Cyber Chronicles 2: Prime Voyage

Chapter 21: Crystal

Crystal lay still on her bed, exhausted from the emotional turmoil she had just endured. The weight of Lincoln's turbulent memories lingered within her, tugging at the strings of her heart.

Before Lincoln passed out in his 'present' timeline, an evocative image seared itself into his mind. It was the sight of someone's head falling into his arms. Crystal, now understanding the metaphorical nature of this haunting image, realized that it came from Lincoln's guilt and self-blame for Destry's death.

Her eyelids drooped as she surrendered to the darkness, allowing its silent embrace to consume her. With each passing moment, her mind began to wander freely, seeking solace in the depths of her consciousness.

In this ethereal realm of thoughts and memories, Crystal delved deeper as she attempted to synchronize with Lincoln's memories. She needed to explore the fragments of his past that were leftover. As the room dissolved into obscurity as she found herself transported to a different plane, a stark facility bathed in sterile, fluorescent light.

Before her, an orderly row of nearly fifty bodies lay in somber repose, shrouded in worn, white sheets, bearing the weight of war.

Unfazed by the solemnity that hung heavy in the air, Crystal stood beside one of the bodies, her eyes fixed upon it with apprehension. Slowly, she knelt down, her hands trembling as she reached out to uncover the face concealed beneath the weathered cloth. In one swift motion, she pulled back the veil, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was not her own gasp that escaped her lips; it was Lincoln's. The floodgates of his guilt opened wide as a torrent of tears streamed down his anguished face. Before him lay the lifeless head of Destry, severed from his body with a chilling precision. The once-vibrant countenance now carried the marks of tragedy, a haunting testament to the cruelty of fate. Wires protruded from the base of the severed head and the exposed neck of the decapitated body.

He gently caressed Destry's hair, his mind overwhelmed with the weight of it all.

"Lincoln," a voice called out, breaking through the chaos reverberating through the facility. The clamor of cries, the shuffling of stretchers and the barked orders flooded his senses. He pivoted to confront Damian, the commanding officer of the Canadian military. "We need to talk."

Nestled within the army camp, Damian's temporary office resided inside a modest tent, one among the many scattered across the encampment. Its size was unremarkable, conforming to the standard dimensions of a typical tent. Stepping inside, it revealed a surprisingly familiar ambiance, reminiscent of a well-appointed bedroom.

Damian seated resolutely behind his sturdy desk which bore the marks of diligent use, with stacks of documents neatly organized, a scattering of pens and papers, and a strategically placed laptop. Meanwhile, Lincoln stood upright, his presence emanating a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty, positioned respectfully before Damian's desk, awaiting the forthcoming conversation.

The weariness etched across Damian's face was evident, his once-tidy dark brown hair now disheveled, falling across his forehead in disarray. His eyes, usually alert and sharp, appeared heavy-lidded and fatigued, betraying the strain he had endured.

"You were the one who made them surrender, weren't you?" Damian's words pierced the air, causing Lincoln's breath to catch in his throat. Lincoln's eyes met Damian's intense gaze as he tried to gather himself. It was all Damian needed to confirm.

"I've seen you train," Damian continued, his voice laced with a mix of admiration and suspicion. "You've got experience, but from somewhere else. You're not new to this, are you? War, I mean." Lincoln remained silent, unable to find the right words to respond.