Per 
Tick
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
The clock above Doctor Vancil was one of only three sounds present in the room, joined by the heavy breathing of the agent splayed out on the gurney and the impatient footfalls of Doctor Lott slapping against the tile floor as he paced back and forth endlessly in front of the chamber door. Time weighed heavy on them both, for it was starting to run out. Agent Kleitman had been unconscious for the better part of three hours, and every minute that he spent in this part of the third sphere dramatically lessened the likelihood of him ever waking again.
“Time?” Doctor Lott asked, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead.
“One-hundred and sixty-eight minutes…” Vancil’s eyes were still fixed on the clock. Lott cursed under his breath and shook his head.
“He’s late. He’s always late, but this time… Fuck. If it weren’t for his standing within the Foundation I’d, I'd….” Lott stopped in the middle of the room and turned to look at the man on the table.
“I, uhm—We’re still recording the session, Doctor Lott.” Vancil swallowed nervously. The other man shook his head again and tightened his lips.
“And I don’t give a damn. We have an agent stuck in one of the third sphere’s metaphorical sink-holes, and the only man on site with a rope harness is in the commissary getting coffee—or whatever the fuck it is that he drinks.” Lott continued his tirade, albeit with a subdued temper.
Vancil couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. They’d sent the call out almost forty minutes ago now, and it hardly took fifteen minutes to cross the entire facility on foot. It could already be too late for Agent Kleitman… but he knew that they couldn’t afford to start thinking about that. He was strong-willed, more so than most candidates. Vancil supposed that was the reason that their superiors greenlit this experiment in the first place. Using an asset like Kleitman for a project with this kind of risk potential…
A knock at the door broke both men from their worried trance. Anger returned to Lott’s face as he began to open the door, but civility prevailed and he held back the slew of curses he had prepared to let fly into the visitor’s face. He stepped aside to let the man in. He was about the same age as Lott, maybe a few years older, and his face was even more stained by stress than the doctor’s. In his left hand was a steaming cup of coffee, or something that looked like it at the very least. As soon as he entered the room the smell of it began to permeate the air, and Vancil was sure he’d never smelt a blend quite so pungent. He handed it to Lott and took off his black peacoat, balled it up, and threw it in the corner of the room beside the metal gurney before taking the drink back.
“You said he’s been in for two hours?” The man asked quietly, staring at Agent Kleitman over the rim of his cup. His voice was soft, almost lazy, and a little sing-song.
“Almost three, now. It was two when we called you.” Lott’s words were icy.
“Yeah… sorry about that. You woke me up, had to get dressed and get a morning drink in…” the man lazily stretched, looking over at Vancil as he surveyed the room. His eyes were dark brown with deep bags under them, yet they shone with more life than any the doctor had ever seen. “Alright. You can stay, or go. I’ll be done when I’m done. What was his name, again?” he looked back and forth between the two doctors for an answer.
“Kleitman. Agent Kleitman.” Vancil was the first to speak. The other man rolled his head back towards the younger doctor and gave a weak smile. It didn’t seem quite right on his face.
“I need his first name, too… it can be hard to build trust out in the ‘scape.” The smile faded into a tired expression.
“Anthony.” Doctor Lott spoke up from behind. The impatient annoyance in his voice was obvious. The other man nodded and turned towards the Agent, walking up alongside the gurney and looking down at him for a moment, memorizing his face. He then sat back into the corner he’d tossed his coat into, lifting it up the wall to rest his head against.
“Stay or go… Won’t make a difference. Might be a while.” He yawned, waving his hand. He then took a deep drink from his cup, closed his eyes, and stopped moving.
—————
There was an ocean. Shrouded by a black blanket pocked with flickering lights, the ocean stretched on forever in every direction. East and west, north and south… Up and down. On and on it flowed, its emerald depths opaque to the eyes of Anthony Kleitman.
Anthony stood atop a modest pile of rocky sand in the middle of it all casting his vision as far as he could, seeing nothing but tumultuous waves moving in a strange and hypnotic fashion. His island amidst the vast waters was miniscule, large enough to accomodate his own two feet and nothing more. He looked down and noticed sand sloughing aside, falling into the ocean, and felt his heart quicken.
Felt his heart quicken.
The waves near him grew stronger in that moment. They surged and seized and threatened to overtake his small perch, but not so much as a wayward spray touched his flesh. The storm grew and doubled its fury, throwing water up a hundred feet into the air with each crash against his pillar. It was taller now, he realized, and still it was growing up, up and up higher into the sky. Another huge spray burst up from below, reaching its apex far above his head. This time, it fell upon him.
He did not waver, it felt weightless against him like a gentle breeze, but he could feel the dampness of the water settle in against his skin. It was cold but not unpleasant at first, until it began to cool. It started slowly and gained effect as seconds passed, starting as a light chill and rising to a deep freeze in just a few moments. Anthony Kleitman brought his arms in close to his chest and held himself to keep what little warmth he could, but he felt no difference from it. He rubbed his face, but his hands merely served to further freeze the skin of his nose and lips.
Cold.
When he took them away he could see wrinkles growing all along his fingers and up his arms. So many wrinkles, first they came in numbers and then they grew deeper and deeper like crevices prying into his flesh. Through his splayed and wrinkled fingers he could see the lights in the sky twinkle out of existence, first one at a time and then many at once until but a few weak white points remained hanging in the infinite black. He stared at them, and they stared back.
Then the world was right again. The seas calmed, the air warmed, and his skin stretched taut upon his body once more. He had felt alone when he first arrived at the ocean. Now, he knew that he never was. Never would be. He looked down to the placid water far below, and realized that he could see through it. All around his little pillar of stone and sand he could make out the bottom of the ocean—a great red grassy field swaying in gentle breezes, held close by a blue-grey sky. It looked serene. He felt serene.
He felt serene.
Anthony Kleitman took one more look up at the sky full of eyes, then dove into the water below.
—————
