Omnium's Fables

Omnium 21295:Forgotten Echoes

The Lone Soldier's cabin was a shell of silence, broken only by the rush of water flowing in the shower. The man stood still under the spray, his eyes closed, his face streaked with rivulets that failed to wash away the thoughts crowding his mind. "Jessie," he murmured, the name escaping him like an involuntary echo, followed by a heavy pause. "Why can't I get that name out of my head?" His voice was low, almost suffocated by the sound of the water.

Then, another pause, and a new thought emerged, darker. "And what was that Imprint earlier?"

His mind returned to the meteorite, to the moment when, from the Avion, he had aimed the sniper rifle at that menacing mass. It hadn't been just a mass of rock: an Imprint enveloped it, a mad, incomprehensible energy that pulsed like a sick heart. "Could it have been Chaos?" he wondered, the question bringing him back to the present with a shiver.

He turned off the water with a sharp gesture, the silence closing around him like a vise. He stepped out of the shower, the cold air of the cabin stinging his skin. On the bed, arranged like a ritual, his black jumpsuit awaited him, next to a lightweight armor of the same color, typical of Maverick production. But his was different: stripped of identification tags, a shadow without identity.

He sat on the edge of the bed, putting on the jumpsuit with mechanical movements, his gaze resting on the armor. His hand moved, almost guided by instinct, rummaging through the folds of the equipment. His fingers closed around a vial, a small glass container holding a liquid sphere of red color. He held it up to the light, and his breath stopped. Entangled Imprint tendrils, the same he had seen on the meteorite, danced around that liquid—an unsettling, alive energy that seemed to stare back at him. The Lone Soldier's mind buckled under the weight of a memory, dragging him back to Wasteland. The red rain fell like a curse, a scarlet deluge transforming the world into a nightmare. In the center of the village, a monstrous, vaguely humanoid creature stood motionless, its body covered in a red liquid that dripped like living blood. Its white eyes, the sockets accentuated as if trying to escape the skull, stared at the maddened population. Citizens lunged at each other, mad laughter and agonizing cries mingling in a chorus of death.

Even the Soldier's unit had not been spared. His companions, struck by the rain, had lost their minds, their voices reduced to screams and tears as they slaughtered each other, blood mixing with the red mud. The Lone Soldier lowered his gaze to his own hands, a tremor betraying the memory. He, too, had been touched by the rain. Red veins had begun to grow on his face, on his body, an infection that was transforming him. His mind had blurred, the world dissolving into a suffocating darkness. Then, total blackness.

When he had reopened his eyes, the village was a graveyard. Dismembered bodies, citizens and companions reduced to mauled remains, scattered like refuse. The red creature, that monstrous presence, lay dismembered, its fragments strewn everywhere, and in the center of that m******e, a small sphere of red liquid—the same one he now held in the vial.

But there was something else. At his feet, a puddle of white, living liquid, moving like a sentient creature. It called to him, a soundless voice that dug into his soul, drawing him towards something unnamable.

The grating sound of the communicator tore him from the memory, a summons that brought him abruptly back to the cabin. The vial trembled in his hand, the red liquid seeming to pulse, alive, as the communicator continued to ring, an anchor holding him to the present.

The Lone Soldier grabbed it, the cold metal against his skin, and an elderly, cordial, and kind voice cut through the device. "Hello, Soldier, can you hear me? How is the mission progressing?"

"Doctor Stroheim," the Soldier replied, his tone mechanical, devoid of warmth. "Everything is proceeding well. Why the call?"

The old scientist laughed, a sound that betrayed genuine, almost childlike euphoria. "Forgive my impatience," he said, "but I still can't believe it! After the latest tests, with a Chaos core like the one you retrieved, I can truly hope to complete my project." His voice filled with genuine joy, as if he could already see the finish line. "With this, we will help many people, Soldier."

The Lone Soldier did not share that enthusiasm. "Don't worry, Doctor," he replied, aloof, cold, disinterested. "I will complete the task as requested." He paused, then added, his tone hardening slightly: "For the moment, I would ask you not to call me. I will call you once I reach Osiris."

Stroheim's voice was tinged with worry. "Are there problems, perhaps?" he asked, a slight tremor betraying his anxiety.

"The Captain has suspicions about the nature of my mission," the Soldier explained, his voice flat as a report. "I risked a sudden search of the Avion, but I managed to move the vial and gain Ross's trust. At least enough until my arrival at Osiris."

"Good," Stroheim replied, pleased, a smile discernible even through the communicator. "Many wouldn't understand, especially a stubborn man like Ross." A brief silence was broken by a rough, deep cough, a sign of the Doctor's advancing age. Then, with a more intimate, almost paternal tone, he continued: "Are you still having those dreams, Soldier?"

The Lone Soldier hesitated, and for the first time a crack opened in his coldness. "Yes," he admitted, his voice betraying a shadow of emotion, "even today. I saw those people again."

"You mean the woman and the child?" Stroheim asked, curiosity mixed with a hint of concern. "And tell me, this time did you manage to see the child's face?"

"No," the Soldier replied, a long pause that weighed like a millstone. His tone, though cold, hinted at hidden suffering. "But I perceived my own voice. It was as if I was saying something, as if I was calling that child."

"And do you remember what you were saying?" the Doctor insisted, his voice charged with interest.

"I remember I couldn't clearly hear my own words," the Soldier said, his eyes fixed on the red vial he still held in his hand. "I said I would return to them... and then a name, but it was as if I couldn't hear it myself."

Stroheim made a thoughtful sound. "Strange," he murmured. "As we know, the V has symptoms that change from time to time, and we don't know where it comes from. Perhaps these dreams are visions it's showing you, even if they are strange compared to the common classic visions."

The Soldier stood up from the bed, beginning to put on the black armor, his movements precise but charged with an internal tension. "You know, Doctor," he said, his voice becoming more intense, "I don't think this is the V. I have run scans on my body over and over after these dreams, and the recorded data clearly shows that I didn't have crises during those times. They were dreams, but it's as if my Imprint reacts to them."

"Hmm, interesting," Stroheim replied, his tone becoming more reflective. "When you return to Osiris, I would like to give you a check-up. You should be careful about these kinds of things, you are still very young." He paused, then added with a smile in his voice: "You remind me a bit of myself, you know, at your age."

The Soldier stopped, the armor half-on, a confused silence greeting the Doctor's words. "But yes," Stroheim continued, his tone warming with sincere affection, "always absorbed in work and the mission, never a moment of leisure or for oneself. I was like you too, but then my little Gesicht was born." His voice filled with a tender joy, mixed with slight embarrassment. "From that moment, he became my whole world."

The Soldier did not reply, his face impenetrable as he finished putting on the armor. "Well," Stroheim concluded, "I'll leave you to your mission now, Soldier. I'll await you in twenty-four hours at Osiris."

The communication ended with a click, and silence returned to claim the cabin. The Soldier put the communicator in an inner pocket of the armor, the gesture quick and mechanical. He pulled out his metal knife, sliding it into the designated compartment on his jumpsuit belt, then turned towards the sniper rifle leaning against the wall. He grabbed it, sitting back down on the bed, and began to clean it with slow, ritualistic movements, as if every gesture was a way to anchor himself to reality.

But after a while, his hands stopped. The name escaped him again, a whisper that seemed to come from a distant place, deep inside him. "Jessie...?" he murmured, his eyes lost in the void, as if trying to grasp a fragment of a dream he couldn't comprehend.