment the ship went back to sea. I think the most coherent thing is that they were at sea the whole time. Is Fiona generating the collective hallucination?
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jul 27, 2023 14:38:08 GMT -5
Really good thoughts. I would give you top marks for this assessment.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Aug 13, 2023 9:59:14 GMT -5
Chapter Eleven – Solution Devices
As Fernald flicked lazily through the rest of the report, he let out a long deep sigh. The pages dashed past him with a latheric hiss, the words slowly bending into one as his mind began to wander further and further into boredom, It was a warm afternoon, the air claggy and thick with the hours spent pouring through pages of pointless information, his brain trapped in wheels of thought that led him nowhere.
After leafing few only a few pages the outcome of the report was abundantly clear. They could not continue at this rate without increasing the dosage, and if they did that then the patients would die before they would be able to yield any results. It was always the way, and Fernald had known it even before the report had landed on his desk, yet that made the truth no easier to swallow. He had no other option but to continue, regardless of the consequences.
He ran his hands through his hair, long and thick, red curls hanging down at the sides of his face. He could feel a knot in his shoulders, tension forming from his hunched posture. Fernald could feel the dryness in his mouth, bothering him for so long now, yet still he could not find the motivation to rise from his chair and fetch himself a drink.
He reached into his pocket and removed a small wooden tube. The object was fragile and delicate, weathered by years of use. There were several small symbols carved into the wood, one of an eye, and another of a caduceus, two snakes encircling a staff. It was a spyglass, with small shards of glass encased at either end. It was old, weathered by years of misuse and damage, yet still worked well enough to serve its purpose.
Fernald held it up to his eye, looking through the narrow end. There was nothing to see, of course; only the blurred outline of the walls of his office, magnification causing nothing by confusion. But it was a comfort to him to use it, if only sparingly. It was the only thing mother had ever given him of value, and it was the only real link he had to his past. It was his piece of the puzzle.
With another sigh, Fernald picked up the report once more and resumed scanning his way through. He considered its contents for another moment, balancing the weight of the paper in hand. Another life lost, another failure, and yet they were still no closer. In all these years, all this time and expensse, they still understood nothing. A drop of knowledge in an sea of unknowns, and they were drowning.
His encounter with Julian had ruffled him. Nothing could ever be simple, nothing ever seemed to run smoothly. The fire at the Duncan house should have ended it, a flame extinguished as another was lit, but no. There was a survivor, and one that had fallen into the most dangerous of hands. It put Fernald on edge, heightened the risk that at any moment they could be discovered. Or perhaps it was inevitable. Just as fate had played its cruel game with him so many times before, perhaps he was doomed to failure.
It had taken so many years, so much time and money to get this far, that if they were to fail now it would almost be cruel. They had only just begun, and only he knew the truth, their true purpose. He could not be stopped. He would not allow it.
There was a knock on the door, and Fernald jerked his head in its direction. He put the spyglass back into his pocket and closed shut the report before replying.
When the door opened it was Jessica, her face pale, a look of worry and fear painted in faint lines across her brow.
'Excuse me, sir, but there is a....' she struggled for the words. 'There's an.. issue...with one of the patients.'
'That's Rasmussen's problem, not mine.'
Jessica shook her head. 'You don't understand. He's asking for you.'
'Asking for me?' asked Fernald, confused. 'Who? What are you talking about?'
'One of the patients. He's been asking for you. Calling out your name.'
Fernald rose from his desk at once. 'Take me to him.'
Jessica led their way through ornate oak halls, the floorboards creaking under haste of foot. The building was far too old to be suitable, yet it was all that Fernald had been able to find. The establishment had once belonged to his family, passed down through generations of wealth. Places such as this, ones which were kept strictly in the family, were always harder to trace, and therefore much harder to find. All that, and it was out in the middle of nowhere where they were far less likely to arouse suspicion. Yet even so, every croak and groan of the walls reminded him of the nagging unsuitability, the wrongness of everything. But it was the best he could do.
Fernald was surprised to see the pale grey of night pressing up against the thin glass of the windows. The day had slipped away from him once again, more time that he could no longer use. The bare branches of the trees seemed to reach out through the milky air, desperate to tap on one of the windows.
They rounded a corner, and came to a set of sterile white doors. Jessica pressed a card against a scanner, and the doors made an irritated buzzing sound as they unlocked. She pushed through them hurridley, only giving the merest of glances back at her master
As they rushed down the corridor the chill sliced its way into Fernald's bones, sneaking its way up from the aged stone floor. It was supposed to be good for them, or at least that's what the doctor was always saying, but Fernald doubted that anything was any good for their patients, not anymore. They headed down past the rows of cells, his footsteps sending a deafening echo reverberating around them.
Jessica stopped outside the door to one of the rooms and searched in her pockets for a bundle of keys.
'Who is it?' he asked, though he could have made a good guess at the answer.
'Roman', Jessica replied, and there was a satisfying click as the door swung open. She moved aside, gesturing to the tiny room.
Fernald hesitated at the threshold, not wanting to get too near, moving himself uncomfortably close to Jessica. He had known the name, of course he had. He knew all their names, yet he pretended not to, indifference holding back despair.
Fernald could feel the heat emanating from inside, even just standing in the doorway. It seemed to radiate from Romans body, contrasting harshly with the sheer coldness of the corridor outside. He was curled up into a ball on the floor, his hands shielding his eyes from the light around him. His body was thin and weak, his naked flesh pale and streaked with thin black lines. Fernald could see a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, the fluorescent lights reflecting back at him, making the man appear a ghostly white.
Roman mumbled something, the words barely on the edge of hearing, but it was impossible to understand what the man was saying, The words were a nothing, a language that he did not yet know.
'You said he was asking for me?' Fernald said, looking at Jessica.
She nodded, and moved into the room. She knelt down and placed a hand on Romans arm, gently shaking him.
He let out a moan, as though deep in slumber, but it was the same with all the patients. In the early stages of Infection, the victims would rage and rant inconsolably. Although it was certainly easier to deal with them in this lucid, infantile state, it was a constant source of disappointment for Fernald. They were the ravings of the mad, leading him no closer to his goal.
But suddenly, his lips begin to move, a strange delicate movement, full of precision and control. Fernald could not hear anything, only a distant whisper, faint and far away.
Reluctantly, he stepped into the room, moving closer. He bent down next to the man, his face and Jessicas leaning over him. The eyes were a pearly white, the pupils dilated and darkened, staring into nothing. Fernald waved his hand gently in front of the man's face, and there was no response.
Suddenly his lips began to move again, and Fernald leaned in ever closer to hear, the voice barely more than a whisper.
'Who are you.....this Fernald?'
Fernald hesitated for a moment, staring back at the man, processing what he thought he heard, but then the voice spoke again;
'Who is this Fernald?', the voice clearer this time, more certain. The eyes were still blank and empty, but there was a clarity in the speech that was unsettling.
Fernald rose, and moved back toward the door of the cell. This was certainly a most unexpected development. He could not decide if it was good or bad, but it was definitely the most worthy discovery they had made in a while.
'What does it mean?' asked Jennifer, still kneeling next to the man.
Fernald shrugged. 'Probably nothing. Probably just his brain struggling to find a way to process everything that it's been going through. Probably just another symptom of the infection that we were yet to witness before now. But maybe not. Maybe it's...' his voice trailed off.
'What does he want from you?' Jessica asked.
'Me?' Fernald raised an eyebrow, almost mockingly, and then shrugged. 'I doubt very much that he's talking about me.'
'But he said your name. He's asking for you.'
'There are other Fernalds in this world.' he replied, calmly.
'I'd never even heard the name before I met you/' Jessica looked surprised by his reaction, but of course she did not understand. Of course she couldn't. There was no way of explaining it, not to anybody.
'It's not of your concern.' Fernald said. 'If that's all, I must go and see the doctor.'
'There's something else.' said Jessica, and she reached down, trying to take a hold of Romans hand. She struggled for a moment, as the patient was trying to pull his arms back in front of his face, seemingly to block out the bright white light, but Jessica contrived to turn his wrist towards Fernald.
'Look.' she said, pointing at the spot on the back of his hand, just next to his thumb. There was a deep black hole cracked into the surface of his hand, penetrating the surface of his skin. The edges of the hole were blackened and tarnished as though burnt or burned away, and there were dark droplets forming along the crust of the wound, small beads of black droplets oozing forth like blood. The veins of his hand were inflamed, thick black wires snaking their way across his arm.
'You know what's causing this, don't you.' Said Jessica, fiercely. 'His body can't take much more of the treatment, not now.'
'I know what you're suggesting,' said Fernald. 'And it's simply out of the question.'
Jessica shook his head. 'We need to give his body time to heal. It will take him at least a few weeks to recover before-'
'Recover??' Fernalrd interrupted. 'Recover?? We can't let him recover! Don't you see? Don't you understand what's happening here? Finally we are getting somewhere, all of our efforts are just starting to bear fruit. He is the first, yes, and that may be scary. Who knows what may happen to him if we continue. But don't you see? That is exactly the point.'
And without another word he turned and left her, his pulse racing furiously as he headed to find Rasmussen.
There was nothing else he could say, not that anyone could understand. All his life he had kept the secret, not so much out of choice but because there was nothing he could say, nothing he could explain to anybody. The doctor knew much, but not her even knew the full picture. How could he, when nobody did. Fernald knew the truth, but not even he could fully comprehend it himself.
Time was catching up with them, faster than ever. If the patients were beginning to travel, then everything was happening far sooner than Fenrald had expected. They did have long left. History was about to repeat itself, and all too soon the chance to learn the truth would be out of his grasp forever.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Aug 14, 2023 5:29:24 GMT -5
So, there is a temporal loop at play. So are the memories of the future coming from other timelines that are writhing around each other? Does the symbol of the caduceus, which are twisted serpents and not necessarily swallowing themselves, have anything to do with this? Does the so-called "madness" actually have to do with the transport of mental information between people? Are the "dreams" actually this information coming? Are the patients Fernald is treating an alternate version of Fiona's crew?
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Aug 14, 2023 14:34:59 GMT -5
You've got something correct, at least.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Sept 5, 2023 9:40:12 GMT -5
Chapter Twelve – Machines
Thunder echoed across the sky, flashes of lightning illuminating the chaos for an instant, before everything vanished back into the darkness.
There were people shifting about around her, running, screaming. There was no order to anything, no control, just sheer terror. Beatrice stood in the middle of it all, rooted to the ground. She could feel the deck swaying to and fro beneath, but she was unaffected, taking no part in it.
Waves were leaping up to catch on the harsh winds, blowing to meet the stricken vessel. There was another flash of white light, and a crack of thunder rolled across the waves. She looked up to notice flames catching on one of the ship's masts, the crew's cries growing ever louder.
Her body shook, and she was confused to realise that she was wearing her nightdress. She wrapped her arms around herself foolishly, and suddenly could feel the weight of a locket around her neck. She twisted the small opal pendant curiously. How did she get here?
And then Beatrice saw her. The captain. There was a look of fear in her eyes, her face pale as a ghost, red hair hanging down in matted curls at the sides of her face. She was shouting orders at someone, dashing around, the words inaudible over the cacophony of noise around them.
Beatrice twisted the locket between her fingers, the metal burning harshly against her skin. She realised that the more focus she paid to the treasure, the more the sounds around her seemed to fade, falling into the background. But there was something else, something new that seemed to replace it. There was a hissing, a whispering sound, coming from the locket.
There were two fragile wisps of metal holding the locket closed. Beatrice pushed them apart, and suddenly the noise grew louder, a voice echoing softly into her ear.
'Who are you?'
She looked up, and saw Fiona staring back at her, their fixed across the deck. Was it her, asking that question?
There was a roar, a great tremulous cry that rent the sky apart.
Beatrice woke to the sound of rain brushing gently against the window. Her face was pressed against the glass, the cold seeping through. She could feel the dull vibration of the car beneath her, and for a moment struggled to recall where she was going, and why. Her body was stiff with tiredness, her head subsumed by a fog of tiredness and confusion. She rubbed her eyes hastily, and pulled herself upright. It had been a long day.
The car chugged lazily through the narrow country lanes, and Beatrice could see the blackness growing as the remains of the day disappeared over the horizon. The trees were casting dark, dank shadows over her, and they were driving further and further into shadow with each passing moment. Beatrice was not sure when they would arrive, or what answers she would find, but she knew that she could not take much more of this. She needed to know what was really going on.
Beatrice felt tired, her body aching not only with exhaustion, but with impatience. The conversation with her father had filled up her mind with all the wrong questions, and not enough answers. It was no surprise that she had fallen asleep, and yet her dreams were becoming more and more worrisome. The images in her mind were becoming clearer, vivid snatches of pasts unknown, and it only made her feel more confused and disorientated than ever.
The trees of the forest were clustered together, growing denser with each passing moment, and as her eyes drifted across them Beatrice grew more and more afraid of what she was going to uncover. She knew these woods, of course. She had seen them before. In fact, she had been here when she was a child, she was certain of that. Her parents had taken her to this place many times, but she could not quite recall why, or how often.
It was an uncomfortable feeling. A dreary mixture of familiarity and dread. The memories were vague and distant, half-formed and without definition, yet they were there. A box had been opened in her mind, and these flashes of her past were coming back to her, no different from the strange memories in her dreams. It was hard to hold on to them, her thoughts chasing themselves away whenever she tried to focus on them too deeply.
Beatrice knew where she was going, of course. She had spent the afternoon researching the address her father had given her, trying to prepare herself for what she might find. She had spoken to Bertrand, and he had known straight away what the building was. It was a training facility, used by their organisation a long while ago, but it had been abandoned for several years now. His parents had once had something to do there, he had told her, some kind of research, though he could not recall all the details, but he had said he would look into it. He had been curious why she had asked, and Beatrice had struggled to lie to him. It was impossible to explain the truth to anybody when she did not understand it herself.
In truth, she did not really know why she was doing this, not anymore. She should have told him the truth, or at least said something, but he would have only thought her to be mad..She had spent much of the day thinking, weighing up the possibilities in her mind, desperately searching for the right thing to do. Perhaps this was not the right thing, and that she should be keeping herself as far away from this place as she could, but it would not help her. She needed answers, and she needed it to be over. Her mind has a mess, her thoughts a confused jumble, great chunks of her memories detaching themselves and floating away into nothing. It needed to end, no matter where it took her or what she discovered..
The car took a sudden turn, and they left the twisting lanes behind them, and began down a straight narrow road, neatly bordered by stringent rows of trees. Beatrice craned her neck forwards, and she could see the dim and distant outline of a building on the horizon, growing larger as the car neared it.
The building was large and ornate, several floors high, spreading off in either direction from a central staircase. The windows were dark and moody, mostly dark expecting a few dim flickering lights blinking in the night. The stone walls were cracked and forlorn, and there was moss and ivy growing up the sides, painting the building in a dark green hue, as if the earth was trying to swallow it down into its depths. The whole place looked empty, abandoned, and forgotten, and Beatrice's hopes of finding anything inside began to drain away
That was when she noticed the man.
As the car reached the end of the driveway, he came into full view, standing patiently at the bottom of the cracked and weathered steps. He was shabbily dressed, wearing a moth-eaten cardigan and faded corduroy trousers, both covered by a white laboratory cloak. The cloak was dotted with black stains and marks, some fading in neatly with the white, others as dark as pitch. He had a kind, gentle face, long curls of black hair that had not been paid attention for a while, speckled with thin lines of white which betrayed his age. He was smiling gently at her as the car came to a stop.
He had been expecting her.
Beatrice paid the driver, clambered out of the taxi, and stood for a moment, waiting for the stranger to speak.
It was a cold evening, and Beatrice tried not to shiver as she heard the noise of the taxi disappearing back down the driveway. It hadn't even occurred to her to ask him to stay, and now she felt foolish. There was nowhere for her to go. No way out.
'Good evening, Miss. Baudelaire.' spoke the man, finally breaking the silence.
Beatrice nodded, giving only the smallest inclination of her head as a reply.
"We've been expecting you.' said the man.
Beatrice could feel her heart racing in her chest as she nodded again.
'My name is Dr. Rasmussen.' he said, and offered her his hand.
Tentatively, she took a hold of it, his fingers comfortingly warm, and shook.
'I expect that you have a lot of questions, but I think perhaps we should head inside. Night is drawing in, and it does not do to linger in the darkness for too long. Not around these parts.'
With that Rasmussen turned, and began to head up the aged stone steps. He did not wait for her to follow, but he did not need to. If she had come this far, she was not going to turn back now.
Beatrice headed past heavy oaken doors into a large and dusty hall, wooden floorboards groaning in complaint under her footsteps. The room was dark and empty, Rasmussen heading up a grand staircase at the far side of the ride, disappearing into the gloomy darkness. He walked briskly but with an even pace, and soon Beatrice reached him as they headed into the depths of the complex.
They began to head down a labyrinthe series of corridors, each one as darkly lit and dusty as the entrance hall. Although Rasmussen seemed quite at home here, Beatrice got the impression that the building was still mostly abandoned, and had been for some time, and that it had only become recently occupied.
As they walked the man smiled at her, and she noticed that he would stare at her for prolonged moments. At first Beatrice wasn't sure if it was just her imagination, her own tensions and apprehensions making her feel even more uncomfortable than she already was, but after a few minutes she caught his eyes interrogating her once more, and he held up a hand of apology.
'I'm sorry.' Rasmussen said, his face reddening, 'It's just that, well, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when you arrived. You can spend all of your life working for something, and even then you can still know nothing about it!' He gave a small chuckle. 'To be honest, I was never really quite sure if I believed it, but, well, here you are. It's remarkably encouraging, or encouragingly remarkable. Or both!'
Beatrice had no idea what the doctor was talking about, but as he smiled at her, she couldn't help but smile back at him. There was something about him that she trusted. He seemed to radiate an aura of friendliness and familiarity that put her at ease. She was not quite sure what she had been expecting, or whom she had been hoping to find here, maybe even the woman who had given the letter that set her on this path, but it has not been this.
They rounded a corner, and came to a set of sterile white doors. The doctor fumbled in his pocket for a moment, and took out a small rectangle of card. He pressed it against a scanner, and with a shrill buzzing noise, the doors swung inwards.
They headed down an echoey stone corridor, cubicles on either side. Beatrice could see numbers on each of the doors, almost like cells, but she could not have made a guess as to what could be inside them. Their footsteps echoed around them, and for a moment Beatrice thought the doctor was going to trap her, lock her inside one of the cells, that she should turn around, and run back the way she had come. But then she saw that the doors were not closed, and as she walked past the last of the cells, its door wrent to one side, she could see that it was empty.
Reaching the end of the corridor there were another set of doors, identical to the ones at the entrance. Again, the doctor pressed a card against a scanner, and again the doors buzzed irritably before swinging open, beckoning them inside.
The room was a large, cathedral-like chamber. Beatrice could hear the hum and whir of electric machinery, and she could see that the wall nearest to her was completely blanketed by a bank of computers. There were numerous dials and switches, a ticker-tape of paper unfurling itself carelessly onto the floor as the devices read out their volumes of information. There were masses of cables and wires stringing themselves into threads, snaking out from the machines and reaching out across the floor to meet at a central column, where at first Beatrice couldn't comprehend what she could see. After a moment her eyes adjusted to the bright light that was cascading down from the centre, and she understood.
There must have been at least a dozen of them, seated in a circle around the machine, facing outwards. They were naked, the bright lights casting their flesh into a deathly pale white, faint like ghosts. They were thin and gaunt, bones sticking out of rib cages, their veins hanging heavy and thick like cables. She could not see their faces, their heads hidden in metallic cases that descended from the ceiling, the dull metal casting back a perverse inverted reflection of her own image. As Beatrice moved closer to the machine she could see that there were lines threaded into each of them, thin tubes digging into their flesh, pushing their way under their skin to pump their veins full of a strange, thick black liquid.
She did not know what was going on, what it meant, but she knew that the answers were here. She had a choice, now, to learn the truth or be lost forever.
Dr Rasmussen was standing in the doorway, not entering the room. He was letting her take in the bizzare surroundings herself, not wanting to interfere. She was free to explore, and he smiled as her face adjusted to the absurd horror she had found herself in.
'What is it?' she asked. 'What is this place?'
'This' said Dr. Rasmussen 'Is where we find the answers to the great unknown.'
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Post by HAL 10,000 on Sept 5, 2023 10:10:07 GMT -5
I really like the backdrop with Beatrice exploring the abandoned building in the storm. It kind of reminds me of those books I read as a kid about fantasy worlds being accessed through old manors with rain or snow outside.
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