Darkness domineers the long steel passageway and fluctuates against the shard's guiding radiance, casting a blue tincture onto the surrounding sibilating miasma.
Its intentions are enigmatic and inconclusive.
Why did my hand refuse to let go of the piece?
Why did it teleport me to some sort of alternative reality?
It comes to an airborne halt, and the labyrinth vibrates from all directions. The shard subdues its own brightness and darts straight ahead through the mist.
I chase after it, hell-bent on not losing my only available light source because of a whim.
It rounds a sharp corner and leads me to a sectioned-off passage. Obstructed by colossal-sized cords sprawled all over the floor and dangling from the ceiling.
It led me to a dead end.
And I gormlessly chased after it.
It descends. Settling down amongst the plethora of cords. It reforms into a bleak, lightless state. The resounding tremors root my gaze to the floor. I frown – and then I listen.
Footsteps?
We are not alone. I stomach crawl into the disarray to hide myself under the semi-arched entanglement of Argentine vines. I try to listen again through the obnoxious hissing. The harsh sound of venting mist perpetuates and drowns out my attempt to pinpoint its vibrational movement.
It seems as though it is neither here nor there; like an auditory taunt, deliberately toying with me.
A foot steps out from the left side of my periphery. Soundlessly.
Countless needle-thin spikes are erected from its shins. I catch and withhold my breath as I shuffle backwards. Distancing myself. From my limited and uncomfortable position, I lift my neck slightly. I steal a glimpse of an imposing crooked silhouette. My body tenses in anticipation under the pressure of their looming scrutiny, rendering me transfixed and unable to blink.
Move on.
Move on.
Please move on.
Their feet remain still for a painstaking minute before shuffling awkwardly. Then, the silhouette turns around and limps back the way they came.
My heart is in my mouth.
I listen to their quieting footsteps until they are out of earshot. I swallow my reluctance and crawl out into the open to where the person once stood. Lingered. The shard shoots up into the air with an energised burst of enthusiasm and begins irradiating again. It wanders into the left passageway with childlike naivety. Then it stops. Hovering in stillness. Waiting in expectance.
Waiting for me.
"As if." I spat. "There is no way in hell I'm going down there."
It will have to drag me kicking and screaming. You saw those spikes and the tall crooked silhouette. The hairs on my arms stand on end just thinking about it.
Heaviness grows in my gut – a sense of impending doom.
"Forget it." If the shard wants to follow that person like some needy mutt, then by all means, go ahead. Be my guest. At least the outcome of whatever it decides will be out of my hands. There is no need to waste my concern on it, nor is there any point in staying around. I shove my hands into my trouser pockets and turn around to face the opposite direction before meandering into the right side passage. I need to figure out where I am and then formulate my next course of action.
I pause.
When did I become methodical?
I arrive at a "T" junction. I suppose from a metaphorical standpoint, you could view it as a crossroads – or an opportunity for indecisiveness to creep in. I've been offered the choice of two paths before; more than I can count – or remember.
Every time I am presented with a crossroads, I always select the wrong path. Then, after a chain of consecutive failures, I am offered the choice of two paths again. I originally wanted to become a tattooist. Build up an impressive portfolio and have a license. Unfortunately, fate had other plans for me. When I was working for minimum wage at a fast-food restaurant, I had to work overtime to pay for my rent and utilities.
Overexerting myself.
The only spare time I had was used for eating and sleeping. I worked on weekends. Depriving myself of a social life. I didn't have time for love – or even the casual date. And my portfolio was never finished. In the end, I was unable to keep up with my increasing rent, utility bills, taxes, and national insurance. I barely had enough money for food.
I was eventually evicted from my home and left outside on the pavement with a few of my belongings packed inside my rucksack; the rest of my valuables were repossessed to repay all of my outstanding debts.
My faith dwindled.
When I experienced my first year on the streets, I prayed to God every night, questioning why my life had turned out the way it did. And surprise, surprise, I never received an answer from him. Not once.
And now, I'm here.
I peer over my shoulder to see if the shard has bothered to follow me. It hasn't.
Why would it? Our little joint effort in coming here was just a means to an end.
Left or right.
I sigh and shrug my shoulders. Left.
The steel passageways are unvaried and wide. They are all identical, except for one. Illuminating the blackness is a golden octagonal outline, highlighting and adorning one side of the wall.
Beyond the geometrical archway is a room of golden-tinted luminosity. Drawn in by the colours' allure, my reignited curiosity reels me inside. No windows, and a one-way entrance - or exit. Depending on your perspective. In the centre of the room, built from the floor upwards and touching the ceiling, was a transparent cylinder containing a giant, beaded double helix inside. The DNA structure slowly rotates from clockwise to anticlockwise – and so repeats.
Flat white tabletops levitate autonomously without leg support and crown around the base of the large cylinder. Nothing is powering them from underneath to keep them afloat and for them to outright defy gravity.
Situated upon the tabletops are clear display racks exhibiting glass vials filled with red liquid.
Blood?
They are categorised by concentration and shade. Diluted pink. Vibrant scarlet. Vermillion. Dark maroon. Joined golden characters and numerals are etched onto the vials themselves. Each vial was assigned an unreadable, elegant signature. They distort. Morph. Translating into the following letters. A-. B-. AB-. O-.
Sets of surgical tools made from stainless steel lie by the display rack. I recognised a few, such as clasps, scapulars, a circular hammer, and an odd telescopic device locked in a downward tilt. Beneath its lens is a glass sheet containing a droplet of blood.
As for the other sets, I couldn't put a name to any of them. I slip between the two elevated tabletops, inching closer to the container. I reach out, and my hand passes through its transparency. It was as easy as passing through thin air. The double helix's rotation steers to an abrupt standstill. I stroke the smooth, flawless skin of the vermillion bead, which is the size of my fist. It feels so surreal. Its skin darkens and changes from vermillion to purple.
"Your genetics are strong and wondrous."
I double-take and shake my head. The beads are back to vermillion again.
Did I imagine it?
And why does that voice sound so deeply familiar? It belongs to a name I can't place – and yet I feel it on the verge of my tongue.
I peek behind the cylinder, and there is a hovering steel slab located on the far side of the room, excluded from the crowned center point. I move away from the cylinder, and the double helix restarts its rotation automatically.
To think they would invest time and money into practical effects.
I wander over to the slab. There is a nude man lying on top, spread out in a star position, like The Vitruvian Man. Steel binds his wrists and ankles. The man's chest rises and falls. Breathing seems normal.
Then a screeching slam grabs my attention. I spin around to see solid metal slotted into the archway.
Did I trigger a switch?
Or was there a timed locking mechanism wired into the door?
There's bound to be a camera around here somewhere.
My heart quickens its rhythmic pace. I scan the lab in haste. Panic punctures my chest like a gunshot of dread. I need to hide. By the wall, there is a hybrid, organic, technological oak tree of sorts. I run and crouch behind it. Sweat gathers in my palm, making my wound itch. I push away the irritating urge to scratch it.
The metal shutter shoots up into the geometric frame with a loud bang, revealing a blacked-out figure standing in the dark. It emerges from the darkness and basks in the luminescent ambience. It has a lanky build, a small chest, and narrow shoulders. Two large eyes, black as the oceanic depths of the Hadal Zone, and between them is a bridge of thick cartilage. Between its small mandibles were two short pedipalps that were identical in length. Closely resembling the praying mantis...