writing journal entry #19 january 30 2012 (621 words)

III

“Those whom the gods love grow young.”_Oscar Wilde

Aiden’s vision augments it’s self as the light from the sun quickly gives way to darkness only lit by the faintest of light that seems to draw away from him the more he tries to peruse it. Around him the narrow black tunnel appears unremarkable. The black walls are sleek and shimmering with some form of organic expectoration as his visor informs him. He tries to cut a straight path to the red dot floating in front of his eyes, the location of the core, the tunnels are twisting and complex though. He contemplates trying to physically dig through the dark walls but doesn’t want to risk a structural collapse that would alert everyone to the fact that they have an unwelcome visitor. After trying to find his way unsuccessfully for several minutes he places the palm of his hand on the floor of the tunnel.

“Command, mapping. Radius, one hundred feet.” He whispers.

Suddenly thousands of tiny sparkling dots stream out of the palm of his hand, as this happens his suit begins to lose bulk, his skin actually exposed to the air for a few seconds in some areas as the suit adjusts to the loss of material and finds new pieces to connect. He finally closes his hand stopping the loss of his armor and watches the pieces scatter before him, he remains stationary as the suit transmits the images being recorded by the nanomachines back to it’s self. Slowly a full three dimensional model appears before him, a much more precise and quieter method than the sonar mapping could have provided, but certainly more dangerous if something should notice him in the mean. His eyes watch intently looking for a large opening or a life form, he continues to watch the giant web of tunnels blossom downwards like a flower into a much vaster system than he could have predicted. He shakes his head knowing it was no wonder that the land dwelling humans couldn’t have fought this species that had such domination of water and under the ground. Without warning his suit freezes up and he falls forward losing consciousness, his body wants to seize but the suit remains as hard as a stone completely stopping all movement.

The cafe is instantly recognizable to him. The soft jazz music is floating through the air, cars can be heard honking outside, he knows somehow he is in New York. He looks down at his hands, the cufflinks are there, the Armani ones had been too showy for his taste so they were removed and replaced. He remembers the wooden tables that were each uniquely painted. He looks left to see a room full of them, people happily chatting to each other or sitting on their computers typing away, looking down he is hit again with Déjà vu. Their table had been painted with a reproduction of the famous work “The Scream” by Edvard Munch, he slowly raises his eyes with horror to see her sitting there, his wife Lyssa.

This was the night he proposed to her, at the place where they had their first date. He is caught off guard by her beauty again, tears welling up in his eyes as the bitter sweetness of the moment processes in his mind, he thinks it must be a glitch. He knows she is dead, that she cannot be here, but he can smell her perfume. She smiles and reaches her hand forward to touch his, her soft hands entwining with his fingers casually as if this wasn’t completely impossible. Her smile is reassuring, he opens his mouth to say something, anything to the woman he would’ve died for.