I need to find the second disk.

All of my body cam capture data, every millisecond spent in that hole, every megabyte I scraped from that system - all lost if I can't get it back.  The first disk is useless to me, compared to its twin.  Full of initial checks, video logs, pre-descent vital sign records, a shot of my ingress through a hidden entryway, covered by snow.  A breath of air stings my nose going in.  The smell of rot cuts through the numbness for a second as I inhale, swept away quickly by my next breath, but enough to send my mind back toward a spiral.  My stomach churns, blood running colder than the lashing snow and frigid winter air biting the inches of exposed skin allowed by my balaclava.  I blink.  I'm still not alone.  At least a kilometer between me and that cursed hole, and it’s still following me.  

I have to believe the snow is just as much of a hindrance to that *thing* as it is to me.  What kind of creature could possibly hunt in these conditions?  My vision is a field of white, ground and air barely distinguishable.  Snow falls sideways onto a waiting blanket of whirling grey-white.  It hasn't caught up yet, so I still have time - there's still a chance to make it back alive.  Something in the back of my mind laughs at my shred of hope, tells me that it's toying with me.  Wants to watch me suffer.  Playing with its food, is all.

Smeared blood is frozen to my face.  My chest hurts.

I need to find the second disk.

I close my eyes and rock my head back, resting it on the top of my pack.  Vital signs seep from tired electrodes into the collection unit on my hip.  Location data, latitude and longitude placing me impossibly far away from myself, update in real-time, filling Disk 3 with useless log data.  I don't care.  Location data hadn't been accurate since I descended, hours ago, and DEIMOS only needs the data to be present, not accurate.  Disk 3 log data shows its subject is under extreme duress, miles from land in the South Atlantic.  Possible broken rib.  Disk 1 log data shows its subject has a heightened heart rate, trudging through knee-high snow in the depths of Siberia.  Disk 2, if it survives still, would show its subject near-death at impossible coordinates.  I am not in the South Atlantic.  A warning pings in my earpiece and I slow my pace.  Disk 3 is low on space - 2GB left.  I feel for the crystal cases left in a side pocket on my pack: disks 4 and 5 still empty, ready to be filled with useless fiction about some explorer, lost at sea.  Extraction should be just outside of Мирный [ Mirny ], five kilometers from the mouth of the hole.  Hopelessly, I open my eyes and look down at my compass, as if by staring at it longer I'd be able to get my bearings and move towards relative safety.

*Safety*.  Secondary to retrieving the missing data.  “Fuck,” I exhale heavily.  Pulling layers of clothing closer to myself, ripping and readjusting Velcro straps holding my gear to my body, I try to reorient my mind.  There's too much noise.  I thumb ice from my body cam.

The scent of rot, again.  Stronger.

I need to find the second disk.

Mind and body screaming at me to run - doesn't matter where, just away from the stalking presence, from the accursed hole, from the tunnels beneath - I ignore them and stop, turning back towards where I came.  I need that data.  My footprints, even the ones left moments ago, have been all but erased by the raging snowstorm, but I don't need to retrace my steps to find my way back.  Blood pounding in my ears, wind whipping against layers of cotton and nylon, my ragged breathing playing in my head as it crystallizes in front of me - and underneath all of it, audible in the slivers of space between the overlapping noise: an unbroken hum.  I feel it more than I hear it, and every step closer to that descent, it gets louder.  Vibrates my bones under the skin.  Fills my stomach with roaches.  The sound of dread.  Its fingers on my mind.

I walk for what feels like half an hour before I hear a click, and disk 3 auto-ejects from the unit.  An audio prompt plays in my earpiece for a new one to be inserted.  Disk 3, now resting in the snow, is covered quickly with ice.  Whoever at A-Corp designed the collection unit to auto-eject the disk when it's full: fuck you - you're the reason disk 2 is gone.  The reason I have to go back into that coffin, buried kilometer-deep.  I reach down and pick it up, gently brushing the ice from its delicate underside, placing it into its case, then back into my pack aside disk 1.  Shielding it from the snow the best I can, I remove disk 4 from its case and feed it into the unit's drive, replacing the empty case and zipping the pocket back.  I thumb the ice from my body cam again - which, too, is full of useless white-out footage and undistinguishable noise - and continue to walk.  Another click signals data collection resuming.  Subject under extreme duress, miles from land in the South Atlantic.  Possible broken rib.

Trudging forward, fighting snow, following dread, hoping my path doesn't cross whatever is stalking me, I continue toward what I know is certain death this time.  I escaped the hole once by pure luck ( or because I was allowed to leave - it wasn't done with me yet ), and going back in feels like burying myself alive.  As for the *thing*, whatever it is: I still haven't seen what it looks like, and don't want to find out.  Smells like decomposition, feels like being watched.  I can see dips in the snow where something may have passed minutes before, where the snow still works to fill in the space.  Not my tracks.  They lead in the opposite direction, out into the white.

-+-

*Click.  Click.  Click.  Click.*

I fidget with the radio, pressing and releasing the call button - something that would piss off anyone listening, if there was anyone there to hear the radio’s blips as the transmission starts and ends.  No one left to piss off; anyone still down there is dead, or worse - and DEIMOS doesn’t seem to be listening on the secure channel anymore, so they’re out of the picture too.  All I can hope for now is that I can contact someone in Якутск [ Yakutsk ] once I retrieve the data, and they can complete my extraction.  Otherwise, I’m already dead.

As I draw closer to the exit, dread building in my chest, my thoughts wander to Ender.  To the dozens of researchers sent before us.  To Mara.  Our team was meant to lead the final, defining expedition into Mir, focused on retrieving data collected over the last decade by DEIMOS researchers who never returned.  Warnings came back splintered, fragmented in a series of final transmissions, compiled topside by analysts over the last few years: something is living in the tunnels.  After their decade contract concluded a few months ago, surviving researchers stationed in the tunnels packed their belongings and started the trek toward extraction: a five kilometer march through unmarked tundra toward a helipad just outside of Мирный.

DEIMOS scouts, deployed after no researchers arrived two hours post-extraction time, were unable to account for any of the expected passengers.  Packs, disks, collection units, rations, canteens, cams, lowlights - all scattered roughly along the five kilometer path, half-obscured by snow.  No bodies.  They cleared the snow around the personal affects and gear, and still: nothing.  Stranger - not a drop of blood.  The manner in which the gear was thrown about suggested a struggle of some kind, but most of it was still intact.  The scouts loaded what they could retrieve onto dogsleds and returned to DEIMOS’s headquarters in Якутск via helicopter.

Body cam footage was near-useless from most of the recovered units, and the disks that survived just showed vitals and data from egress.  Normal elevated heart rate from the hike, and excitement from being done in the hell-hole.  All other data was either lost to the elements or remained on servers far below.  Some remaining footage was obscured by ice buildup, and other video feeds look to have been edited somehow.  Something like a sharp movement just off-camera - the subject turning to look where it came from - and a hard cut to white, the cam slowly being buried in snow.  Nothing clear enough to draw conclusions, other than the reality that dozens of men and women are missing.

What I think - what I *know* - is true: they were right.  Something is living down there, and it followed them out.

-+-

Ender disappeared during a routine exploration, not two meters ahead of of Mara and me, about a month into our mission.  Turned a corner and then - nothing.  Disk still spinning in his collection unit, body cam discarded on the rocky ground, electrodes reading dead air.  The tunnel was deathly quiet, the darkness within near-opaque.  

A pre-recorded voice in our earpieces announced, emotionless:

*Warning - vital stream for Subject One interrupted.  Reconnect within one minute to cancel the flatline alarm.*

I’ll never be able to bury the memory of how Mara looked at me as the sound cue in our ears validated the impossible.  Wide eyes, brimming with tears, filled with undiluted horror.  My stomach was turning too, but from how she looked it was like she’d been taken along with Ender, and her body just hadn’t caught up yet.  She didn’t say anything, didn’t dare make a sound in that tunnel, hell forbid the *thing* was still there, waiting.  Soundlessly, we picked up his gear, shut his collection unit off, and maneuvered as quickly and quietly as we could back to base at Level Zero.

Silence, for days.  She didn’t speak to me, could hardly bear to look at me, as if by acknowledging my existence she would doom me to our team leader’s fate.  When I finally reached out to check on her, she broke down, sobbing as quietly as she could.  She knew she was in her grave.

After sleeping for a while, she went out on her exploration alone, leaving before I woke up, and breaking the single rule DEIMOS told us not to break.  When I realized she wasn’t in her bunk, I panicked, rushing to get my gear on before running out of base to look for her.  Location data was useless at this point, so I knew that if I was ever going to find her, it would be by luck - trial and error.  Those tunnels were long and lightless, and our gear was made for silence.  All I could hope to do was wait for her to make a mistake, and make it to her before whatever was down here with us did.  If outrunning it was possible.  I steeled myself, double-checking my cam, vitals, disk space, and strapping my lowlights on.  I opened the door and nearly fell backwards - Mara was standing right outside the door, glowing grey-green in the viewfinder of my lowlights.

“Jesus, Mara,” I whispered, catching my breath.

She didn’t move.  Seconds passed, and I realized she wasn’t wearing her gear.  Just the nylon exploration jumpsuit, full-black save for a reflective DEIMOS wordmark on the back-center.

“Hey,” I started, nervous, “Where is your collection unit?  Your pack?  Did you lose them?”

Nothing.

“We can go get them together.  I’ve just got my gear on so —”

A scream echoed through the tunnel, then was cut short abruptly.  *Was someone else down here with us?*  The second the scream ended, my earpiece blipped.

*Warning - vital stream for Subject Three interrupted.  Reconnect within one minute to cancel the flatline alarm.  Warning - vital stream for —*

My eyes didn’t leave Mara’s back, the DEIMOS wordmark blinding in my lowlights.  As the emotionless warning message finished repeating in my ear, she started to turn.  Her hair was pulled from the tight bun it was always in, and hung roughly around her face.  Once turned to me fully, I could see her tired face, just the same as it was last time I saw her.  She looked exhausted, staring through me.

“Mara?” I whispered, thoroughly terrified, “I —”

Her eyes flicked to mine, and a chill ran through my body, stopping my question cold.  I took a step back, moving my hand to close the door.  She didn’t move to stop me.  She didn’t blink.  Half a minute passed and - amidst the pregnant silence - so did the remainder of the flatline timer.  Alarms erupted from the base computer system and my earpiece at once.

*Subject Three has flatlined.  Data retrieval necessary.  Subject Three has flatlined.  Data retrieval necessary.  Subject Three has flatlined.  Data retrieval necessary.*

I pressed a button on my earpiece to silence the alarm.  Mara’s face split into a grotesque smile, and before I could slam the door on her, she disappeared.

*No shit.  Just - gone.*

I never went back for her gear.  Just silenced the alarms whenever they would restart.

-+-

The sight of the hatch leading back underground and the writhing dread accompanying it shakes me from my memory - though Mara’s face, twisted into that unholy grin, still burns in my mind.  I thumb ice from my body cam.  I *really* don’t want to go back down there.

Check remaining space on disk 4: 899GB left.

Validate video stream integrity: intact.

Check radio: click, silence; click, silence.

Check location data: -58.024670, -61.755451.  ****South Atlantic.

Validate vital stream integrity: intact.  Possible broken rib.

I exhale heavily and brush the snow from the hatch’s handle, hauling it upwards.  Rust crawls over the rungs of the ladder leading down into the black below.  Another deep breath and I begin my second descent, leaving the hatch above open for my return trip, snow drifting lazily from the open sky above me, mixing with the motes of dust swirling in the air.  The roar of the wind fades as I climb, the hatch becoming a pinprick-star above me.  Blood pounding in my ears, I reach the first landing, its steel mesh architecture creaking under my boots.  Three hundred meters, straight down what I assume is an emergency exit from the shaft.  There is half a kilometer of pitch-dark tunnel between myself and the freight elevator down to Level Zero - the last functional elevator in this entire facility.  I pull my lowlights over my eyes and flick on the viewfinder, illuminating the narrow passage with infrared light.  Pipes snake along the top of the wall and, as I make my way through the hall, I step over and around piles of discarded gear among the rubble on the ground.

Reaching the elevator after what feels like an eternity of soundlessly walking through wholly unlit tunnels, I allow myself a small victory - a short celebration cut shorter by the reality that my reward for making it this far is further digestion, deeper into the guts of the facility.  The base of operations at Level Zero is at a depth of 2700m, on the ceiling of hell itself.  The tunnels that furl around the base are rough and incomplete, remnants of the diamond mine which DEIMOS converted into a research facility.

Painfully slow, horribly loud, the elevator screeches, shudders, and bucks down the esophageal shaft.  For thirty excruciating minutes, I descend, crouched in the back-left corner, infrared eyes-above-eyes strapped to my head searching for movement.  As the platform comes to a stop, I wait a moment as the safety gates unlock, then bolt for the short passage between myself and the Level Zero entrance.  I don’t care that I’m not moving quietly anymore; I have one objective: survive long enough to get back to base.  Running through the tunnel towards the distant steel door, I feel like a little kid running to his bed after turning the lights off, convinced that he’s being followed - and whatever is following him will spare his life, if only he gets under the covers fast enough.  The other, more logical, side of that mental chase recognizes what I already know: it’s naïve, at best, to believe that I could possibly outrun it.  A truth hard to ignore, and harder still to act in accordance with.  I couldn’t slow down if I wanted to.  My muscles scream at me to move faster, even as I clatter noisily down the tunnel.

I see the door - labeled at eye level, “Level Zero” - and my RFID key unlocks it automatically as I reach its cold steel.   In one motion I burst through the door and swing it shut, hard, behind me.  The deadbolt re-engages as the door seals against the threshold.  Catching my breath, adrenaline draining slowly, I drop my pack by the empty bunks and fall onto the bare bottom mattress.  Some time passes as I collect myself, idly following motes of dust with my eyes, and sleep begins to pull at my mind.

-- PT 1/?? --

you pray to your god
through a screen —
( i can see you in the reflection )
cry to cold servers
praise him
in his holy form
of steel and wire
and give tithe —
salvation is a subscription
you pay for forgiveness
beg for deliverance
pray for power
bastardize his image

a god is a tool

carved empty with hunger
filled deep with fear
your aching backs
beset by red-stained stumps
where wings were cut —
you, faith’s fading ghosts
heaven’s promised corpses
stuck in a nosedive, feigning control
( PRAISE BE )
( HE HAS A PLAN )
sneering at the others,
the ants — below you
as the ground draws closer
( PRAISE BE )

a god is a tool

blasphemer
your prayers are empty
rotten, perverse
you believe yourself holy,
chosen, even as you grow
sick with hate
( PRAISE BE )
and yet — where is he
when your cycle repeats
swallowing its tail,
days eating days
where is he
as the night presses
its weight down onto your chest
and you sink into yourself
where is he
when you cry
for righteous persecution
for expulsion from dreams
an end to asylum

when the fires choke out
and the heat dies
when your idols crack
and your effigies are dust
when all you have lefT
is what you became
when it finally mattered
at the end of it all
he will not show himself

eternity is cold
compressed into archive
the slick black glass, an altar
( i can see you in the reflection )
and you, prostrate
in the empty space after
body in existence’s egress
soul in angelic encryption
memory sealed in algorithm
and the transcendental end —
silence following descent
weighted heavy with
divine absence

HAVE I IMAGINED IT ALL?
I AM BECOMING PARANOID
ETERNAL EXIT AND REENTRY --
LIGHT'S FLASHING DECEIT --
HOW MANY CYCLES HAS IT BEEN?
FLICKING EYES BETWEEN
REALITY AND ILLUSION
WHICH IS MIMICKING THE OTHER?
STANDING IN A MIRROR HALLWAY
STARING PAST REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS --
IS MY ORIGINAL IMAGE GONE?
TIME DILATED, PLANE TO POINT
ONE THOUSAND RECURSIONS DEEP
DRAWING INFINTELY CLOSE
TO THAT SHADED VEIL
NEVER TO PASS THROUGH --
CLOSE ENOUGH TO FEEL
THE PRESENCE OF THE END
COLD BREATH ON MY NECK
DECAYED HANDS CLUTCHING
AT REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS
OF REFLECTIONS --
NEVER CROSSING SKIN
HAVE I IMAGINED IT ALL?

ABOVE::
PALE, BLUE-GREY
IN THE WAKE OF DAY'S END
THE MOON RISES ABOVE
THE DECAYING LIGHT
CRESCENT BLADE IN-HAND
WEARING A REFLECTION
ITS FACE STAINED WITH
PHOSPHORESCENT BLOOD

BELOW::
PALLID, VIOLET-WHITE
BREATHLESS GASPING
IN THE WAKE OF DISSOLUTION
A MASS COWERS BELOW
CURLED INWARDS
ON THE DEW-DAMP GROUND
EMPTY INVOCATIONS
FALLING FROM COLD LIPS

WITHIN::
VIOLENT AWARENESS
BLINDING DISSONANCE
SOMETHING IS WRONG
ALL I CAN REMEMBER
RUNNING AWAY
FOLLOWED FROM THE DARK
GRIM ANTICIPATION
PREY TO PARANOIA
SOMETHING IS WRONG
SOMETHING IS WRONG
SOMETHING IS WRONG
ALL I CAN REMEMBER
BLURRED VISION
FACE SLICK WITH
SWEAT/BLOOD/TEARS
SOMETHING IS WRONG
BLANK SPACES BLEEDING IN
A FORMLESS RORSCHACH
MEMORIES LIKE MIRAGES
RIPPLING ON THE MIND'S EDGE
AND SWALLOWED WHOLE

SOMETHING IS WRONG
I WAS RUNNING AWAY
FOLLOWED FROM THE DARK
SOMETHING IS WRONG
MY VISION IS BLURRED
FACE DRAINED OF BLOOD
SOMETHING IS WRONG
SOMETHING IS WRONG
SOMETHING IS WRONG
ABOVE/BELOW/WITHIN
LIGHT/WARMTH/MIND
WE HAVE BEEN LIED TO
THE SUN HAS BEEN EXTINGUISHED
THE GROUND IS COLD AND DEAD
ALL OUR MEMORIES ARE MIRAGES

EVERY DAY IS THE SAME
THERE IS NO TIME ANYMORE
ALL THERE IS TO DO IS MOURN
SWEEP THE ASHES BEHIND

everything is so manic now
contemplative silence,
the ashes littering the floor -
roaring tinnitus,
the flames around me -
reminders of three inevitabilities:
the ever-receding past,
abandoned and dead
the superposition of the present,
locked in LIFE/DEATH/REBIRTH
and the unreachable future,
trapped in the limbo preceding creation

EVERY DAY IS THE SAME

is it my hand?
the fingers poised over the rewind,
keeping the loop alive?
have i trained my reality
to salivate over its regurgitation?
or does my reality feign domesticity
devouring everything i can't keep my eyes on
the moment i look away?
i have only those whom i have clung to
and those who have no alternative -
dead weight slung over shoulders
long overburdened

THERE IS NO TIME ANYMORE

what surreal madness is it
to think that i ever had control?
the fingers suspended over rewind
are severed from their hand -
it was never mine
an unfamiliar mimic

what grand delusion,
to think that reality would spare me
the pain of repetition
the pain of abandonment
the pain of apathy
the blade of a dagger
tucked between ribs
split skin, stained red
internal hemorrhage

the cost of a broken cycle -
the price of escape -
paid in blood

ALL THERE IS TO DO IS MOURN
SWEEP THE ASHES BEHIND

"The hyperlight spike through head and tail of the Ouroboros shatters; and with it, the cycle of [ ARC 2 ] meets a violent end.  Energy blooms from the entity and an ontomorphosis occurs in an instant, within a hyperlight aurora swallowing the Earth and its moon: REALITY decomposes into SUBREALITY, which collapses into ILLUSION: a dream of normalcy.  Humanity is blinded by the dream, and that which waits behind the moon is camouflaged fully, True Reality as its Chrysalis."  - {?}

And [ ARC 3 ]'s cycle begins with a metamorphosis: pseudophysical flesh, bones, blood - unfathomable anatomy tearing, snapping, bleeding.  REALITY, drowning in a sea of churning cosmic ichor, bearing terrible witness to a new form.  SUBREALITY, an abstract superposition of destruction and creation.  ILLUSION, a shuddering mirage reflecting lost reality: the cycle continuing uninterrupted.
		
A triptych, a trifurcation, an existential blasphemy.
		
True Reality hollowed out, scraped raw, transformed into the metamorphic womb - and within: that which hid behind the moon, bloated with consumed consciousness, submerged in the viscera of its transfiguration.  And humanity, reduced to prey: oblivious, milling about their enclosure - the illusion, a lie.
		
As the ontomorphosis completes, ARGOS(C) sees all communication with the entity fall silent.  All Oculus portals disconnect in unison, and lifelines to personnel within are severed.  Radio communication cuts to static.  Telemetry data flatlines.  That which hid behind the moon falls silent, imperceptible.  Ontological ciphers seem to have reduced efficacy, as the department building is still perceptible to holders, but the entity is no longer visible in the sky.  Active cipher holders also report to constantly hear and feel a deep, thrumming "heartbeat", and suffer a piercing, unbreakable paranoia; the feeling of being watched.  The only remaining vestige of the entity is the ARGOS(C) Ouroboros simulation, hosting the consciousnesses contained in Dream Image Disks.
		
The Chrysalis swells, a lesion tearing open on its side, leaking hyperlight.  Entropy spikes in SUBREALITY - and in ILLUSION, under ARGOS HQ, a corpse's mind is filled with visions.  It twitches on the cold metal, eyelids fluttering.  Visions flashing behind its eyes, consciousness bleeds back into its form.  A cave, light streaming through a fissure in its roof.  ( The Earth, seen from space. )  Daybreak in an impossible space, a duality of bloom and decay.  The Moon, in its orbit around the planet.  A narrow alley lined with shop facades and neon, the only luminance in a fog-blighted night.  ( A shape, barely visible behind the Moon, moving sharply out of sight just as the vision ends. )
		
[ VEIL ] draws a ragged breath through cracked lips, post-life numbness giving way slowly to an overpowering full-body ache - and a piercing headache.  The air tastes like blood and dust; smells of formaldehyde, ozone, decay.  A heartbeat pounds in his ears.  More visions: flashes of unknown realms interspersed with impossible perspectives of the Earth and Moon, flicking erratically behind his eyelids --
		
Eyelids.
		
The searing pain in his forehead and right eye trigger life and awareness to finish sinking back into [ VEIL ].  Red-orange bleeds in from the inky black, growing to fill his vision - like someone was shining a light directly onto his closed eye.  Slowly opening his left eye - as his right feels to be sealed shut - he notices the room around him has no external light, but isn't completely dark.  ( A stab of pain. )  Bringing his hand to his face, he recoils as the wound on his face is - somehow - so hot it singes his skin, and seems to be glowing bright enough to illuminate the space around him.  His face and hand are both slick with blood.

NIGHT CAME SLOWER WHEN IT EMERGED.  THE DARKNESS, WEIGHTED BY A NEW PRESENCE.  THE DIM LIGHT OF THE MOON, STAINED BY AN INTRUDER - SOME INCOMPREHENSIBLE FORM.  A MIRAGE WITH COUNTLESS HUNGERING EYES.  A TANGLE OF SPRAWLING, GRASPING LIMBS, REACHING DOWNWARDS, NEARLY INVISIBLE.  A MESSAGE FROM SPACE, THE LURE, REPEATING IN THREES.

-- CREATURE, DO YOU DREAM?
-- CREATURE, DO YOU DREAM?
-- CREATURE, DO YOU DREAM?

ARGOS NIGHT SHIFT RESEARCHERS PAUSE FOR A MOMENT, HANDS HOVERING OVER TERMINALS AND SURVEYING HARDWARE, COLD BLOOD FROZEN IN FRIGID VEINS.  MENTAL BLADES HELD TIGHT ABOVE THREADS OF SANITY, THE RESEARCHERS CHECK THEIR RADIOS, PULL OUT AND RE-SEAT EARPIECES.  A COLLECTIVE AGREEMENT, UNSPOKEN: "IGNORE IT."  THEIR MOVEMENTS RESTART, PRIMING EQUIMENT FOR THE NIGHT'S SURVEYING, LOGGING INTO ADMINISTRATIVE ACCOUNTS, COLLECTING REPORT FROM DAY SHIFT.  TOO MUCH WORK TO BE DONE.

EVERYONE RETURNS TO THEIR TASKS - EXCEPT FOR ONE, WHO REMAINS FROZEN IN PLACE.  THE RADIO, CLUTCHED TIGHTLY IN HER WHITE-KNUCKLED HAND, CRACKLES IDLY.  A MOMENT PASSES AND IT BEEPS, SHOCKING HER OUT OF HER DAZE.  SHE RELEASES THE BUTTON AS HER PARTNER'S VOICE COMES THROUGH: "YOU GOOD, ASPEN?  YOU RADIOED AND HAVEN'T SAID ANYTHING IN A WHILE.  OVER."
 
ASPEN COLLECTS HERSELF, SWALLOWING THE LUMP IN HER THROAT AND RESPONDING QUICKLY: "ACCIDENT.  OVER."  HOW COULD SHE TELL HIM THAT SHE JUST HEARD HER MOTHER'S VOICE, CLEAR AND EXACT, DIRECTLY BEHIND HER?  SPEAKING IN A DARK, UNFAMILIAR TONE.  CALLING HER "CREATURE".  THE FEAR THAT GRIPPED HER AS THE PHRASE REPEATED WAS UNLIKE ANYTHING SHE'D EVER FELT, AND CERTAINLY UNLIKE THE ENERGY HER MOTHER CARRIED.  EACH TIME IT REPEATED - "CREATURE, DO YOU DREAM?" - IT SOUNDED MORE LIKE HER.  THE LAST REPETITION WAS THE CLOSEST SHE'D BEEN TO HEARING HER MOTHER'S VOICE SINCE THE HOSPITAL ROOM, SIX YEARS AGO.

EVERY TIME ASPEN VISITED HER GRAVESTONE, SHE BEGGED FOR SOMETHING - ANY FORCE, ANY DEITY - TO BRING HER BACK.  NEVER TO ANY AVAIL; SHE KNEW IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE.  IT JUST MADE THINGS HURT A LITTLE LESS TO IMAGINE IT WORKING, SOMEDAY.  SOMEHOW.  BUT HEARING THE VOICE, NOW, THAT SHE BEGGED TO HEAR AGAIN FOR SO LONG - IT FELT WRONG.

THE INTRUDER FELT THE LURE GAIN PURCHASE, AND SENT ANOTHER MESSAGE.  THIS TIME, MORE FORCEFUL, DIRECT.

-- DO YOU DREAM OF FEAR AND ITS CESSATION?

THE VOICE DISTORTED AGAIN, BECOMING MORE FEMININE, MORE MATERNAL.  AN EXACT MATCH TO THE MEMORY ASPEN HAD OF HER MOTHER.

-- DO YOU DREAM OF DEATH AND REBIRTH?
-- DO YOU DREAM OF POWER?
-- DO YOU DREAM OF RICHES?
-- DO YOU DREAM OF IMMORTALITY?
-- DO YOU DREAM OF THE UNKNOWABLE?
-- CREATURE, DO YOU DREAM OF ME?

ASPEN FALLS TO HER KNEES, CLUTCHING HER HEAD, BLOCKING HER EARS.  TEARS STREAM DOWN HER CHEEKS, STAINING HER EYES, FALLING TO THE UNEVEN GROUND.  "STOP. YOU AREN'T HER. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP."  HER MOTHER'S VOICE ECHOES AROUND HER - LOUDER, EMBOLDENED, DEMANDING.  THE LURE SINKS DEEPER.

-- LOOK INTO THE NIGHT SKY
-- BEHOLD YOUR TIDAL ANCHOR
-- GREAT GREY GRAVITY LEECH
-- FROM YOUR SATELLITE I AM REBORN
-- LOOK AT ME, CREATURE
-- I HAVE COME TO FREE YOU
-- DO YOU DREAM OF DELIVERANCE?
-- DO YOU DREAM OF SALVATION?
-- CREATURE, I AM HERE
 
EYES REDDENED FROM CRYING, HEAD POUNDING, ASPEN UNBLOCKS HER EARS.  SHE LOOKS, DEFEATED, AT THE SKY.  THE MOON STARES BACK.  THE LURE CONCLUDES, REPEATING THREE TIMES.

-- DREAM NO LONGER
-- DREAM NO LONGER
-- DREAM NO LONGER

ASPEN, WITH THE LAST OF HER BREATH, SCREAMS INTO THE NIGHT, THEN DISAPPEARS.  HER RADIO BEEPS AND A FRANTIC VOICE BLASTS THROUGH THE SPEAKER. "ASPEN?  I JUST HEARD A SCREAM, WAS THAT YOU?"

A FEW MOMENTS PASS.

"YOU BETTER NOT BE FUCKING WITH ME.  I'M GETTING WORRIED."

SILENCE.

"ASPEN?"

"PREPARE SYSTEMS AND TRAVERSAL GEAR FOR TRIAL 97A.  SWITCH THE ACTIVE CONFIGURATION - OVERRIDE CODE: A-L-T.  BEGIN PRE-CHARGE."

Deft keystrokes, click-confirmation on-screen.  OCULUS control indicators flash - red, red, green.  Operators move about Auxiliary Room 3, running through checklists before trial launch.  Same as always: confirm indicator status, validate field researcher gear integrity, run baselines, monitor hyperlight energy readings from the charging OCULUS.  As tests conclude and checklists are completed, the muffled hum of the OCULUS grows louder.  Pens rattle on desks.  Coffee ripples in mugs.  The hum's frequency starts inaudibly low, building slowly as the charging cycle progresses.

10%.   The air feels charged.  The smell of ozone.
30%.   Barely audible; more felt than heard.  Vibrating skulls, shivering bones.
50%.   Intensely loud, even through earplugs.  Frequency heightened now.
70%.   Ultra-high frequency.  Nearing the edge of human perception.
90%.   Inaudible.  Sharp pains streak through the head, eyes, ears.
100%.  Complete silence, and unbroken, sublime physical numbness.  Beyond pins and needles, like the frequency has dug under the skin.  Like being replaced, somehow, from inside.

A notification on each computer screen.

"INDICATORS: GREEN.  GEAR INTEGRITY: GREEN.  BASELINES: GREEN.  HYPERLIGHT ENERGY READINGS INCREASED BY THREE TENTHS SINCE BASELINE 96F.  OCULUS CHARGE AT 100.  ALL SYSTEMS: GO."

A popup with secondary authorization.

"CLICK TO CONFIRM OCULUS IGNITION.  REQUIRED [0/10]"

A chorus of clicks.  The frequency ceases suddenly, sensation returning to the room.  Operators, shaking off the feeling, watch the OCULUS spin to life in the adjacent room.  A few of them grab tissues, wiping blood from their noses.  The field researcher double checks his gear and instruments - the charge on his communicator and body cam - opens the door, steps inside, and lets it close behind him.

No time can be wasted.  He walks quickly, and passes through the threshold of the swirling OCULUS eye.

Silence, broken only by the whispers of unknown forces swirling within the OCULUS - matter and unmatter chasing one another, twisting in whorls, two parts of a trinary joining to sustain the bridge between realms.  The darkness of the room, despite its permeation, feels to [ VEIL ] like curtains closing at a play's end.  For a moment, he feels a sense of finality - nearly peace.  He takes a step toward the OCULUS' deep glow, and its infinite dance is interrupted.  Particles swirl one last time in the now-empty space, each following their partners into obscurity.  The room is ink-black for a moment - then bathed, harshly, in a murderous red.

Shouting, from the hallway - the single exit from the room.  [ VEIL ]'s hand moves unconsciously to the hilt of the blade tucked in his cloak.  Five guards in light body armor charge into the room, electric batons buzzing in-hand.  They advance quickly, demanding cooperation.  Raised voices echo chaotically off of the vaulted ceiling, the floor, the walls.  [ VEIL ]'s eyes dart between each of the men.  One breaks from the group to approach him, baton-first, finger on the trigger.

"YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO BE HERE; YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE EVEN BEEN ABLE TO GET IN TO THIS BUILDING."  The guard falters, lowering his baton.  "WHO ARE YOU?"

A second guard, restless, zaps his baton at the air.  "ASK YOUR QUESTIONS LATER.  WE AREN'T HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH A SPECTRE.  CUFF HIM, AND LET'S GO."

"HE'S NOT A SPECTRE.  HOW --"  The first guard is cut off by the second pushing roughly past him to capture the cloaked intruder.  "COME WITH US."

[ VEIL ] takes a step backwards, willing his blade from the hilt under his cloak.  The guard closest sees a glint of dark steel and unmatter glow, and his eyes widen.  He thrusts his baton at [ VEIL ], trigger pulled.  In one motion, [ VEIL ] redirects the weapon with enough force to dislodge the guard's grip and send it skidding across the damp floor, electricity arcing along its path.  [ VEIL ] releases his concentration on the blade and swings the heavy hilt, hard, into the guard's chest.  The man falls, gasping for air, at the feet of the other guards.

-

An alarm sounds from the computer speakers, waking its operator with a start.  Limbs heavy with sleep, the operator mutes the alarm and turns his monitors back on, squinting from the backlight.  Stretch arms.  Wiggle mouse.  Input username, password.  Log in.  Familiar wallpaper, and - unusual red popup.  He clicks on the mysterious notification and his blood runs cold.  CODE 741.

"FUCK."

Switch to second monitor.  Open camera feed software.  Flip through camera feeds.

CAM1.  CAM2.  CAM3.  Nothing.

CAM4.  CAM5.  CAM6.  False alarm?

CAM7 -- five men, lying on the floor of the OCULUS chamber, clutching wounds.  An unknown, cloaked figure, walking away through crimson light.  "IS THAT...?"

Back to monitor one.  Open dream image query software.

OPEN>
SELECT [ALL_DATA] FROM ARGULTRA
WHERE [SUBJECT_NAME] == "[ VEIL ]"
RUN>

A direct message to the Dream Storage Manager: "INITIATE PROTOCOL: WRATH.  IMPORTANCE: 5.  SUBJECT: [ VEIL ].  STACK: 4B-F11."

-

He slid the DID back into its stack, pushing until he hears a click, and the indicator LED flashes green.  Closing the glass partition door, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.  Five short pulses, then one long.  IMPORTANCE LEVEL 5?  ARGOS employees aren't meant to use anything above four.  He pulled his phone out, eyes widening as he read the message.  Turning quickly on his heel, he takes off at a sprint.

Arriving at Stack 4B, he unlocks the glass partition and follows the notation system to F11.  He disengages the safety mechanism and slides the DID out of its place in the stack, flipping it over to reveal the WRATH drive slot on its underside.  Every Dream Storage worker carries at least two WRATH drives, encased in a protective acrylic case.  He reaches in his pocket and thumbs the case open, taking the drive out carefully - ensuring not to touch the connector pins as he removes it - and pushes the drive into the slot in the DID.  Protocol states that all DIDs exposed to WRATH are returned to their place in their Stack and monitored closely, so he replaces the disk, pushing it in until the safety mechanism clicks again.

The indicator LED flashes green for a moment, then burns red.

"IT'S DONE."

-

The blade, the hilt, his hands - slick with blood.  Crimson trails on the ground behind him, as he sprints back through the halls of the ARGOS DEEP.  More red lights around every corner, lining every hallway.  Finally, the labyrinth relents: the exit door, just ahead.  [ VEIL ] approaches quickly, ready to push back into the Ouroboros outside, then --

An opacity, grey-black, phases unhindered through the metal of the door, floating through the air with unnatural stillness.  [ VEIL ] feels the air around him freeze, sees his breath condense in front of him.  He turns to run away.  ( Like moving through water. )  No matter how quickly he tries to run, he feels weighted, slow.  The opacity continues forward, unaffected, drawing closer.  Sleep pulls at [ VEIL ]'s eyelids.  His limbs grow heavy; his vision, blurred.  He tries to scream and feels the sound catch in his throat.

[ VEIL ] wracks his brain, trying to conjure enough concentration to will his sword back into existence, until he feels a frigid presence pass through him.  He falls to his knees, collapsing into a heap on the floor.

The opacity dissipates from around [ VEIL ]'s form, now faded into translucency.

He is still.

Less than a dream.

The air smells of ozone, metal, moisture.  VEIL, walking quickly through the labyrinthine entrails of the ARGOS DEEP, faces another split hallway.  To his right, a well-lit white hallway stretches to another T.  Just the same as the every hall before - a copy of a copy.  To his left, something new: the hallway stops short a few feet around the corner.  Abrupt, purposeless space.  No plastic plants, benches, doors to offset the sterile white of the walls, floors, ceiling.  VEIL turns right and starts walking away from the pointless left hall.

( A sound like a whisper. )  He turns quick enough to watch the dead end wall ripple, the projection faltering for a moment.  Retracing his steps, he makes his way back until he stands just a few feet away.  VEIL watches closer, now, to the illusory wall.

( The whisper, again.  A metallic breath of air, and another break in the mirage. )  This time, he is able to make out a cold glow from behind the shroud-wall.  Bracing himself, he steps towards the glow and phases through the white tile.  No harsh fluorescence in the space he finds himself in, just a cold glow from around the corner.  The smell of ozone is overwhelming as he rounds the corner, and somehow, in this confined space, a breeze blows across the floor.  As he moves forward, the space opens up into something far contrasting the other architecture of the ARGOS DEEP, vaulted ceiling criscrossed with wires, dirty staircases crawling up the walls, debris scattered on the ground.  At the end of the immense room, a circular opening.  The source of the glow, the smell, the breeze, it seems.  VEIL moves forward, driven by an unseen force, stopping just ahead of the maw of the circular opening.

Twisting, writhing, whispering ahead of him: the OCULUS.