Dream ∆ 012
Raiden entered the tunnel a cyborg.
It was a dark, wide tunnel. He could see a pinprick of light at the end of it, little more than a point on the horizon. But the more he walked the larger the ring of light expanded, to the size of a baseball, to a frisbee, to a manhole. He heard music drifting in from the other end, the low hum of a guitar tune strumming away. The murmured hushes of a mother, followed by the piercing shrieks of an infant.
He emerged in a room outfitted with luxurious, plush furniture. A fire roaring in the fireplace, paintings and photographs on the wall, a detailed and fancy Persian rug. Things he didn't recognize, never seen before - except the African tribal ceremony mask above the mantel, stained with blood. He wore one for dubious purposes back when he was stationed in Liberia--"stationed" in the loosest sense.
In the far corner sat a black crib, silent and still.
He slowly approached it, lifting his arm tentatively toward the piece of furniture. He idly noted that his arm was pink, fleshy, no longer the steely blackish metal of his cyborg exoskeleton. But it was scarred; lines ran down and around his wrist, up to his elbow and shoulder.
For a moment he wondered if it would be anything like one of his monster movies. Rosemary's baby, a demon, a monster in the crib.
When he pulled himself close enough to peak in, Raiden was surprised to find that he wasn't too far off.
Nestled in the blankets was a baby with lush silver hair. But instead of a body plump with baby fat was a useless metal cocoon, a shell that the child would be forced to grow into. And the face was not his face, nor was it Rosemary's.
It was Campbell's, as big as his adult self and just as old.
It was a dark, wide tunnel. He could see a pinprick of light at the end of it, little more than a point on the horizon. But the more he walked the larger the ring of light expanded, to the size of a baseball, to a frisbee, to a manhole. He heard music drifting in from the other end, the low hum of a guitar tune strumming away. The murmured hushes of a mother, followed by the piercing shrieks of an infant.
He emerged in a room outfitted with luxurious, plush furniture. A fire roaring in the fireplace, paintings and photographs on the wall, a detailed and fancy Persian rug. Things he didn't recognize, never seen before - except the African tribal ceremony mask above the mantel, stained with blood. He wore one for dubious purposes back when he was stationed in Liberia--"stationed" in the loosest sense.
In the far corner sat a black crib, silent and still.
He slowly approached it, lifting his arm tentatively toward the piece of furniture. He idly noted that his arm was pink, fleshy, no longer the steely blackish metal of his cyborg exoskeleton. But it was scarred; lines ran down and around his wrist, up to his elbow and shoulder.
For a moment he wondered if it would be anything like one of his monster movies. Rosemary's baby, a demon, a monster in the crib.
When he pulled himself close enough to peak in, Raiden was surprised to find that he wasn't too far off.
Nestled in the blankets was a baby with lush silver hair. But instead of a body plump with baby fat was a useless metal cocoon, a shell that the child would be forced to grow into. And the face was not his face, nor was it Rosemary's.
It was Campbell's, as big as his adult self and just as old.
