|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Sept 22, 2023 9:38:26 GMT -5
Chapter Thirteen – ThundermonsterA huge, thick tentacle smashed down, sending huge chunks of wood catapulting up into the sky. The black tendril rose up into the air, coiling in on itself, before smacking back down, blasting itself against the ship. Fiona felt the air rush past her face, splinters of wood flying past, and felt herself thrown back as the deck swayed tremulously below her. She reached out her hands, tried to steady herself. She fell, smashing her chin, biting into her tongue. The deck shook below her again, she took a deep breath,steadying herself. It was here. The monster that plagued her thoughts, her dreams, her nightmares, was here. She could not say how long it had been, whether days, weeks, months, it made no difference. She was not prepared, they were not ready, there was nothing they could do. The crew were shouting all around her, cries of terror, screams of anguish. Yaxley ran at the creature, a knife in hand, striking fruitlessly at the thick hide. The knife clattered to the ground, and a tendril whipped up from the ocean, and Yaxley was lifted up into the air, and he was flung out of sight. There were loud bangs to her right, and Fiona flicked her head to the side, hair whipping into her eyes. They were gunshots, fired from above her, their source lost in the darkness, but it made no difference. The bullets cascaded down onto the floor, the creature uncaring. Fiona pulled herself up, her hands finding a grip on a metal railing, the cold metal digging into her skin. The rain was blowing into her face, mixed with the cold spray of the ocean and the salty tang of her own fear. There was a sickening crunch as more of the tentacles began to push their way over the side of the ship, pummelling and punching against it, smashing down into the deck, tearing through the wood and metal to worm their way into the ship.. There was a loud squelching sound, and the creature seemed to grow larger as it raised more of its monstrous hulk out of the ocean's depths. The ship groaned and buckled beneath them. The weight was too much, and they were floundering. Soon they would be pulled under. A sound whipped through the air, and Fiona followed its line to see a harpoon. It smacked into the black bulk of the creature, embedding itself deep into its flesh. The creature let out a terrifying, abominable howl, the noise echoing deafeningly in her ears, making her shake with fear. 'Yarrr!' came the cry from behind her, and she saw Tamson, his face red with fury, eyes burning white with anger, the scream a brew of frustration and victory, a harpoon gun slung from a rope around his neck. Those still on the deck looked up in shock, their eyes darting between Tamson and the beast still reeling in pain, the projectile embedded in its skin. A tentacle slew across the night, and crashed into Tamson, and he was thrown into the wall of the wheelhouse, lost in a mass of wood and metal. The creature roared with a renewed ferocity, as a streak of lightning crashed above them. Blood spattered across the deck, issuing forth from the wound, a streak of thick black liquid that stuck fast onto the wooden boards. The harpoon was stuck deep into its flesh, but the creature seemed more angered than pained. Thunder crashed again, the brilliant white light gave image to the monster that was confronting them. The dark oily mass loomed over them as it tried to pull itself out of the ocean, desperate to crush them in its grasp. Fiona was rooted to the spot, unable to move, the cold biting into her. She could feel her arms and legs growing weak, but she could not control them. They were no longer hers, lost to the madness around her. The rain was pouring down upon them, plastering her hair onto her face, the bright orange of her curls darkening with each moment. Where was Harry? He had been with her only moments ago, but she had lost him in the madness and confusion. Perhaps the creature had tossed him aside, as carelessly as it had the rest. She cast her eyes hazily around the deck, the rain and lightning causing everything to fade into blurred, indistinct images. Her head was pounding, the rumbles and crashes from the sky increasing the pressure in her temples. She felt dizzy, sick, everything starting to spin around her. The growing thunder, and the roars of the beast were overwhelming. Fiona was sure that at any moment she was going to pass out, to be taken away from it all. The world flashed again, a blinding white light, and she saw the splintered remains of a mast crash down onto the ground, just a few meters from where she was stoof. Flames caught light above her, the creature roaring in anger at the unexpected heat and light. Fiona cried out for help, but to whom she did not know. Nobody was listening to her, not any more. All hope was gone, and it mattered no longer what she said or did. They were done for. The deck shook beneath her, a horrible tremor which told her the vessel could not sustain the abuse it was taking for much longer. Her hands dug deeper into the metal handrail, a sharp pain running through her palm, the caduceus tattoo growing inflamed and angry. Fiona looked up, and then she saw her. She appeared from nowhere, standing silent and serene amidst the chaos surrounding her. She wore a long white nightdress, contrasting sharply with her long black hair, dark as the night. There was a small scar, cutting a line in her eyebrow, just like the image on the locket. Her face was calm but confused, no comprehension of where she was, yet untroubled by the circumstances. There was a curious smile on her lips, and the locket was slung around her neck, poised between thumb and forefinger. What was she doing here? Of course! It was like a light had been flicked on inside Fiona's head, and suddenly her thoughts came flooding back to her. Now she could remember it; the facility, the experiments, the woman and the doctor. It was all there, as if the memory had never truly been forgotten. Not quite everything was back though, only fragments, scattered pieces that she would need to sort through and arrange, the flotsam and jetsam of her past. But it was enough. Enough for her to know exactly what was going on. Fiona looked at Beatrice, and Beatrice looked back. Beatrice twisted the pendant, and when it opened, Fiona heard the voice again, echoing inside her head, inside her soul, and she knew. The beast roared, a tremendous cry, louder than before, as if reacting to the strange new arrival. In that instant, the woman was gone. But of course, she had never really been there. Fiona knew that now. It was only in her mind. Fiona turned towards the beast, finally free. Gigantic jaws opened, long sharp swords of teeth creeping out of the darkness, a crease forming through the inky mass. The beast roared once more, the sound washing the rain and thunder from her mind. The tentacles were still pummelling at the ship, driving their way into its depths, desperately searching their way inside, tendrils sneaking their way into any crack or crevice it could find, trying to find some purchase. As Fiona stared into the gaping black hole of the beast's mouth, she understood. If it had wanted to, the beast could have killed them all by now. It could have scooped them up in an instant, tore them apart and eaten them up. It would have been easy, quick, painless. So if that was the case, why had it not done so already? Because that was not why it was here. It was searching for something. It wanted something. Fiona didn't know what it was after, though. So she asked it. 'What do you want?'She shouted the words across the deck, the sound seeming to travel an unnatural distance, cutting through everything else, washing it away. The roaring of the creature subsided, and for a moment it seemed to pause. There were no eyes, at least none that Fiona could see, but it did not matter. She could feel the creature surveying her, studying her, trying to understand the question. Fiona could feel the cold of the storm seeping through her skin, her arms trembling. She took a breath. There was a sound, a sudden buzzing, a rhythmic pulsating that reverberated in waves from all around them. Fiona tensed, her heart pounding in her chest, searching for the source. It was like a siren, an alarm, the sound that something had gone wrong. The creature let out a cry, but the power and rage was gone. This was a call of fear, and of terror, almost feeble in its plaintive desperation. Fiona could see now, out on the horizon, that there was a small circle of light. A tiny raft was heading towards them, a small lantern hanging from a pole in its centre. The sound was coming from there, and whatever it was, the creature did not like it. The ground moved beneath her once more, but only for a few moments. The thick black tentacles were retracting, subsiding back into the writhing mass of the creature, still crying out in pain. 'What's that sound?' came a voice from behind her, and Harry was there. His face was pale, his eyes dark and wide with fear. His hands were clasped over his ears, trying to keep out the noise. 'Look' Fiona pointed, the boat slowly coming nearer towards them. The creature cried once more, the last of its limbs retreating away from them. The waves shifted once more, and the boat jerked unnervingly aside as it smashed its way under the surface, disappearing from sight. For a few seconds Fiona could see the dark mass moving beneath the waves, but then it was gone. A moment later, and the buzzing stopped, the noise tersely shutting itself off. It's job was done. Silence fell softly around them, a blanket of dull echoing emptiness that made Fiona feel dizzy and sick. The rain and the wind had gone as well, as though the beast had taken them away with it. The clouds were still thick and dull, though a flash of lightning in the distance gave only the smallest of tremors notice. Harry had taken something out of his pocket, a small wooden tube with a glass at one end, and he was looking out at the nearing boat. Fiona watched him for a moment, her mind racing with confusion. How could she not have remembered? What had happened to them, to all of them, that they could have forgotten? The deck began to grow busier, as the crew began to emerge from their hiding places, trying to find out what had happened. Some of them dashed to deal with the fire that had broken out, but the rain had prevented it from spreading too far. Some of them looked to her for orders, but Fiona paid them no mind. She doubted that any of them were interested in what she had to say. Fiona focussed her attention on the streak of blood that had been left by the creature. It was a thick, black line stretched out over the deck, as though the ship itself had been wounded. The blood was as black as oil, a perfect reflection of the sky showing back at her. The moon was beginning to break through the clouds, and for a moment the liquid turned milky white. Fiona knelt down, and placed a tentative hand into the substance. It was only a few minutes old, and she expected warmth or heat of some kind, but instead she was met with an icy coldness that made her flinch. It was like tar, and when she pulled her hand away she found it was now coated in its thin, sticky layer. It matched the tattoo on her other hand perfectly, its colour the same. Fiona remembered now, of course. She had felt it before. 'He's here.' called Harry, now standing over at the side of the deck. Fiona rose, heading over to join him. Surreptitiously, she placed her inky hand into her pocket, unsure what she could do about it now. She looked over the edge of the ship, and saw the small boat sat below them. The lantern atop the pole was casting a light of such bright ferocity that it was difficult to make out what she was seeing, but she could see the figure waving their arms up at them. Harry had already found a ladder, and slung it over the side. As the figure began to climb up, it became clear that they were dressed all in white. They were wearing a bizarre outfit, some kind of cross between a diving suit and spacesuit, with various bolts and rivets securing the pieces into place. When the figure arrived on the deck, they began to adjust with some of the catches that secured the white helmet into place, and after a short struggle lifted away the headpiece to reveal their identity. 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 smiled gently at Fiona when he saw her, and held out a white gloved hand for her to shake. Fiona had suspected, of course, but it didn't make her feel any better. 'Good evening, Fiona.' said Dr. Rasmussen. 'I've been expecting you.' End of Part One
|
|
|
Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Sept 22, 2023 17:14:42 GMT -5
I am late
|
|
|
Post by HAL 10,000 on Sept 27, 2023 17:27:08 GMT -5
It's cool to get some of Fiona's perspective, and I love when chapters end on cliffhangers.
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Oct 2, 2023 6:26:21 GMT -5
So part one is done. This is going to be a long story, very long, but I'm glad I've gotten this far at least. I feel that now all the pieces are there and one could attempt to put together a solution for what is happening.... but that's what I want you to think!!
Part two will hopefully start soon, though unfortunately I would expect the gaps between chapters to only grow, as the chapters become denser the deeper we go
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Oct 7, 2023 5:08:00 GMT -5
Ribs break, souls stay bare. Your forked stare cuts through, this I know. You twist, you turn Wrapping around me, wrapping around me. Now so tight, squeezing the life from me! You are facing a pointless task, and that's the same thing. That's the same thing, and I will face the task.
Part Two : Infinity Land
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Oct 7, 2023 11:17:37 GMT -5
She couldn't see anything, no matter how hard she searched.
Everything was blue, the sky and the sea seemingly inseparable from one another. It was a strange kind of inertia, a disorientation of location that she was all too familiar with. Her displacement was not uncomfortable though. The more that she was unsure of her own place, the more secure she felt in their isolation.
She moved her eye away from the periscope, and sank back into her chair, letting out a delicate breath of relaxation. Four days had now passed, and there was neither sight nor sound of anyone or anything. Even so, she knew that they should not let their guard down too much. Four days was an achievement, but they did not know how long it would take until they could be certain.
And, as Fernald kept reminding her, they could not hide forever.
She turned to the notepad in her hand, picked up a ballpoint and jotted down the time and map reference of her findings. She noticed the idle doodles she had made at earlier checks, smiling curiously at the absent-minded wanderings of her mind, before realising that she did not have the time to dawdle. Now there was no time at all.
She slinked her way through the narrow corridors of the submersible, red lights and buttons illuminating her way like a hellfire, feet echoing on the metal grilles of the floor. She reached a narrow ladder set into the wall, and clambered her way up to another floor, pushing open small and cumbersome doors.
She found her brother in his bunk, awake and fiddling with a deck of cards. He turned his head towards her as she entered, an eyebrow raised in mild surprise.
'Is it that time already?' said Fernald.
Fiona nodded, and sat down next to him on the bunk.
'Did you sleep much?' she asked.
'Of course not. How can I sleep at a time like this?' Fernald pulled himself up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of hand. He had a thin, sallow face, and his expression was dour and dark. He had been through a lot, and he could be an oppressive force of melancholy at times, but there was a comfort in the way he responded to her.
Fiona smiled at him, but it was fleeting, sardonic, her mouth full of bitterness. She couldn't pretend, not to him.
'Do you think we can do it?' she asked, her eyes avoiding him.
Fernald shrugged, picked up the deck of cards, and handed them to her, 'We'll find out soon enough won't we.'
For a moment he rested his arm in her lap, and Fiona took a hold of the long, curved shard of metal that was embedded into her brother's wrist, in place of the hand that had once been there. She rested her hand on the hook for a moment, gripping it affectionately.
'Well, the croc always comes for Captain Hook, doesn't he?' Fiona winked at him.
Fernald smiled thinly, and rose from the bed. He ran his hook through his hair, carefully brushing back the long dark curls.
'That's exactly what I'm worried about, Fiona. It's like it can sense us. It can feel us. Wherever we are, it knows.'
'So we keep moving/' Fiona moved her hands to her chest, the small pendant resting chently between her breasts. 'One step ahead, always. That way we will never be found.'
'For a while, perhaps. But forever?' Fernald shook his head. 'We can only hope.'
He left her there, the sound of his footsteps echoing back towards her, and then silence.
Fiona lay back on the blankets, and closed her eyes. She wasn't going to cry, of course not, don't be silly, but it helped to stop the tears from coming all the same.
They had been submerged for so long now, the two of them. They had spent so many years apart, and during that time she would have wanted nothing more than to spend eternity in her brother's company. A chance for them to catch up on the years they had missed, and to reminisce about the scant few moments that they had shared. To rebuild their memories. But in the end it hadn't been like that at all, not how she had expected. The circumstances had changed everything.
Fernald was the only real link she had to her past. Her father had abandoned her, and her mother was dead. Even her step-father was gone. He was all that she had left, and yet he had changed so much that he may as well have been a stranger. As much as it hurt her, she had to admit that he was an unknown.
Fiona reached for the locket around her neck, and took the pendant into her hand. The metal was smooth and unblemished, just as she remembered, and there was an image of an eye on one side, drawn out in tiny green stones.
She twisted apart the two thin wisps of metal, to open up the pictures inside. She had long dark hair, and her skin was pale white, with red cheeks. Fiona's finger drifted in delicate circles around the image of her mother for a few moments, before she shut the locket closed.
Fiona lay alone in the silence, and the darkness, and waited for sleep to take her.
|
|
|
Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Oct 12, 2023 1:43:32 GMT -5
I thought I had already commented, in my mind I had made an extensive assessment of the last chapters. I'm sorry I didn't actually do it. But I think I was left wandering in my thoughts about what I had read and in an interesting metalinguistic way, I dreamed about the subject instead of making the comments in the real world. I had said, at least in my dream, that I understand why you were intrigued when you read my story. There are some interesting similarities involving the attack of a giant tentacled monster on a ship led by a female captain. But while there are notable differences too. my story was a political drama while yours is a piscicological drama. And I'm glad to see that there is science fiction here. I had almost given up trying to understand the logic of everything, but now I realize that there is a way to look for answers. the word laboratory gave me a green light. There is an experiment underway involving memories.
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Oct 23, 2023 12:19:58 GMT -5
Chapter Fourteen – Errors in the History of God
Fiona gently daubed the cloth in the water, watching as the blood drifted away from the fabric, shaped like fingers reaching out, thin wisps dancing away like smoke. She held the cloth steady for a few seconds, before raising it back up to Harry's brow.
Her other hand was gently clasping the side of his face, the warmth of his flesh vibrating soft;y against her fingers. There was a deep gash across the other side of his head, a harsh wound spreading down against his cheek. How it had gotten there he was not sure, for it was all too confusing, the chaos of the storm and the terror of the attack, and he could not remember what precisely what had happened. As Fiona pressed the cloth against the skin, pushing the cool clean water against him, she could feel his jaw clench tightly in resistance, but he made no move to stop her. His eyes were not focussed on her, instead he was staring far across the room, where most of the attention was gathered.
The mess room was full of the surviving members of the crew, such as they were. There were now barely 20 of them left, though that was a small victory. Most of them were injured, most of them were scared, and most of them seemed to be rallied around Tamson.
He seemed to have taken his injuries well. His arm was bandaged up, his foot broken and swollen, but his spirits seemed to be in better health than ever. Seeing off a monster of nightmares must do wonders for you. There was a bottle of something in his hand, and his hearty voice rebounded around the room, the crew roaring and cheering in response. He was holding court, and all the jesters were listening with rapt attention.
'Just ignore him.' Fiona said, continuing to lick away with tentative touches at Harry's wound. They were sat together in the corner, leaving as much space between her and her crew as they could. 'Tamson doesn't know what he's talking about.'
Harry continued to stare at the group, his eyes transfixed, but he said nothing.
'My mother always said something would become of me.' said Tamson, his voice coarse and rough, but full of fire and passion. Fiona flashed a look in his direction, only for a second, and she could see his red face bobbing up and down merrily, heat and liquor colouring his cheeks. 'I just dinnae understand that meant I'd be shooting beasties with a harpoon.'
Fiona sighed, dropping the cloth down into the bucket of water, and wiped her hand clean against the fabric of her tunic. Harry continued to stare off into the distance, and she chewed her lip pensively.
It had been a difficult few hours since the attack, and she has spent most of that time lost in her own thoughts, trying to process everything that had happened and put it into place in her mind, and yet still she had nothing. Fiona was certain about some things, but there was still so much she did not understand, so much that she simply could not comprehend. She wished that she could talk to Harry, let him know what she had discovered, what she now understood, but instead he seemed to have retreated, to have shut himself off. And she could not understand why.
His eyes were heavy and tired, but he did not seem to be ill. His mind was whirring away, she could tell, but he would not speak to her, nor would he listen. Her hand was still resting on his cheek, and she gently carresed the coarse hairs of his beard for a few moments, trying to understand.
'I cannae take all the credit though' said Tamson, his voice rising again from the general murmur of the crowd. 'Tha would hardly be fair. We all know who we really should blame for this mess.' He lifted his bottle into the air, a mock toast of celebration. 'The Captain!'
The group roared in laughter, and Tamson took a great swig from his bottle.
Fiona didn't care. She looked at them all for a moment, saw the mocking face laughing at her, but she did not care. It did not matter what they thought of her, or what she thought of them. None of it mattered, not a single bit.
Fiona scratched at her hand. The tattoo of the caduceus, a mark nestled between her thumb and forefinger, was inflamed and irritated, the skin around it a deep and bloody red. She could not help but scratch, nails digging in and catching against the skin.
'It doesna' matter' said Tamson. 'We are out of the woods now. We're safe. I have slain the foul creature!'
'You're a fool Tamson.' she said, her voice quiet. As the words left her mouth she knew he would not hear them, and she took a breathe, ready to shout, to scream at him, but she knew that there would be no point. He would not listen to her. Nobody would. Her words did not matter to them, and she could understand that. She had been a fool, and everything she had thought was wrong.
Fiona took one last look at Harry, shook her head, turned and left the hall.
It was a cool morning. The sea was still and silent, the wind a light breeze that was tinged with a jagged chill. Fiona felt it sheathe through her, sending goosepimples trickling across her skin. As she emerged on the deck she closed her eyes, breathing in the refreshing cool of the air, the salty tang hitting the back of her throat, calming her.
It was still early, and the sun was cutting an orange bruise across the edge of the sky. The deck of the ship was set in a pale icy blue, and she could see the carnage from the monsterous attack strewn out around her. One of the ships sails was laying in a broken mess only a few feet away from her, splinters of wood and metal embedded into the boards of the ship. The inky black blood of the creature had left a dark tar-like smear across the floor, and she could picture where the monsters tentacles had whipped out of the water only a few hours ago, great tears and cuts covering the entire surface of the ship.
Fiona could feel her tiredness now, the ache in her bones, the heaviness of her head and the clagginess of her skin. Fiona could not be sure how long it had been since she had last slept, either in this world or another, and she knew that soon she must relent and rest. But not now. Now she needed to get some answers.
She needed to talk to the doctor.
Since his arrival, Fiona had not had much time to speak with Dr. Rasmussen. His appearance alone had been a lot to take in, and she had been too concerned with the safety of her crew and the sturdiness of her ship, and with Harry, with herself. But now it was time.
Fiona had to search the ship for him. She had left him in her cabin, but Fiona had not been surprised to find the room empty.. There was something about him, some familiarity, that had told her that his curiosity would not let him be tied down for so long. She would have to search the ship for him. But it did not take her long to find him. She should have known.
'Ah, Fiona!' said Rasmussen, when she uncovered him after only a scant few moments. 'I was just wondering what you'd be able to tell me about this door?'
He was standing outside the impenetrable, immovable hatch of steel that seemed to be welded shut. There was no visible handle, no lock, no hinges, nothing. The doctor was moving a small, circular device around its surface, a little dial spinning around wildly as he did so. He held a notebook in his other hand, and every now and then he would stop to take down notes.
'Well, Dr. Rasmussen, what can I say?' Said Fiona, as she leaned against the wall next to him 'It's a door that won't open. Why are you so interested?'
The Doctor smiled at her, A sad smile.
'Oh Fiona, I think you and I both know the answer to that, don't we?'
He pocketed the metal device, and placed the notebook into a small bag that he had carried with him from his boat.
'Shall we talk?' he asked
Fiona nodded, and led the way back.
When they entered her room, Fiona lit a few of the tallow candles set around the room, to dispel the murk and gloom from around them.
Fiona sat herself down onto the bed, the blankets sagging under her weight. She indicated to Rasmussen to take the small chair adjacent to her desk, but he opted to remain standing.
For a moment they waited in awkward silence, Rasmussen glancing curiously around the cabin, a nervous energy present in him although he remained stock still. He was uncomfortable here, out of place.
'Well?' said Fiona, after a few minutes. 'Get on with it then?'
Rasmussen looked at her curiously, a hand rubbing anxiously against the back of his neck.
'I must say, I think you're taking things awfully well at the moment.' He bagan. 'I was expecting it to come as much more of a shock.'
'I've been through a lot.' Fiona shrugged.
'Yes but, even so. The experience must have been traumatic, untold damage done to your mental capacity and nervous system...' his voice trailed off, the thought disappearing from his mind, until it suddenly reasserted itself. 'Unfortunately none of the other subjects had previously survived for this long, so it's hard to be sure what the exact long term damage will be, though we can sure that there must be some. If i'm honest, i'm surprised that none of the others seem to recognise me.'
'Others?' Fiona asked
'Yes.' Rasmussen moved now, quickly, and he moved towards her,putting his face directly in front of hers. 'What is it about you that's so different, hmm? There was always something. You reacted quite differently form the off, as though it, well, for lack a better phrase, was not your first time.'
'Well then, I wonder who popped my cherry?' Fiona replied, glibly.
Rasmussen hovered in front of her for a few more moments, his eyes staring deeply into hers, searching for something that only he could see. Fiona could hear the fat of the candles spitting and sputtering, the dancing flames casting strange shadows over the old mans face.
'So you've done this before?' she asked him, his eyes locked with hers.
'Done what?'
'...Intervened?'
'Oh no no no. Of course not. I am merely an impartial observer, or at least I was. This time, however...' He moved away from her now, and finally seated himself in the chair. 'I had no other option.'
'And why's that?'
'The beast.' said Rasmussen. 'It's after you, Fiona. It cannot allow you to live after what you've seen, any of you. It will follow you to the ends of the earth until it gets back what it wants, and you cannot outrun it. Not forever.'
'Not even in dreams?' she asked.
He looked puzzled, his face twisting into thought, chewing something over in his mind, until finally he spoke. 'Could you explain to me what you mean by that, Fiona?'
Fiona sighed. 'Well, none of this real, is it?'
'I see.' said the Doctor, a little taken aback.
'Besides, if we've beaten of the creature before, then we can do it again. All I need to do is recreate what happened earlier. It's my mind, I should be able to take control of it.'
Rasmussen nodded, but he looked distinctly uncertain. He reached into his pocket, and took out a small pile of papers, and began to look through them for a few moments.
'Actually, what did happen?' she asked him.
'Hm?'
'Before, how did you make the creature leave? There was this noise, and it seemed to scare the thing away. Just a sound. How did you do that?'
Rasmussen had clearly found what he was looking for, as he removed an envelope from the cluster of paper, returning the mass to his pocket as he rose from the chair.
'I'm sorry Fiona, but I don't quite think I can answer that question, not at the moment anyway. I'm afraid that it would be beyond your comprehension.'
'Comprehension?' Fiona rolled her eyes. 'I can't comprehend a bloody thing that is going on right now, do you really think that matters? I deserve to know the truth.'
'Yes, you do.' He smiled at her. It was a kind smile, but sad. Perhaps he meant it to be comforting, but all Fiona felt was patronised.
'Just answer the question!' She shouted.
'You really don't remember do you?' Rasmussen replied, his voice steady.
'Just tell me!!'
'I need to get some rest. I've had a very long journey to get here, and I fear that I have much further to travel still.' Rasmussen said, and he handed her the envelope he had taken from his pocket. 'Fiona, please, read this. Your brother left it in my possession shortly before he -. Well, he gave it to me. Read it, and then maybe you will see things more clearly, I hope.'
Her brother? Fiona held the letter, a crisp white rectangle with the words 'My Dear Sister' written on the front with clear, black ink. She had been furious at Rasumssen for his supposed secrecy, his arrogance, but now it all just washed away. Fernald had written to her. Fernald was alive? Of course he was. He was there with her, now, in the facility. They were all there. Weren't they? This was all happening inside her head, just like it had every other time. When the black liquid filled her veins she went someplace else, only this time she was stuck.
Maybe this was her way to get back.
She tore open the envelope, carefully peeled open the paper inside, and read;
My Dear Sister
If this letter has reached you then perhaps it is not too late. Rasmussen has promised that he will do all that he can to reach you, and I believe that he is your best hope, but I myself am not hopeful. Please know that I am sorry, sorrier than I have ever been, and that I died trying to save everything from turning to ashes.
I did not want this life for you, and I tried my hardest to prevent things from being this way. When your mother died I made a promise to myself that things would be different, that I would protect you no matter what happened. It seems I've spent most of my life failing to live up to that promise. At least I may finally have found a way to save you, even if it is only in my death.
A lot has changed since last I saw you. We have made it back to the city, but I do not think I will survive much longer. The journey was long, and our resources were limited. If I can make it there, I will try to let the authorities know about the infection, but it will already be too late. But it is not death that I fear, it is what comes after it.
I do not know how much you have discovered, but if you escaped from the facility it must have been with good reason. I cannot dare put everything into this letter, in case it were to fall into the wrong hands, but I must say this at least; The organisations; experiments went further than we could have ever imagined. They have unleashed something terrible, and it cannot be stopped. You cannot reason with madness.
It is coming for you, sister, and it will not stop. When I last spoke to you, I told you that history was about to repeat itself, and I now know this to be more true than I could ever have imagined. Rasmussen may not say it to you, but time is against us. It is the end of everything.
I am sorry that I cannot be with you. Remember what your mother used to say to you, whenever you were alone and afraid. Remember, and don't forget.
I enclose in this envelope the key that our mother gave me before she died. She told me that it was very special, and that it would open the door to heaven. I don't think I will end up there, not after all I've done, but perhaps there is still some hope for you.
I pray that I will see you again, in this life or the next.
With all due Respect
Your Beloved Brother
Fiona folded up the letter carefully, scared that it would fall into pieces in her fingertips, and then peered eagerly inside the envelope. There was no key, or at least not the one she had been expecting. There had been a fleeting, forlorn hope that perhaps the envelope contained a way to open the door, something her brother had found before he had escaped, but she was wrong. It was something else.
She held up the envelope with one hand, tipping its contents out into the other.
The metal was burning hot, as though it had been sat in the sun for a long while, and she turned the small pendant round in her palm. On one side the metal was smooth and unblemished, and the other showed the image of an eye, set out in tiny green gems. One of the stones was missing though. a crack running through its casing. It was hers, or at least it had been, but it made no sense.
Fiona reached for the chain around her neck, and pulled out the pendant from beneath her clothing.
She held them both up, the one she just received in the letter, and the one she had been wearing around her neck the whole time, one in each hand, studying them curiously.
They were both old, worn, damaged and battle-scarred, but held up to one another she could see the difference. The one from the letter was younger, the metal that bit shinier, the dull green hue of reflected light was nonetheless that much brighter.
Fiona knew what was inside her pendant, of course she did it. It was an image of her mother, one that Fiona had placed there shortly after her death. She did not need to check. This new arrival, this imposter, however, she was not sure.
She placed her fingers against the two wisps of metal that held both of the segments together, and pushed.
There was a snapping sound, a clicking against her ears. so loud it made Fiona jump of her skin, the noise shuddering through her.
And everything changed.
Fiona felt herself fall away, her body collapsing backwards onto the bed. She heard the sound of the lockets clattering on to the ground, but she was too far away to see them. She was floating, high up above the room, unable to interact, separate from it all.
Everything around her was fading, falling to pieces. The walls seemed to be drifting away, disappearing from view, and she could hear a sound, buzzing deep in her eyes, but she could not identify its source.
There was light moving all around her, different colours, shifting around her like the currents of the ocean. As the ripples moved past she could hear voices, each one different as it's wave passed her by. She tried to shift herself around, to see where she was, where she was going. but it was impossible.
The buzzing noise vibrated louder now, a deep hum thronging against her, and suddenly she was falling.
She hurtled downwards. air rushing past her, spiralling into nothingness. The noise grew ever louder, and she threw her hands over her ears, desperate to block it out, but it was no good. The sound was inescapable.
The light continued to move and shift around her, colours becoming clearer and sharper, and starting to take shape. There were figures, their faces looking at her. They were dancing around the edges of her vision, and each time she tried to focus they would disappear from view, the facade breaking down into jigsaw-shaped pieces. There were hundreds of them, different fragments of images and memory, coalescing and surrounding themselves around her.
The noise began to fade, but replacing it were other sounds. Words, voices forming in her mind. Voices she had known, voices she now knew, and voices she had never heard before. They were calling out to her, pleading, but what they wanted she did not know.
When she looked up, there were two figures, separate from the rest. She was falling, the images rushing past her, but these figures were moving towards her, faster than she was. Fiona tried to turn, to move away, but there was nothing she could do.
She reached out a hand to try and steady herself, grasping at the strange images around her, but there was nothing solid to take a hold against. Her finger rippled against the strange images, and burned, a flash of pain, and she withdrew. She looked down at her hand, the fingers covered in the same inky black substance she had seen before. The Caduceus mark upon her skin was no longer black, however. It has transformed itself into a bright white mark shining out from the back of her hand.
Suddenly the two figures were on her, and she knew she had seen them before. One had short dark hair, a plain and quiet face, dressed in black; the other was bald, with a white beard, ans a long white cloak draped around his shoulders. The two men came towards her, each taking a hold of her arms. She was powerless before them.
'What do you want?' asked the man the black.
'Who are you?' asked the man in white.
Fiona opened her mouth to scream, but it didn't matter. The next moment there was a pain, pressing against her temples, something forcing its way inside her, shooting into her hand, between the thumb and forefinger, and everything was gone.
|
|
|
Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Oct 26, 2023 16:48:25 GMT -5
Well, it's clear that Fiona lives in a simulated reality, created at least in part by her subconscious. But why is she there? There is the temporal aspect there that cannot be underestimated. Time travel like what the medallion suffered.
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Oct 28, 2023 6:05:47 GMT -5
I thought I had already commented, in my mind I had made an extensive assessment of the last chapters. I'm sorry I didn't actually do it. But I think I was left wandering in my thoughts about what I had read and in an interesting metalinguistic way, I dreamed about the subject instead of making the comments in the real world. I had said, at least in my dream, that I understand why you were intrigued when you read my story. There are some interesting similarities involving the attack of a giant tentacled monster on a ship led by a female captain. But while there are notable differences too. my story was a political drama while yours is a piscicological drama. And I'm glad to see that there is science fiction here. I had almost given up trying to understand the logic of everything, but now I realize that there is a way to look for answers. the word laboratory gave me a green light. There is an experiment underway involving memories. Yes, I think that with extensive theorisation you would be able to mostly work out what is going on. Why or how, though, are still a while away. It's interesting to suggest that the experiments involve memory. I won't say more, as the next chapter will address this. Oh, and as for time travel.... Where else do you think Fiona could be going?
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Nov 18, 2023 11:00:05 GMT -5
I must apologise for the delay. I was unwell for the last few weeks and it really sapped my energy. I haven't even begun on the next chapter. I would like to get that an another one done before the end of the year, but with 40 chapters planned I think its inevitable that this story is looking unlikely to be finished any time soon.
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Nov 30, 2023 5:31:10 GMT -5
Chapter Fifteen - Questions and Answers
The shuttered windows let in thin strips of light, and Beatrice watched as they slowly crept their way across the room. The walls were a murky beige, the sunlight a sickly yellow, and so the two mixed comfortably together. She lay for a while, watching the morning awaken around her, taking a moment to revel in her newfound peace.
The bed was uncomfortably lumpy, with thin woolen sheets itching and scratching against her skin, but she did not mind, Her mind was clear, for now at least, and she could have made her bed anywhere without complaint. She had slept peacefully, a blessed rest undisturbed by her nightmares, and it was only with the absence of her visions and portentions that she had realized how tired she had become.
It was difficult to define something that was so uncertain and mysterious, but it seemed to Beatrice that her mind had finally been released, at least for the moment. With it's absence, the true effects of what she had been through had only started to emerge. It was like she had been underwater, plunging downwards into the depths of the unknown, but now she had broken up through the surface, her ears cleared and her lungs full of clean fresh air.
Why her mind had grown so quiet, so empty, she could not be sure. There was only one real possibility that she could latch herself on to, one certainty that she had come to understand, that might perhaps explain her newfound mental composure.
She had been here before.
Beatrice had remembered, the thoughts flooding back to her like a tidal wave, as she had spoken to the doctor. Kindly old Dr Rasmussen, a smile always on his face, so softly spoken and gentle. How could she have forgotten?
As Beatrice had wandered the corridors of the clinic last night, her memories had become clearer still. She had only been a child at the time, of that much she was certain. She remembered her parents; her father shouting her name, her mother smiling and laughing. She could recall running down these corridors, chasing someone, something. She had been happy here, for a time at least.
And the room, of course. The experiments. She remembered those as well.
How could she have forgotten all of this? Beatrice has always known that her father was involved with some kind of secretive organisation, but the details had been foggy, washed out of her mind. How could something like that happen to a person? How could you forget whole chunks of your past without any clear reason? And why had those memories come back?
But come back they had, and Beatrice was sure that the sudden deluge of unbidden thoughts that had cascaded through her head had led to a stabilising effect on her mind. Maybe the two things were related, that she had to lose parts of her present or order to regain her past. She had no idea, of course. No idea at all.
Beatrice shifted, her body warm beneath the sheets. She felt stiff and clammy, as though recovering from a heavy illness, but there was a lightness to her head and her spirit. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach rumbled gently, but she did not feel hungry. Not for food.
The room was cold, and as she stood up she could feel the snares of coldness creeping up from the stone floor reaching out to her bare feet. There was a small paraffin heater in the corner of the room, and she walked over and flicked a small dial on its side. Beatrice stared placidly at the thin strips of metal as they began to glow, two orange lines burning their image into her mind.
Beatrice opened the shutters to stare out at the world. The clouds that had blackened the sky on her journey here were gone, leaving a brilliant and bright morning. She could see the sun streaking through the long, wiry arms of the trees, the deep green of the leaves, here and there a few hints of orange starting to show, as if the sun were trying to set the world afire.
She caught her reflection in the mirror, an old cracked thing, such that when she looked into it there was a spindly line that cleaved her image in two, a thin crack, long and deep. Beatrice studied her face carefully, her eyes a deep green mossy colour. There were a few freckles on her skin, and her pitch dark hair was flung across one shoulder. The tiredness she had worn for the last few weeks, an accumulation of her own doubts and worries, seemed to have lifted from her, and she looked better than she had in weeks. Still, Beatrice took a breath, she knew she was only just beginning.
Her feet took her to the kitchen without any conscious direction. It was a kind of muscle memory, the map hidden away deep in her subconscious. She couldn't have said how to get there, yet she was wending her way there anyway. The thought unnerved her. Who knew what else was lying in her head, unwittingly biding its time until it revealed itself to her?
When she entered the kitchen, she found Rasmussen already there, busily preparing their breakfast. He had forsaken his laboratorial coat, and she could see a chequered shirt nestled behind a red apron, his sleeves rolled up. She could hear something sizzling away in a pan, and taste the salty fats that were accumulating in the air. He smiled when he saw her, a thin smile that hardly deigned to trouble his lips.
Beatrice took a chair at a small table, barely room enough for two, though she supposed that did not matter. The room was clean, tidy, well-maintained compared to the other part of the building to which she had borne witness. It was functional, but she would hardly call it warm. Nothing about this place was. Rasmussen seemed to be the only member of staff here, and he doubted that he ate with any of the patients. She wondered how long it had been since he had last had company.
She broke her fast on bacon mixed with scrambled eggs, potatoes crushed with garlic, and mushrooms cooked in cream and cheese. It was a delicious and hearty meal, and must have taken a fair amount of time and effort to prepare. That either spoke of Rasmussen's attention to detail, or how much free time he had on his hands.
The two of them ate in silence, Beatrice stealing occasional glances up at her host. Although he was a face she remembered, a link to the past she had forgotten, Beatrice did not trust this man one bit. Not only were his motives unclear, and his experiments clearly horrific, but there was something else. He knew much more than he was telling her, she was sure. Whatever the information was that he was withholding, it made it impossible for her to take anything he said at face value.
As she took the last bites of her meal, Beatrice noticed that Rasmussen had already cleared his plate, the knife and fork placed neatly together upon his plate. Had he given her the bigger portion just to be polite, or did she just look like she needed feeding up?
Only when her cutlery had clattered together in the middle of her plate, and she had wiped away at the edges of her mouth with a napkin, did Rasmussen begin to speak
'I suppose that you would like some answers?' said the doctor, still smiling at her pleasantly.
Yes, Beatrice thought, though to which of her questions she could not be sure, so all she said was; 'Of course.'
'Unfortunately, I feel I have to start at the beginning.'
He reached out his hand towards her, momentarily causing Beatrice to think he was going to take her hand into his own, but he turned his palm inwards, showing her the back of his hand. There was the mark, a black tattoo, nestled between his thumb and forefinger. It was the image of a caduceus, a staff encircled by two snakes, crossing between one another. It was an image she had seen decorating so many of the doors and walls of the building since she had arrived here.
Rasmussen held out his hand for several moments, a pregnant pause building between them, before he withdrew his hand and began to speak.
'Centuries ago, there was a group of like-minded fellows who came together to form a secret society. They believed in certain ideals; the preservation of knowledge, the protections of liberty, and the pursuit of justice. This much you already know.'
'Of course.', Beatrice nodded
'For a while, it worked. For a very long while indeed. But that was because we were acting under the belief that there were limits to what we could achieve. Humanity's greatest weakness is to believe that the boundaries of possibility can ever be fixed in stone. In fact, our only limits are our imagination, or perhaps even our comprehension. As best we can, we must push beyond, extending ourselves out to the furthest reaches of possibility, if we are ever to learn that which is held from us.
'To some, the idea of pushing ourselves beyond these limits was a difficult one. There were those among the society's highest strata who forbade its members from crossing certain lines, certain boundaries. There were others who believed it a necessary step in the definition of the human existence. For a time, these debates raged among the members of the society, until eventually, things began to fall apart.
'There was a schism?' Beatrice asked
Rasmussen nodded in reply. 'As there always is. The problem with intellectuals is that we cannot all think the same. Ideas clash, even in the face of certain indelible truths. It can be hard for some to accept what must be done, what needs to be done. Morals can be the death of even the greatest of discoveries, I fear.
'Anyhow, in the aftermath of this schism, the organisation you see before you was born. A secret society within the secret society, as it were. With the aim to investigate the investigatable, and to do those things which others were not capable or willing, those things which they were unable to settle or align themselves with.
'For many years, the society's work continued on with only the tiniest and most insignificant of results. We were willing and able, yet the fruits of our labours were a meager lot, at least when compared to what came later.
'That all changed thirteen years ago.
'We detected something, far out at sea. We could not be sure what it was, not completely. We could make guesses, of course, and educated ones at that. But I do not deal in ifs, buts and maybes, only in absolutes. Research can only take you so far, we needed proof. We had to see the thing for ourselves, elsewise how else could we know if everything we had learned, or thought, or guessed was correct?
'And so....' Rasmussen sighed, wringing his hands in frustration. 'We set sail.'
'The Prospero set out, with 57 men good and true, to find this mythical beast that would unlock so many of our questions. It was a long journey, beset by storms and winds, and there were certain difficulties that were found in tracking the beast, or so I am told.
'It was a great regret of mine that I could not join the expedition. A scientist's greatest work may be done in the laboratory, it is true, but there is much to be said for being out in the field, and seeing certain sights with your own two eyes. The reports of mortal men and bound to a certain degree or error and misjudgement, and I prefer not to leave anything open to interpretation. In the end, though, It was a fortuitous decision for me to remain here.
'The crew found the beast, that much is certain. But only a few were able to survive the encounter. They were decimated, and when they returned most of the experiments we had hoped to run were unfulfilled, and we were no closer to the truth. That is, of course, with the exception of the ink.'
Rasmussen paused here, and studied Beatrice closely. Was he expecting some kind of understanding from her? As if she was supposed to know what he was talking about, what he meant? He stared at her intently, looking deep into her eyes, burning his image into her eyes.
Whatever reaction Rasmussen was hoping for, he clearly was not getting it, so he elected to continue; 'The crew of the ship were able to salvage a certain specimen from the beast. It is a curious substance, and it's certainly powerful stuff. Over the years we have had plenty enough to work with, though I have had to concentrate the substance greatly over time. Especially since the start of our... experiments.'
Beatrice gave a solemn nod. 'You mean the... '. She searched for a word.
'Patients.' Rasmussen interjected, but he shook his head as spoke. 'It's much more than that, I'm afraid. That is just the tip of the iceberg. My work has taken so many years, and yet we have achieved so little.
'But yes. If we had not made that discovery, we would have gotten nowhere. We inject a small amount of the substance into the patient's bloodstream, and monitor its effects. It is fascinating to see. The liquid is in a passive state under most circumstances. It remains unchanged by any outside influence, be it heat, light, or pressure. It cannot be interfered with or altered, when mixed with any other element known to man. But once it enters the sanctum of the human body... Well, the results are incredible.'
Beatrice paused, taking a breath, readying herself to speak again 'But I don't understand. The – 'patients' – as you call them. Who are they? Where did they come from?'
'They are what is left. Our society has dwindled over the years, so I will not deny that some of our members were less than willing to join our organisation. At first they were the remnants of the crew, but over time our net of candidates has been stretched somewhat wider. I will say, however, that they were more than willing to submit themselves to the research. They understand what is at stake here.'
'And what is at stake, exactly?'
Rasmussen smiled . 'Oh, everything. The sum of it all.'
'So what is the point? What is injecting them with this stuff supposed to do? Why are you doing this to them?'
'I am not doing anything' said Rasmussen, a sincerity and solemnity beginning to take hold of his voice. 'I am merely an observer. I wish there was more that I could do, that I could intervene and see for myself but I must remain impartial, elsewise I will never understand.'
Beatrice was not sure whether he believed him. This man, who had seemed so kindly and gentle in the memories of her childhood, now seemed to be something far worse, and far more sinister, than she could have imagined. She had only been a child then, innocent and unsuspecting, but it disturbed her to think of what had been going on around her. It could be her, strapped into that machine, a prisoner.
'If they are willing participants, then why do they have to be..' Beatrice searched for the word '…contained?'
Beatrice had seen it last night. Rasmussen had taken the patients, one by one, and dragged them to the rows of cells, naked and shivering, their eyes distant and delirious, consciousness long gone from them. Contained was the word the doctor had used himself, as he had shut them inside their cells.
'I know what you must think of me,' he said. 'But it is for their own safety. Once the substance enters the bloodstream, it changes you. There is no going back. I cannot take the risk that their madness will spread, or make them lose all control.'
Beatrice was skeptical. They had seemed so weak, so incapable of movement or control, that there was scarcely any need to contain them at all.
'It must be hard for you to understand,' said Dr Rasmussen. 'But truly, I wish that it did not have to be this way. There is nothing else that we can do.'
There was always something, Beatrice thought, but she did not say it. The Doctor rose from his seat, and began to clear away their plates, and Beatrice contemplated all that he had said.
Although there was an earnestness and a truth in what the man had said, there was something about him that she could not believe. He was holding much back from her, that was clear, but Beatrice could not be sure why. Perhaps he was ashamed about what he was doing, or about what he was subjecting those poor people to. Or perhaps not. He had a choice, no matter what he protested, and he had chosen to do these things. She could not forgive him for that.
He had finished cleaning away the plates now, and was pottering around at the far end of the kitchen. She sat for a few minutes, watching him in silence, contemplating. Rasmussen had done terrible things, that she knew, but he had told her willingly and without hesitation. If he could tell her this, then whatever he was holding back from her had to be much, much worse.
'Last night, something strange happened.' Beatrice said, breaking the silence. 'I remembered things, things I did not know I had forgotten. They all came flooding back to me.'
He smiled at her again, that thin smile that she felt she could not trust. She had seen it in his face last night, as her memories had opened themselves up to her. He had known, somehow, what she was experiencing. Maybe he had expected it, just as he had mysteriously expected her arrival in the first place. Or maybe he had seen the same thing happen in others, or felt it himself. Either way, he had not seemed surprised.
'Memory is a fascinating thing,' said Rasmussen. 'It is a concept that we take for granted, every day or our lives, yet it is only when it starts to falter, to betray us in ways that we could not predict or imagine, that we realise how fallible it really is.'
He picked up his lab coat, bundled up into a neat square on the worktop, and as he slipped it on Beatrice could not help but notice the pitch dark blotches marring the crisp white of the fabric.
'Everything that we see or do, everything we taste and touch and smell, the words we see and the sounds that we hear, no matter how well they are perceived, relies entirely on our ability to recall it. Each moment of our life exists only for an instant, and then it is gone, like dust in the wind. We hold on to those moments, recording them in our minds like ink on parchment. But over time that ink begins to fade, and blur, and eventually the parchment will crumble away into pieces, until nothing remains. What do we have left that we can truly perceive, when our memories are gone?
'As we go through life we build up a catalogue of our experiences. We separate out the different parts of our past, placing each of the thoughts into their individual chapters, slotting them into separate compartments in our mind. If something were to happen that catastrophically altered your perception of things, then I think it would affect your experience of everything, even those things that have already come to pass.'
At this, the doctor moved over towards her, reaching out his hand towards her face. Beatrice pulled away, just for a moment, but stopped herself. He placed his hand on the side of her face, his touch flinchingly cold. He began to trace his finger across the broken line of her left eyebrow, the small scar cleaving it into two, a thin crack, long and deep.
'You have been touched by the beast, my dear.' said Rasmussen. 'A remarkable thing. As I have told you, once the substance enters your bloodstream, there is no turning back. But for you, however....'
His voice trailed off, and he stared at her, with something like hunger in his eyes.
'It affects memory, of course.' he said, his voice barely audible. 'They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Perhaps you could say that we take the ends and twist them somewhat.'
He snatched his hand away from her face, suddenly aware of what he was saying.
'I understand that the patients experience something similar, as though their lives were unfolding before them all at once. I would imagine it can be quite an overwhelming experience, and somewhat difficult to navigate.'
Beatrice did not understand. When she had woken this morning her mind had felt clear, but now she was lost again, the waters of her mind becoming churned and rippled. What was Rasmusse trying to tell her?
'Come, we should return to the laboratory.' He moved towards the door of the kitchen, suddenly all of a haste, barely glancing at her to see if she would follow. "We have much work to do, and I can show you, at least in my own way, what it is that the patients experience when the substance begins to infect their minds.'
'But I still don't understand.' Said Beatrice, as she made to follow him. 'You still haven't told me what any of this is for. What are you actually doing here? What is it that you're really trying to achieve?'
Rasmussen turned to her and smiled, and for the first time it was a smile that she truly believed. 'Oh but Beatrice, haven't you figured that out yet?'
|
|
|
Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Dec 1, 2023 22:44:41 GMT -5
Then everything starts to reveal itself. The beast produces a substance capable of interacting only with the human mind. Are humanity and the beast somehow connected then? Do people affected by the beast's ink produce their own universes in their minds? What does Dr. R want to find out? I deduce that his interest is in finding out if his own universe is real or a reality created in someone's mind or something. In other words, he wants to know whether he really exists or not.
|
|
|
Post by Isadora Is a Door on Dec 2, 2023 3:08:43 GMT -5
An interesting theory, though there is one observation i will note - if this reality were a creation of someones mind, then the fact that the beast and/or substance exist within that reality would mean you are paradoxically trapped. Just because you could hypothetically create an alternate reality within your own reality does not mean that your reality could be created in a hypothetical outer reality.
|
|
|
Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Dec 2, 2023 12:40:50 GMT -5
Yes it is true. But it's one thing to get out of prison, it's another thing to prove that you're in prison. In the reality created for Fiona, there are mechanisms to show that it is an illusion.
|
|