Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

35

With much hissing, clunking and noises that sounded an awful lot like several large, grown men shifting something particularly heavy, the containment unit began to open. A mass of smoke, or mist, or something else equally as ephemeral, began to cascade from within, falling towards the floor and creeping outward over Clara and Foston's shoes.

The door continued to open as a ping from the lift, outside the science facility, told them that the eleven heavily armed, highly trained soldiers had arrived at their level. Foston ran to the facility's door, pressing the panel and closing it, setting quarantine levels of locking upon it.

"That should hold them off for about ten minutes." Foston returned to the containment unit. Several blasts of some kind, from outside, battered into the door, buckling it in its frame. "Well, maybe five minutes. No less than two. Ish. What, exactly, are you hoping is going to happen here?"

"I don't know. I just felt that the Breach didn't deserve to be imprisoned like this." Clara felt confused at this sudden attack of empathy. She wasn't entirely sure she liked it. "I mean, wouldn't you rather die free than live longer in confinement?"

"I'd much rather live free. Which, I suspect, is a luxury we are not going to have." More blasts hit the facility door and Foston flinched each time.

"Look at it, though. It looks better already. Almost peaceful." She looked inside the unit, her eyes finding a bit of grit, or something, irritating them to leaking tears.

Indeed, the Breach, for the moment, appeared to stabilise. Instead of the crystalline appearance, it now looked a little bit more like a Breach ought to. Unsteadily weaving and curling in upon itself. Wobbling and trembling. As if taking steps for the first time after sitting for weeks upon end. Clara almost wanted to touch it, to make it understand she meant it no harm and, in response to her thoughts, it seemed, the Breach strengthened.

"What colour is it now. Damn these lemur eyes! I can't tell." Foston squinted at the Breach, even as more blasts hit the facility door.

"I don't know. Sort of, after a fashion, no colour. It's like water." She looked at Foston, getting an idea. "I think it wants us to go through it. I think it's thanking us."

"Don't be ridiculous. One, Breaches always have a colour. Always." He looked at his watch, aiming it at the Breach, ducking his head every time a blast hit the facility door. "And, secondly, I know I said they were sentient, but not that sentient. They think more like, I don't know, a fish. Instinctual. Not in a 'Oh, I think I'll thank these kind strangers for freeing me' kind of way. And, four, it's too weak for us to go through it. Look at it! It can barely hold its shape. We go through it, it will die and we could become lost between places. I've never been there, but I suspect it's entirely a horrible experience."

"I'm telling you, it wants us to go through it." Clara grabbed the front of Foston's jacket, still able to marvel at the wondrous tailoring. "You said yourself, we become attuned to the Breaches if we use them enough. You've used them more than anybody. Stop knowing what everything is or isn't supposed to be and feel it!"

Foston looked terrified. He glanced at the facility door, which looked like it was about to melt in a puddle of high tensile goo. He looked at Clara and she tried her very best to look serious and earnest. He'd given her similar looks, in the past, to show how serious and earnest he was. He should be able to recognise that same, less-lemur-y, look.

He seemed to relax and began ignoring the noises at the door. He moved closer to the Breach and looked at it. Really looked. Then he closed his eyes, holding up a hand as if caressing something in the air. After a second, a sad smile appeared on his face. He opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry and thank you." He wasn't speaking to Clara. Without looking, he reached out for her hand, gripping it tight. "Let's go."

They stood, together, and watched as the Breach throbbed and wriggled, become more robust and substantial while still appearing etherial and insubstantial. To Clara, this all made sense because nothing had really made any sense for months now. She and Foston stepped into the containment unit, stopped before the Breach and then, as one, stepped forward.

-+-

Second Sergeant (Demoted for incompetence) Boris Yufuluvitc watched as the door to the science facility disintegrated into a billion, billion, billion constituent atoms and stepped forward, through the smoke, wafting her hand fruitlessly before her face. She and the other ten, battered, bruised, profusely bleeding and terribly annoyed heavily armed, highly trained soldiers burst into the room to find nothing.

Nothing of the trespasser separatist scum!, at least.

They found the open containment unit and Boris had her men circle the unit, lowering their smoking, overworked weapons, readying them for the glorious slaughter to come. She pounced in front of the open door to the unit, ready to start firing and stopped, her shoulders slumping.

Nothing was inside. No trespassers. Only several clamps, wires, gadgets and thingamabobs that she had no idea what they were. And, on the ground at the bottom of the containment unit, she found a pile of dull, colourless crystals. She ran a hand through the crystals and pulled her hand back, sharply, sucking at a drop of blood appearing on her finger.

"Well, that was a waste of bloody time." She sighed, allowing her weapon to droop and waving to the other soldiers. "Back upstairs, boys and girls. Kowalski! You're on clean-up. I want every single piece of our dismembered comrades hoovered up and identified before we set off home."

-+-

"Will the owner of Hover-Sphere, licence number: THX-1138, please report to the reclamation facility where your vehicle is currently being recycled into its constituent components. There will be a small charge for this service. Thank you."

The woman's voice seemed to drift and pirouette through Clara's ears. So pleasant. So peaceful. So elegant. Clara felt instantly relaxed, which was surprising seeing as she had found herself in a heightened state of life-preserving panic for a number of hours now.

"Clara?" She heard Foston's voice from beside her and she realised they still had their hands clasped tightly together.

"Yes?" Despite her dislike for any physical contact above and beyond the odd shake of hand, or, in extreme cases, wild animalistic sexual congress, she found she didn't actually want to let go of Foston's hand.

"Where are we?" This seemed far more than odd. Foston always seemed to know exactly where they were, all the time. This gave Clara even more incentive to ensure her and Foston's hands remained firmly gripped together.

"I don't know. I haven't opened my eyes yet." She didn't want to, either. That last trip through the dying Breach had been, and she couldn't describe it any other way, anus-puckeringly terrifying.

"Oh, good. Neither have I." Something, or someone, or something that was also someone, passed by, leaving the scent of strawberries in their wake. "That was a bit ..."

"Yeah, it was. A bit."

"Appointment number: 3.141592652589793238462643383279502, please take lift seven-B, Sub-Section 42, Region Epsilon, District Lemon, and report to the attending agent Apocryphal Limelight for further directions. Thank you."

"Do you think, and I'm just throwing this out there, that we should, if we both feel up to it, possibly, maybe, open our eyes?" Foston had edged closer to her and, for once, Clara didn't want to take a large step away. In fact, she couldn't. She was sitting down and she couldn't remember plonking her bottom anywhere.

"I'm not sure. Do you think it's safe? I don't think it's safe. You look and tell me if it's alright." If she and Foston sat any closer, they would be symbiotic.

"I don't think so! YOU open YOUR eyes and tell ME if it's alright." Foston yelped as she dug her fingernails into his hand. "Alright! Alright! I tell you what. Why don't we both open our eyes together? On the count of three; One, two ..."

"Foston Slacks? Clara O'Fortuna Bridger? Follow me. You're late."

Perhaps now, thought Clara, would be a good time to open her eyes.