CW: body horror, animal death, needles, medication, seizures, physical trauma, mental trauma, psychosexual implication
Rayan occupied two realities simultaneously. One felt as a dream, throbbing burns painting his face in a distant body. The other was both more and less than real, possessing a terrible clarity belonging only to the darkest moments of one's life. It was as though his senses were honed to a fine point, like those of a prey animal. Every vibration of reality, every panting breath of the hunter through walls of soil and stone. Seconds crawled by slowly, highlighted only by a constant, gnawing fear that was rapidly overtaking the man’s otherwise calm mind.
She wanted him. Badly. In every sense, in every way, she wanted to bite into him, to eat his grey matter, to consume him wholly.
She was a wolf, and he was… something.
A rabbit? No, a hare. Wide eyes, twitching ears, an expression of unending, painful vigilance in a hostile world.
“What do you mean, he’s dead? I’m seeing him twitch.”
The voices were distant to Rayan, belonging to the second world, the “real” world, where his body writhed from severe burns on the dirty carpet of a dark apartment. It seemed so abstract, so unimportant, when there was present danger in the form of the wolf.
She was padding closer, through underbrush and flowing stream. He knew with animal clarity that he was not hiding, merely waiting for death. The wolf knew where he was. And she was taking a direct route to him, salivating, panting, hungry for him. He was the only thing that might sate her, fill the void in her.
The first voice spoke again. “I… well, maybe not dead. But his brain is still signalling death dreams, even after termination of the program and removal of the headset. The… ‘program’ has not ended. His mind is perpetuating it.”
The second voice, then, which struck Rayan as vaguely familiar somehow: “Well? What can you do for him? I’d hate to lose him like this.”
“I… I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. Just… let me try something.”
The voices faded into obscurity as the padding of the wolf grew closer. She was damp from forest moisture, paws sticky with mud and coat slick with dew. She could smell him clearly now. A smell that only made her hunger grow. He could smell, rather than see, as she let her jaw hang open in anticipation of the bite. Her fangs glistened with the need to chew through bone and blood, and a shudder ran through his nervous system. Fear and desire, anxiety and anticipation, danced through his brain chemistry as he waited for death, unable to meaningfully flee as a grey snout began to work its way into the burrow. She was impossibly large to him, imposing and beautiful with baleful red eyes.
“What on Earth are you doing? That much could actually kill him!” said the familiar voice.
“Mr. Horne, this is the only shot we have. Please give me permission to continue, or his death is guaranteed. I do not know what is happening to him, but these sorts of chemical expulsions in the brain always precede death.”
She wormed her way uncomfortably into the small burrow, massive body unfit for the small chamber of a cowering animal. But that did not matter to her, as she cornered him against one dirt wall. She stared at him with eyes that were hostile, hungry, but oddly reminded him of himself. She was a strange, dark mirror. Even as she intended to destroy him, he realized their need was mutual.
The excitement that filled him was unusual, almost sickening in its intensity as the apparent necessity of his death approached. She paused for only a moment, before unhinging her jaw. A wet mouth lunged at his head, and while some basic instinct told him to flee, there was no room to do so.
She crunched through his skull in a single clean moment, brain matter being destroyed in a blissful ecstasy the two organisms shared wholly as a singular organism.
Then, as the hare died, Rayan woke up.
The pain wracking his gasping body, once a distant thought, suddenly came into focus as an all encompassing suffering. He began to thrash, eyes blinking open and closing immediately from the assault of bright lights and agonizing burns from melted plastic.
“Hey, careful, careful!” the medic said, holding Rayan’s head to prevent him from slamming it against the ground.
“What’s wrong? Is he having a seizure?” Emory Horne crowded in next to him, squatting to stare down at the man.
“No… Well, not in the usual sense,” the medic said. “Mr. Bashar! You need to relax, immediately. Pain relief is on its way, and you’re alive, okay?”
After a moment, Rayan managed to hold his body stiff, forcing the shaking to fade away. He then slumped to the ground, slowly working his eyelids open despite the assault of his apartment lights cranked up to full brightness. “... Fuck.”
The medic, dressed in CIC scrubs, let out a sigh of relief and began to put away a cortical stimulator as well as several large needles. “We’re glad to have you back, Mr. Bashar… and you’re lucky to be alive.”
Rayan blinked blearily as Emory Horne filled his vision. The ever-present smile was almost gone, replaced with a look of intense contemplation on the CIC agent’s face. “Rayan. Rayan! What on Earth happened? What did you see?”
“Give… give me a minute, okay?” The man closed his eyes and sighed. The pain relief that the medic promised was starting to arrive, and the intense agony of his burns began to subside into a quiet, almost manageable background ache.
“Fine, fine…” Emory slowly backed off, sliding with a thump into a seat. The next few minutes passed in a blur as the medic rose and, after a last cursory check on Rayan, left to file a report. Somehow, with the help of Emory, Rayan found himself on his pull-out couch.
“How about now? Care to tell me about what happened?” Mr. Horne was gripping his knees with white knuckles, intense eyes meeting Rayan’s.
“Uh… yeah. I’ll start at the beginning.”
CIC Assistant Regional Director Emory Horne sat in silence in Rayan’s small apartment, digesting the details of Rayan’s story. “Well, that’s… quite the tale, Mr. Bashar.”
Rayan, despite his exhaustion, felt a kernel of his old self returning as annoyance flared within him. “You asked me what I remembered, and I told you. Exactly as it happened, in exact chronological order, with no embellishment or supposition. No more, no less. If you don’t believe me, that is not my problem.”
Mr. Horne raised his hands in supplication, a gesture that Rayan was beginning to realize that the CIC agent had some practice in. “Alright, alright. I should not have called it a tale, and I do believe you. At least, that you remember these things. As far as what actually materially happened… The first half made some amount of coherent sense based on what we know about this higher dimension. Though, the stuff with the wolf is… unusual, and might I say, perhaps some creation of your mind as you approached a near death state.”
Agitation appeared on Rayan’s features, but he suppressed. “I… assure you that it felt as real as me being here right now. More real, even. If it were some death dream, wouldn’t I have been less lucid?”
Emory slowly shook his head, an uncharacteristic sigh escaping him. “Have you ever had a near death experience, Mr. Bashar?”
When Rayan signaled that he hadn’t, the agent continued. “Well, I have. When I…” the man cleared his throat, glanced involuntarily at the section of Rayan’s kitchenette where he kept the liquor, and then continued. “When I lost my original Autonomic Cerebral Implant, it nearly killed me. But during the worst part of that process, I felt extremely lucid as I experienced my own… near death delusion. I do not understand the science, but that feeling of complete lucidity right before the end of life is very well documented.”
Rayan frowned, but eventually spoke. “Let us say you are correct… couldn’t it still be related? I am not very prone to dreams of any kind, or at least, I rarely remember them. It is… distinctly unlike me or my brain to generate this sort of imagery. And given the nature of what you have me working on, I find it hard to entirely discount the possibility that these things might be related somehow.”
“And you’re completely right,” said Emory calmly. “This very well could have been triggered due to the program. Certainly, the signal of brain death we recorded from you was very similar from that present in the program. But as far as meaning… Mr. Bashar, I wouldn’t put too much stock into it. And, speaking of the project…”
Rayan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“There are some… namely, some of my superiors… who believe that we should ‘cut you loose’ from this project, so to speak. You’ve had two dangerous encounters, and while the information you’ve been able to retrieve is more than any other operative we have on the project, the threat to you and to the technology is rapidly becoming apparent. I have argued to keep you on the project due specifically to this return on investment you seem capable of, but I thought I would make the offer to you now. We would compensate you for your work so far, retrieve the program, and allow you to return to… safer work, the standard contracts you typically find with us.”
Rayan opened his mouth to speak, indignant. Something along the lines of, I do not need your permission to drop this project, maybe. But, given the damage he had suffered thus far, and the financial relationship in question, he reconsidered.
This would be a way to return to something closer to normal. No more near death experiences, no more vomiting when trying to work. No more 90 degree apartment. He changed his tact. “Well, I suppose-”
He closed his mouth, electricity shooting through his nervous system as dread and surprise vied for dominance.
Rayan remembered that voice, that voice that seemed to come from everywhere, that voice that reverberated through his ribs.
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN, RAYAN BASHAR.
YOU THINK ESCAPE IS AN OPTION AVAILABLE TO YOU? YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN STEP AWAY? PERHAPS YOU ONCE EXPERIENCED WHAT COULD FALSELY BE CALLED FREE WILL, RAYAN, BUT NOW YOUR PATH IS SET. ANY DEVIATION, OR CESSATION, WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF ALL BIOLOGICAL FUNCTION.
THE PHYSICIAN AND YOUR FALSE FRIEND WERE RIGHT: YOU WERE DYING. BUT THAT PROCESS HAS NOT STOPPED. YOU ARE CONNECTED.
“... Yes, Rayan? You were saying?”
Rayan moved quickly to cover his startled pause. He willed the panic away from his expression, meeting Emory’s gaze. It was very clear that the man had not heard anything out of the ordinary, and was looking at Rayan with a mixture of concern and suspicion. It was hard to discern which was the dominant emotion.
“Yes, Mr. Horne. I’m… just still a bit rattled. But with your permission, I would like to… continue my work on the project. In fact, I have some leads I have yet to share with you. I had not had the time due to this… incident.” He cleared his throat and pulled out his cracked phone. “I am sending a data package to you now, with limited information on one Afanasiia Kiseleva, a Soviet cosmonaut turned cybersecurity expert who switched departments in late 2040, about a year before the shuttering of Roscosmos. I don’t know what relevance she might have, but in terms of relevant Soviet operatives, I think she would be a good place to look. The FedRem isn’t all powerful, I know, but any information you can find that might be relevant on her would be useful to me.”
“DATA PACKAGE SUCCESSFULLY SENT.”
Emory’s eyes went glassy as he began to review the information, no phone or other handheld necessary as his ACI did its processing entirely behind his eyes. “Hm… very interesting. Not much to go on here, I’m afraid. Rayan, this woman was… or perhaps is nearly a century old. You can’t imagine she is still an active Soviet operative?”
Rayan smiled. “No, I can’t imagine so. But there are very few individuals who fit her description or her expertise, and if anyone kickstarted a Soviet investigation into this in the last few decades, it was likely her or one of her associates. Given the importance of this project, and how little we have to go on, the allocation of some CIC resources towards this lead would be greatly appreciated.”
Emory paused to consider. “Very well. I will see what I can do. Now, is there anything else you’ve learned?”
“Uh…” Rayan considered. “What do you know about a breach in the young Soviet mainframe in 2003?”
Emory’s eyebrows went up, and his eyes became glassy again. It was several minutes before he regained visible cognition and responded. “I knew nothing about it, and after reviewing information immediately available to me, there are hints of something happening but very little else. I will have to look more into this… in person. But what is the relevance here?”
“Maybe nothing,” Rayan said with a shrug. “But it resulted in a significant ban on interdepartmental transfers to cybersecurity for decades. Our Ms. Kiseleva was the only relevant transfer after the ban was lifted but before the decommissioning of Roscosmos. I am simply chasing shadows here, but my intuition is telling me there is a connection.”
“Chasing shadows… hunting hares, Mr. Bashar?” Emory mused.
When Rayan did not respond, Emory stood up. “Well, this has been… enlightening. I will pursue this new information and send you what I find in due time. Next time we meet, I hope it isn’t when you’re about to throw up or drop dead.”
Rayan let out a bark of laughter, and Emory continued. “Speaking of, I can requisition a new headset for you. Your old one was rendered entirely unusable. And given that it broke in the pursuit of our project, it is within your rights as a contractor to requisition a new one.”
Crossing his arms, Rayan pretended to consider the offer, but offered a sharp shake of his head. “No, thank you, but I’m fine. I have sources and I have models I prefer. I’ll get my hands on something that hopefully won’t melt plastic onto my face… or at least will give me time to pry it off before it does so.”
“Fine, fine.” Emory Horne nodded, working his way to the door. “Goodbye then, Rayan Bashar. You know how to contact me.”
Rayan grunted, leaning back and closing his eyes. Whatever ultra-morphine bullshit they had given him was no longer as potent, and the entire second half of the conversation had been an ongoing tug of war between sharp pain and a desire to be unconscious. He heard the door close as Emory let himself out. Then, the man let exhaustion claim him.
When he woke, he set about solving his hunger. There was nothing that appeared edible in the fridge, so his choices were between going out and ordering something. Frowning in thought, he pulled up his weather app to make the decision for him.
“AIR QUALITY TODAY IS RATED… 348… ON THE AQI.”
“Yeesh. Staying in it is then.” He sighed, grabbing his laptop and slumping onto the couch. Some pupusas from the Salvadoran place a few streets down sounded pretty good, so he placed the order from his phone.
“ORDER SUCCESSFULLY PLACED. IT WILL ARRIVE… ETA 34 MINUTES.”
Then, he drafted up a message for Sistine.
Hey, give me a call. Anytime tonight or tomorrow, whenever you have time.
They replied back a few minutes later. How urgent?
Not very. Low priority, just a personal question.
He spent some time browsing stupid videos on his laptop, but he rapidly found he wasn’t really in the mood for mindless scrolling. The warning of a certain voice came back to him–hadn’t it implied he was dying? He felt his mouth dry up at the thought and so he took the opportunity to drink some water. “Yeah, time to work. I guess.”
Pulling up his laptop’s built in video messaging program, he sent a call request to a contact labeled “DEPOT.”
It took a few minutes, but eventually the screen came to life revealing what looked like a service garage. It had the appearance of a single floor establishment, built during the time when cars, particularly combustion ones, dominated transportation. Indianapolis still had no shortage of them, making the city louder and grosser than it would otherwise be, but there were at least other transportation options these days. The rapid growth of the city demanded as much.
“Hey, Rayan! Give me a few here, will you?” The voice came from somewhere in the video, though it was hard to hear over the 2040s rock music that blared throughout the facility. So Rayan waited, as patiently as he could.
An older man, which Rayan knew to be in his late 60s, rose up in front of the camera and dusted off the front of his work suit. “Sorry about the delay, was working on a pretty unique ‘48 hybrid that– well, I guess you probably don’t care.”
Rayan smirked. “Honestly, no, not really Greg. But it’s good that you enjoy your work… Glad someone enjoys their work.”
“Trouble in paradise, I take it? If you’re looking for a career change, offer is still open here at the garage. Lots of these new… uh… ‘transports’ have integrated electronics that I really don’t know or give a damn about. I could use someone with your expertise.”
“Offer is appreciated, but I’m hot on the trail of something right now. Big job. Giving me some trouble, but I’m working through it.” Rayan frowned. “Speaking of trouble…”
“Don’t like the sound of that,” Greg said, crossing his arms as he stood in front of whatever camera and monitor he was using for the video call.
“That Gen 3 Eidolon you sold me blew up. Required some meds to heal the damage.” As an unnecessary example, he leaned forward and showed the portions of his face that were still red and splotchy from the melted plastic. No true wound remained, thanks to some very potent skin regenerator pills that the medic had left for him. But it would be a few days before Rayan’s face returned to a true normal, and the redness should be visible through the camera of the video call.
Greg scoffed, though a slight wince got through as he looked at Rayan’s blotchy skin. “Exploded? Hey, not my fault if you were using the thing improperly. And I sold that to you months ago! You told me it was operating fine. And I’m just a reseller, remember? I don’t know half as much as you do about that VR shit. No refunds!”
Rayan smirked, invigorated by a conversation with someone as high-strung as himself. “Not asking for a refund, Greg. But I do need a replacement, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
“Besides,” Greg said, as if Rayan hadn’t spoken, “what on Earth were you doing with the thing for it to blow up? As far as I understand the tech, that shouldn’t be possible!”
“Project for the FedRem, Greg. I can’t, and don’t want to, talk more about it.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, alright, fair enough. The less I know about that, the better. So, what, a replacement then? I can get you the same model if you want. Or, I just got my hands on a few of the new Gen 4s, if you’re looking for an upgrade. I’ll even offer it to you at the same price as you got the Gen 3, because you’re a good customer.”
Rayan shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so… As much as I’m hoping I won’t have another one blow up on me, I need something a bit more reliable… maybe a bit of an older, safer model. Externally cooled, maybe.”
“Hah!” Greg remarked with a frown. Eventually, though, the gears in his head started turning as he considered the logistics. “Well, I don’t have anything right now, but…”
“But?” Rayan asked, growing slowly impatient.
“Was out drinking with a buddy, and he mentioned a shipment of used FedRem IDOLIK Gen 2s. He was complaining about how hard they were gonna be to sell, and he’s right. Nobody is buying that shit anymore. Spec wise, it’s almost as good as the current gen stuff, but it’s bulky and nobody likes the maintenance of an external water cooled system. They come with basically their own computer tower, you know. A proper desktop device. Yknow, like you see in old movies.”
Rayan scratched at his pseudo-beard. “Yeah? Do you think you could get your hands on one.. or maybe a couple, for me?”
“Oh, yeah. He’d be delighted. And he’s desperate enough to get rid of ‘em that I can definitely lowball him. Of course, after my reasonable service fee… I can get you two, one for a backup in case you have any more melting plastic, for the same price as that Gen 3 Eidolon. How’s that sound?”
After feigning some thought, Rayan nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work nicely. Same delivery arrangements as before?”
“You got it,” Greg said with a nod. “You can wire half now and the other half once they arrive. I’ll try to make it tomorrow, the day after at the latest. I know it’s important for your work.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Greg.”
Greg snorted. “No, just a miracle worker.”
The conversation was cut short as someone began to shout at Greg off screen, too muffled to hear properly. Greg glanced past the camera, yelling back, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be over in a second!” He turned back to Rayan. “Well, duty calls. I’ll talk to you next time you need something, webweaver.”
Rayan nodded, smirking. “Hey, you take care, Greg. I’ll wire over half the money now, yeah?”
“Sounds good. And you take care too, y’hear. Your work is dangerous, and even though we’re surrounded by concrete, just remember that this world is a jungle. Can never be too careful.”
Rayan opened his mouth to respond right as Greg’s words processed with him.
He was suddenly, forcefully reminded of a voice. A voice that joined him in the “Door” program and, seemingly, had not left him.
“Greg, what did you sa-” but he had no chance to finish as Greg, intent on getting back to work, walked up to his monitor and terminated the call.
Rayan was left staring at the empty box where Greg’s screen had been, looking at his own reflection. It seemed weird somehow, and it bothered enough that he closed his laptop. His food was set to arrive in a few minutes anyway, so he waited for the notification and collected the styrofoam box once it came.
He sat on the couch, digging hungrily into the pupusas. They were still warm, given the close proximity of the restaurant, and the flavor was exactly what he was craving. Still, though, he could not shake his memories of the voice that seemed to share space in his head. Or the strange vision he had when near death.
As Rayan bit through the exterior of one of the pupusas, he was viscerally reminded of the sensation of biting through skull into soft grey matter, crunching into nutrients in a way that was both horrific and natural, ecstasy and terror that was born together and died together.
His enjoyment of the flavor died in his mouth as excitement and nausea besieged him. He could taste nothing but fur and blood. So he put the box in his fridge and set about doing as little as possible for the rest of the evening.
