Omnium's Fables

Omnium 21295:Towards the darkness

In the pulsating heart of the Vienne, the residential sector was an oasis of calm, a refuge of metal and soft lights where the clang of the machines faded. But for Captain Ross, that peace was a mirage. At seventy, or perhaps eighty, time had carved deep furrows into his face, yet his figure remained imposing, a monolith anchored to the command station. For three days, however, sleep had dragged him into a tormenting abyss, a vortex of visions that left him trembling.

Ross tossed and turned in his chair, his forehead beaded with sweat that glistened under the cold light of the bridge. "No, stop! Please, stop!" he stammered, his voice broken, a lament that seemed torn from his gut. His hands clawed at the air, as if trying to ward off a shadow visible only to him. "What is it? That shadow..." he whispered, his short breath mingling with the hum of the systems. Then, a trembling murmur: "Those eyes..."

Suddenly, a scream tore through the air, wild and desperate: "What are those red eyes looking for?" Ross woke with a start, his body shaking with a violent tremor, his wide-open eyes seeking an anchor in reality. He raised a hand to his head, his temples throbbing, as his heart hammered in his chest. He was distraught, lost between the uncertain boundaries of dream and wakefulness.

With a slow, almost mechanical gesture, he grasped a glass of water from the side table, his fingers trembling. He drank greedily, his thoughts tumbling over each other like waves in a storm. Another crisis. Damn it. What was that thing? he thought. I can't take the vaccine, not until I understand. He put the glass down with a slight clink and straightened up, his eyes blazing with fierce determination.

His gnarled, calloused fingers danced across the console. "Phase VS8, updates on the route?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tremor that still cracked his tone.

A metallic answer emerged from the speaker: "The route is clear. Lieutenant Dorothy has corrected the course to avoid meteor fragments. We will reach Osiris in two days, as scheduled." Phase VS8's voice was a monotonous hum, devoid of warmth.

Ross remained motionless, his chin resting on one hand, his gaze fixed beyond the screen. "Listen, Phase VS8," he said after a thick silence, "two weeks ago, on Wasteland... did anything strange happen?"

The computer hesitated, an instant that seemed eternal. "No, no particular events," the voice replied, unchanged.

Ross narrowed his eyes. "No anomalous Imprint?"

"No data on out-of-the-norm Imprints," Phase replied, unrelenting.

The Captain leaned back against the headrest, sweat running down his hollowed cheeks. How is that possible? he thought, his eyes wide. Those visions, those red eyes that persecuted him... they couldn't just be an illusion. There was something out there, something that escaped sensors and logic.

"Phase," he finally said, breaking the silence, "give me the Lone Soldier's current position."

"He is currently in the hangar, in his mech," the computer responded with precision.

Ross frowned. "Always in his mech... strange," he murmured. With a decisive gesture, he rose, his joints protesting. "I'm going to ask him a few questions. Phase, continue monitoring."

"Certainly, sir," the metallic voice replied, as Ross walked away, his figure hunched but resolute, towards the unknown that called to him.

That night, the Captain was not the only one whose rest had been agitated.

The dream wrapped around him like a dense fog, blurring the outlines of reality. The Lone Soldier was immersed in a vision that both belonged to him and estranged him, his eyes wide open to a world seen in the first person, as both actor and spectator of a silent drama.

In front of him, two figures emerged from the diffused light: a child and a woman. They smiled, their faces illuminated by a sweetness that struck him like a blade. He stretched out a hand towards them, his fingers trembling, suspended in the air. "You..." he murmured, his voice broken, "who are you?"

His heart pounded fiercely, a dull drum in his chest. He didn't remember ever feeling such an emotion: a mixture of warmth and pain, a feeling that dug into a past he couldn't grasp. Those faces were foreign to him, yet a part of him recognized them.

The woman and the child spoke, their mouths moving, but the sound was muffled, distant. Their smiles did not waver, and this troubled him. Then, the child, with blonde hair that caught the light, ran towards him. Small arms hugged him, immobilizing him. The Lone Soldier's hand, moved by an unknown instinct, stroked the little one's head.

"Don't worry," he said, the voice foreign yet his own. "I will return to you and Mom soon." A name escaped him, an indistinct whisper, unreachable.

But the child's face remained blurred, unlike the woman, who stared at him with eyes full of unspoken promises. Why can't I see your face? he thought, frustration mounting. Why can't I hear your name?

A name exploded in his throat: "Jessie!" The dream shattered, and the Lone Soldier woke with a start in the cockpit of his mech, his breath ragged. His hands, moved by a reflex, gripped the neck of a boy standing in front of him.