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astralitecity · 5 months

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Nadira (PART 3)

In the brightly lit lab, amidst scattered paperwork and vials of samples, my unwrapped tuna sandwich lay neglected on the metal table. It wasn't the most appetizing sight, but in a place where test samples mingled with discarded cups of urine and stray hairs, I learned to ignore the mess when it was lunch time. Almost like a mental wall I would put up, or blinders. Just me, my coffee, my sandwich.

A familiar figure entered the lab, his presence disrupting the break I had hoped to have. Eren, with his wispy frame and fingers tinged with green, bore news from Professor Mitchell, his voice a soft murmur in the sterile air. “Professor Mitchell wants to see you down in the sleep lab”. My stomach grumbled in response.

I pushed away from my desk, acknowledging his summons with a sigh. Following his lead, we traveled the labyrinthine corridors of the research facility, descending down spiraling stone staircases. Passing small windows adorned with potted plants and glimpses of the world outside, where the sky stretched endless and blue.

At last, we arrived at a lower level, hidden beneath the earth's surface, where the air carried the soothing scent of lavender and sandalwood. Here, our patients slumbered under the gentle embrace of magic, their dreams shielded from the harsh realities of the waking world.

Outside a patient's room, Professor Mitchell awaited. She was a fae of some kind, who looked to be in her late 50’s. Her silver-blonde hair tightly braided and her sharp features softened by the hint of a smile. Though her age remained a mystery, her stature commanded respect, and the interns whispered among themselves, speculating on her secrets and trading bets on her true years.

I stopped short “Professor” I nodded. Without a smile on her stern graceful face she nodded back “Nadira, I am going to need you to come with me”

In the hallowed halls of our research facility, Professor Mitchell reigned supreme, her reputation as the foremost dream weaver in the city preceding her like a shadow cast by the setting sun. Our study, a bold venture into the realm of the subconscious, aimed to unravel the tangled threads of trauma that bound our patients to their past, a venture as daring as it was perilous.

As we stood in the dimly lit room, bathed in the warm glow of lamplight, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and sandalwood, I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. The comfortable mint green bed beckoned invitingly, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the waking world, its promise of respite a beacon of hope in the darkness.

Before me lay a man, his half-human visage etched with the weariness of a life lived on the fringes of society. His young face, though sunken and haggard, bore the scars of a past marred by hardship and strife. I studied the burns that marred his arms, testament to a life spent toiling in the fiery depths of the glass district's furnaces.

Consulting his chart, I discovered the truth of his origins – a soldier, returned from the frontlines of a distant war to find solace in the menial labor of stoking furnaces for the glassmakers of our city. He was young, younger than most who sought refuge within the walls of our facility, his innocence a stark contrast to the world-weary souls that populated our halls.

As I met Professor Mitchell's gaze, a flicker of concern passed through her steely gray eyes, fleeting yet unmistakable in its intensity. With a sigh that spoke volumes of her impatience, she issued her command, her voice a low murmur that echoed in the stillness of the room.

"Nadira," she said, her tone tinged with urgency, "I need you to place a hand upon his temple, and then join your essence with mine."

I blinked in confusion, my mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of her words. "You want me to dream weave?" I asked, incredulity coloring my voice.

Her response was swift, her patience wearing thin. "Intern," she chided, her tone laced with annoyance, "I do not like to repeat myself. I need you to enter his mind with me."

And so, with a sense of unease gnawing at my heart, I obeyed, my hand trembling as it reached out to touch the fevered brow of the man before me. For in the world of dreams, where reality blurred and nightmares reigned supreme, there were no guarantees of safe passage, only the promise of discovery – and the ever-present threat of oblivion.

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