5th trial, Saun, 719
Continued from here
There was no mistaking surgical lights. There was no subtlety or artifice to them. Composition or glare was not a consideration in their deployment. Nothing natural or fallible in the light they cast, like the way a sun would wax or wane. They simply were, and as much as possible. A switch was flipped an a room was bathed in a light one could not escape from. Every flaw, every wound, every boil and scar and bodily atrocity was revealed and made stark before it. The Major was blinded by that which should have been revelation. He blinked and blinked and still he couldn't see anything.
But he could feel. More than the obvious pain and exhaustion and tense, tingling, chemical cocktail rushing through him. He could feel fabrics, both smooth and scratchy. A pillow under his head, or the rubber-molded lump that sufficed for one in these places.
Med bay. Critical Unit.
All around him were bright blurs. Whites and grays and greens. Medical colors. Neutral. Lifeless, ironically. As antiseptic and anathema to life as the ailments they treated. Two of the blurs were moving. Bustling back and forth. He could hear a droning grind its way into his ears. Human voices, too vague to properly make out. Every second brought him more of his senses back... but his eyes were still cloudy. As if mist lay over them, thick and blinding. He couldn't make anything out clearly, just their shape, their color.
Like the short, black blob in one corner. He couldn't see hands or feet, face or hair. No uniform or weapons or clothes.
Yet he knew it was watching him. He could feel it.
"You... You don't... belong..."
"He's coming too, Cirgeon-Adept."
"Indeed. Give him another half-gram of Redax, bring him all the way back."
There was a beep and a rush of fire through The Major's veins. He gasped and in the time it took him to do so, everything came into focus. Fuzzy, soft edges became sharp and distinct. Labels. Words. Warnings. His bionics found an equilibrium with his newly-responsive senses in moments, and he felt more like himself again. But he didn't take his eyes off the dark little man in the corner. The man everyone else seemed to be ignoring.
"Well," a man with a hard face and a warm smile said, leaning over his bed. "You do surprise, Major. We'd almost written you off as brain dead."
"Who... Who is..."
"I am Cirgeon-Adept Ovid, these are my Initiates-" he gestured to the man and woman at his sides. The Major knew at once they were clones. Features too similar, yet too smooth and perfect. As sculpted and mass-produced as the carbine he carried. "Flex and Wane. You are on the Medical Facility attached to Fidelis Nostrum, forward base on-"
"Dam... Damocles..."
"Correct. Clearly your memory is undamaged."
"Who's... he...?"
For the first time, confusion muddled the Cirgeon's face. He frowned and turned, following the weak raised finger of The Major. He stared right at the little man, then turned back. So did his clones.
"There's no-one there, Major."
"I... see him..."
The Cirgeon shrugged and took decisive action. He walked over, and The Major felt a tremor of unease as dark, merciless eyes flicked up to look at the healer. But the little man didn't move as Ovid approached. He just stood there, and when he reached out-
-the hand passed right through him. As if through a reflection in the surface of a pond. Marring the water, making it dance and churn, then coming back to rest. The Cirgeon turned and presented the empty corner as if it were a grand prize. The Major knew different... and even now, knew it was futile to push the issue.
"See?"
"I... Yes..."
"You suffered severe injuries, Major. The pharma-mix we needed to give to stabilize your stim- and tech-augments are quite powerful. Some residual visions may be the result. Don't worry. Once you're properly healed, they will fade." The Cirgeon smiled and The Major just blinked. "Then it's back to your unit. I'm sure they miss you."
The Major managed a bark of laughter and Ovid was pompous enough to think he was agreeing with him. He smiled back and gestured for his clones to follow him out the room. Leaving the patient alone with the whirring machines and the hissing pharma drips. The little man in the corner walked forwards. He could hear his steps on the tiles. Slow and measured. Not that of an assassin, with hurried, clipped efficiency. This man had plenty of time, and knew it. He stopped at The Major's side and the marine chuckled, wet and dry all at once.
"You're... You're a vision... a dream...."
"No."
The Major looked up, and found an inscrutable expression waiting for him. Pity, almost. Mingled with curiosity. All of it packaged together and seen behind glass. As if the creature feeling it was doing so in an informed manner. As if he'd heard of things like pity, but didn't quite now how to exercise them. The voice was low and gnarled, rasping like wind through a thorn bush.
Then the man smiled softly, and The Major was afraid.
"I'm the dreamer," said Kasoria.