Shall I Glance Upon the Looking Glass?
Posted on Thursday April 18th, 2019 @ 21:49 hours by Canaan Serene
Edited on on Sunday April 28th, 2019 @ 06:11 hours
Mission:
Pixie Dust
Location: S.S. Fawkes, en route to the Flight Deck
Timeline: MD02 - 0459 hours
2069 words - 4.1 OF Standard Post Measure
[ON]
Canaan exhaled, chest falling as the warmth of his breath passed between parted lips. The vapor hung in the air, a fine mist that slowly dissipated. The apple of either cheek rosy, his lips a pale pink as a shiver crawled the length of his spine. Canaan's skin prickled in the sudden chill of the air, the fine white hairs on his bare arms rising.
He was rooted in place; eyes fixed on a form in the distance. It started as an amalgamation that slowly, yet surely, took shape. It was too far to see clearly, almost like an ink blot with feathered edges that became more pronounced as the distance waned.
Canaan took a tentative step forward, the thin sole of a slipper scuffing against the thick grate of the deck plating underfoot. He wanted a better look at what this thing may have been.
The corridor empty, Canaan hadn't seen another member of the crew since accompanying an injured passenger to the medbay. It was on his way to the flight deck when a most peculiar sensation took hold.
The temperature continued to drop with each small step. He hugged his torso in a futile attempt to guard against the cold, shivering as he continued forward.
Frost encrusted the worn, rust-covered bulkheads. That was odd. Canaan reached out, the tips of fingers scratching at the thin layer of frozen moisture. He pressed a palm against the metal surface much as he'd done as a child riding the bus to school on a cold winter morning. Canaan kept his hand in place until the frost melted under its warmth, leaving a damp impression.
Canaan chuckled. There was a part of him that questioned the logic of what his senses experienced. He was still on the Fawkes, that much he knew, but why was it so cold? For a moment, he worried something more severe had occurred, a part of the interior exposed to the vacuum of space, yet the decompression sirens hadn't sounded, and there was no evidence of a breach. No, that couldn't be. Or, life support in this section had gone wonky? Yes, that was more likely.
He glanced over a shoulder; the way behind slowly succumbing to the darkness that thickened with each step, relenting to natural light.
Canaan passed a tree, the reach of its scraggly pine limbs considerable. The smell of its sap was oddly comforting. He smiled, thinking it a rather fantastic place for a tree, in the middle of the central corridor on a freighter listing in deep space. This strange notion dismissed as the sound of snow crunching beneath his feet distracted from the truth of this reality.
Canaan looked down, taken aback by the metal grates gradually disappearing under a thick layer of snow blanketing the corridor. He glanced behind once more, the passage beyond distant and hardly visible through the thicket of pine.
His slippered feet sank into the light powder, as thick flakes flitted about the air. Canaan sniffed, the tip of his nose pink with cold. His body racked with shivers, the thin layer of his sleeveless top doing little to shelter from the frigid temperature.
Canaan rubbed either bicep to coax blood flow, as his attention refocused on the form ahead. The intense color of aquamarine eyes appeared even more radiant against the paleness of his skin, somehow more prominent. His pupils were dilated, even against the brightness of the early morning sun shaded by the canopy of tree limbs above.
The wood was quiet, much how he remembered it as a child. The stillness left him undisturbed; it was calming even, reminiscent of an escape he often sought as a teenager.
Any recollection of the Fawkes started to diminish, giving way to this new reality whose familiarity was a dream of a distant memory.
A black-capped chickadee landed several feet away, hopping about leaving a trail of its feet stamped on the snow-covered ground. The birds' trill chirp whistled Canaan onward, its black orbs closely observing his movement. It followed from a distance, ever curious of its human counterpart. Eventually, the chickadee moved closer to Canaan, who stopped and kneeled. At first, the bird recoiled at this change in both movement and posture; its head snapping this way and that rather quickly as it interpreted the hand reaching for its frail body. It didn't retreat when Canaan's long fingers curled around its breast, applying the slightest amount of pressure to keep its wings from unfurling.
Canaan watched the bird as close as it did him, intrigued by its informality. He lifted the bird, it swatting at the air with short talons before clasping onto his shoulder. Canaan released the bird, who chirped in thanks before rubbing the crown of its head affectionately against the sharp edge of his jawbone. He smiled and rose before returning to the path.
As Canaan moved through a grove of trees, a soft hiss drew his attention. The sound wasn't overtly threatening nor concerning. But what was it? It was similar to the noise a drop of cold water made when flicked into a hot skillet, sizzling and popping about until it evaporated. Canaan looked around curiously as the sound muted.
Continuing forward, it didn't take long before Canaan found from where the strange noise was coming. Several paces ahead, a series of tracks appeared in the snow. Perhaps 'appeared' wasn't the appropriate word, as instead of leaving an imprint of compressed snow, these tracks were made entirely of what looked to be tar. The scalding, thick gelatinous ooze held the form of what Canaan thought to be buck tracks, yet he'd never before seen such significant impressions. Most assuredly bigger than the spread of his fingers, Canaan held the palm of his hand several inches above the nearest track, the steam of its warmth culling the cold from the red tips of his digits. The cold, however, was to such a degree, that it didn't take long before the tracks hardened utterly.
Canaan's beautiful-colored eyes followed the tracks, which led in the direction of an adjacent clearing. The stark black hoove prints against the clean-white snow were easy to follow, of which Canaan did with considerable earnest. The chickadee remained upon his shoulder, ever intent in accompanying him on this journey.
The wood thinned, opening upon a pasture that was no more than a few yards in diameter. There was no snow here, which held the interior perimeter of the treeline. Instead, long stalks of grass reached upward toward Canaan's knees, their downy heads flowing in tandem with the light breeze that tickled them left and right. It was warm in the clearing, not to the point of stifling, yet as comfortable as a spring day. The sun shone down into the pasture, alighting the grass in such a way that saturated its color. The grass responded, reaching for the light as if praying.
Canaan's fingers combed the grass, reveling in its velvety touch. He felt at peace, soothed by the tranquility that calmed any lingering impression that he was somewhere else entirely. It was then his eyes found those of the most startling of creatures. So preoccupied was he, that Canaan hadn't immediately noticed the huge buck standing elegantly no more than ten feet away. So massive was this creature that it dominated Canaan's field of vision. However, this was no ordinary buck with its customary fawn- and white-colored hyde saturated black with tar. The viscous substance didn't hinder the creature in any way; instead, there was a fluidity that accentuated its graceful movements. The spread of its sizeable reindeer-like rack was great, tar dripping from each of its twelve points.
The creature pawed at the ground, asserting its dominance with an indolent snort. Canaan stood in place, watching the beast with considerable interest. He did not make to move when the buck started to close the distance between them. The chickadee cooed, hopping along the ridge of Canaan's clavicle excitedly. He didn't know what such a gesture meant but assumed it had everything to do with the quickening of his heartbeat. As nightmarish as the creature appeared, there was no malice in its presence. There was a feeling that it belonged in this place just as much as he or the chickadee. Its red eyes fixed on Canaan in a way that betrayed fallaciousness in this existence. Something wasn't right, and it was the buck that was attempting to convey as much.
The tar glistened under in the sunlight, yet revealed nothing of the physical environment that his senses registered as nature. Instead, as the buck approached, Canaan saw the rust-flaked bulkheads of a corridor that felt more of home then this pasture. There were the grated deck plating and the dull light of the fixtures overhead. Canaan looked around him, seeing nothing of this reflected around him. No, these were two different realities that were far from related. Here it was, reflected in the tar-soaked hyde of the buck, whose advancing steps slowed until it was mere inches from where he stood.
The buck bowed its head toward Canaan. In its red bloodshot eyes, he saw a face staring back; only it was not his own. No, this was the face of Mayterial Drol, the Fawkes' skipper. She looked at Canaan with parental concern. Her lips moved, forming words spoken, yet never heard. Canaan shook his head, brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to piece together what Mayterial was saying. He couldn't read her lips; their movement distorted in the downward flow of the tars' continuous movement.
Instinctively, Canaan reached out toward the buck's midsection, where Mayterial stood in the middle of the corridor. He reached for her, hands sinking into the blistering tar. Canaan cried out, his voice sounding the innocent chirp of the black-capped chickadee nowhere to be found. He attempted to withdraw his hand, seeing it bonded in place by the ungiving substance. More concerning, the tar spread between his fingers, over his hand, and past his wrist. Canaan tried to recoil but found he lacked the strength; in fact, any attempt to pull away only hastened the speed in which the tar encapsulated his arm.
Canaan's teeth clenched as panic overwhelmed. All the while, the buck remained still, padding at the soft ground from time to time as it nibbled at the fleshy head of grass. Canaan pleaded with the creature for release, yet it no more understood the melodic song that escaped his throat any more than he did.
The tar continued to creep across his body, covering his torso and each extremity until it ascended his neck. Canaan tried to stretch like a giraffe, yet all was for naught as the tar slowly, yet completely enveloped him.
Never before had he experienced suffocation, all air unwillingly pulled from his lungs. Surely this is what it must have felt like to drown. In one moment, he was there, a person of substance, of purpose, only to sink into unrelenting darkness where he ceased to exist. He was nothing, floating away in a void of isolation.
His outstretched arms were tethered, anchored in place. No longer was he drifting so much as being drawn forward. Fingers interlaced his, poking the darkness which retreated under the dull illumination of the overhead corridor light fixtures.
Canaan collapsed to his knees in a fit of spasmodic coughing as he took what felt like his first breath of existence. Was this what it was like for a newborn baby, taking a breath for the first time? He shook his head, wiping tears from his cheeks as he regained some semblance of composure. Was he going mental? Had he lost all grip on reality? What the hell just happened?
Searching for answers, Canaan looked up expecting to see Mayterial standing over him, it had been her, after all, that he saw standing in this exact spot in the reflection of the buck's tar-coated hyde.
Mayterial wasn't there.
There was no one.
He sat in the middle of the central corridor.
Completely alone.
[OFF]
Canaan Serene
Signaller
"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again'."