The transition into the subconscious was a jarring plunge, a descent into a world far removed from the abstract world he'd previously navigated. Now, he was somewhere completely different.
Sorken gasped, not at the lack of air, for breath there was a metallic tang on the tongue, but at the sheer oppressive weight of it. This wasn't the clean scent of iron and coal he might have, on some level, anticipated, but a cloying miasma of fear and exhaustion, the psychic equivalent of black lung, choking the very ether of this unknown individual's inner world.
'What is this fucking place?' He once again found himself in physical form. 'This is not by body!' He lifted his hands as he tried to discern his current physique.
'Now, where are we?, that strange bubble burst and now I find myself here, another world? No, that would be nuts, let's just float along' Sorken let out a sigh knowing he would just have to go with the flow, because like everything until now, he just knew nothing about what this world was or what was happening around him. He could only adapt.
As he again took control of this new body. He staggered, disoriented, feeling the oppressive weight of this subterranean realm pressing in on him, the echoes of a thousand unseen hammers ringing in his ethereal ears. Whose mind was this? He found his thoughts clouded by someone else as if he had suddenly intruded in someone else's life and body.
He found himself within a colossal machine, a nightmarish fusion of medieval dungeon and steampunk factory. Giant cogs, their teeth dripping with a viscous, black oil that Sorken instinctively recognized as despair, churned relentlessly. Their grinding movement was powered by the slow, heavy thump of a gargantuan, unseen heart, a rhythmic pulse that vibrated through every metal plate and rivet of this subterranean hellscape. Above, what served as a sky was a tangled web of corroded pipes and sparking wires, casting a flickering, sickly yellow light, a lurid glow that painted everything in a grotesque parody of daylight. Underfoot, the ground was not earth but a grating of rusting metal, vibrating ceaselessly with the clangor and grind of the machinery. It felt disturbingly precarious, like the floor might give way at any moment, plunging him into the black abyss that surely yawned below.
'This is different. This place is way too similar to the time when the industrial age began in our world, this entire situation is exactly like the books described' his eyes now wide open looking around him for more clues.
Sorken moved slowly as he navigated around. He was adrift in a sea of metal and misery, a trespasser in a world built from the anxieties of a nameless soul. Everywhere he looked, he saw twisted parodies of familiar mining tools. Pickaxes morphed into grotesque, clawed hands, forever scraping at the unyielding walls of the mind they inhabited. Shovels became gaping maws, endlessly devouring chunks of some unseen resource, which, Sorken intuited, was the individual's very self-worth. Lanterns, instead of offering a warm, reassuring glow, flickered with the dim, dying embers of a fading hope, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
'This' sorken intuitively had a guess on what this world was and what was going on. 'I am in someone's subconscious mind' the entire world now made sense to him. The weird metaphor he could sense in everything around him. It was a weird mix of memories and emotions. Now, he was experiencing it in an extremely impossible and absurd banner.
The dominant structure in this mechanized hell was a towering furnace, belching thick, black smoke, and showering the landscape with glowing embers. It stood at the heart of this psychic mine, a monument to the corrosive power of self-doubt. Sorken felt an oppressive heat radiating outward, the metal around it groaning under the immense internal pressure. He saw spectral figures, shackled and emaciated, their forms barely more than wisps of smoke themselves, endlessly shoveling a dark, glittering substance into the fiery maw.
He realized with a chilling certainty that they were feeding the furnace with the individual's aspirations, their dreams, their very life force. Each shovelful seemed to drain them further, reducing them to hollow husks, mere echoes of their former selves. Sorken sensed that his own emotions were not as stable as his mind made him believe it were.
The air throbbed with whispers, a cacophony of negativity that clawed at Sorken's resolve. He strained to decipher the individual murmurs, hoping to glean some clue, some hint of identity, anything that would tell him who was trapped in this mechanized prison. He caught fragments – the harsh voice of authority berating a worker for some unknown failure, the mocking laughter of peers, and the insidious, self-inflicted doubt about worth and capability.
The whispers coalesced into a deafening chorus of negativity, a relentless wave crashing against the foundations of self-esteem. Was this a soldier, endlessly replaying a battle lost? An artisan, haunted by a masterpiece gone awry?
He ventured deeper into the subconscious labyrinth, traversing precarious walkways that spanned bottomless pits. Far below, a swirling, black void pulsed like a malevolent entity, representing, Sorken realized, the individual's deepest anxieties. He felt the fear emanating from the darkness below: it was fear of falling, a sense of a deep pit, perhaps fear of failing to provide, an existential dread that gnawed at the soul, possibly of injuring. Each step was an exercise in suppressing his own rising panic, the metallic grating trembling precariously beneath his feet. It was all very dangerous, with every step a potential misstep. He pressed forward anyway.
In a small, dimly lit alcove, he stumbled upon a group of spectral figures huddled together. They were a stark contrast to the desolate landscape, representing memories of happier times – a family gathered around a crackling fire, the warmth of human connection cutting through the cold, industrial despair. There was laughter and whispered conversation within that tiny, shared space. There, he glimpsed something else. It was an image, only half seen, that could have been the innocent wonder of a child's eyes. These memories, though faint and flickering, held a fragile beauty, a desperate hope for human connection that contrasted starkly with the cold, mechanized despair of the larger landscape.
Sorken realized that these memories, these fragile embers of hope, were the key to helping this tormented soul and maybe a way out of this strange situation. He had to let it all okay out and reach the source. They were beacons in this mechanical wasteland. He had to find the anchor of this world.
He spoke aloud, his voice echoing strangely in the metal chamber, forcing out words of encouragement, of appreciation, though he didn't even know to whom he spoke. He spoke of the inherent strength he sensed within this individual, of resilience in the face of adversity, hoping the words would find their mark. He spoke of love, of family, trying to reawaken any positive emotions within the anchor, the one whose subconscious he was trapped into. He attempted to conjure any sense of connection that might anchor this individual to the world above, the world beyond this nightmare.
As he spoke, the memories in the alcove grew brighter, more solid. A spectral figure gained substance, his form taking on more definite shapes. The faint light within him intensified, pushing back against the oppressive darkness like a tiny flame defying a hurricane. In the distance, a small gear, previously rusted and immobile, began to turn, its movement almost imperceptible at first, but gradually gaining momentum, a tiny spark of defiance against the monolithic machinery of despair.
Inspired by this small victory, Sorken continued his exploration, driven by a newfound determination. He discovered a workshop, a space cluttered with tools that represented the individual's inherent skills and talents. These tools, however, were coated in a thick layer of grime and neglect, buried under layers of self-doubt and the weight of perceived failures, reflecting a suppressed sense of self-worth. They had been cast aside, deemed useless. He picked up a spectral hammer, its weight surprisingly substantial in his ethereal hand.
He brushed off the grime, revealing the gleaming metal beneath, and as he did, a fleeting image flashed before him – a figure, strong and capable, crafting something with meticulous care, perhaps a gift for a loved one. The image resonated with a powerful sense of pride and accomplishment, a stark contrast to the prevailing despair.
Sorken understood. This individual, whoever they were, needed to reconnect with this sense of self-efficacy. They needed to remember the value of their skills, the impact they could have on the world, even in seemingly small ways. It didn't matter if they were a miner, a soldier or a painter, what mattered was their ability to find meaning in their own actions. He continued cleaning the tools, one by one, each restored tool sparking a new memory, a new realization of inherent worth. Each tool became a tiny act of rebellion against the machinery of self-sabotage.
As more tools were cleansed, the massive central furnace began to sputter and cough, its terrible roar diminishing. The black smoke thinned, revealing the flickering embers of hope within. The shadowy figures shoveling fuel into its maw paused, their movements hesitant, uncertain. They seemed to be losing their purpose, their grip on the individual's spirit weakening with every flicker of the dying flames. Hope was taking a root, small though it may be.
Sorken finally reached the core of the machine, drawn by an irresistible pull. There, he found it – a colossal, pulsating heart encased in a network of gears and pipes. This, he realized, was the very heart of the individual's self-belief, and its rhythm was weak, irregular, on the verge of failing altogether. He saw a spectral image, a man – was it truly a man, or was it any and all genders simultaneously? – chained to the heart, their face etched with utter resignation. They were trapped and suffering greatly. The chains, Sorken saw with a sickening lurch, were etched with words like "worthless," "powerless," and "failure," each word a shackle binding this individual to their despair.
Sorken didn't know what he had to do. He was just an observer of this strange world. To change someone's subconscious belief, he didn't know what it was or how it should be done. As he kept looking at the person before him, he moved away from him.
His legs stumbled upon a piece of glass, he bowed and picked the glass. A small piece of glass, probably from a lamp. In that piece of glass, for the first time he caught a glimpse of his new face. 'It is the same' the same face he had just seen in despair was now reflecting in the glass. Sorken had become a character of this dream. The main character.
'Am I going to be trapped here forever? Stuck in the subconscious of a person who couldn't even preserve his own self worth?' for the first time after coming to this world, he felt unfair. Not because he was stuck in such a disastrous situation but because he was stuck with feelings he has forever kept away from him. Now, these same feelings, albeit not him, were corroding him with every passing moment.
The anger he barely felt, the guilt he always triumphed and worst of all, his own sense of self was being corroded by someone else. He hated it more than the person who brought him to this world and ruined the best day of his life. Suddenly his surroundings started to glow and churn in a strange manner.
The transformation of the subconscious landscape was immediate and dramatic. The rusty gears began to gleam, the hissing steam dissipated, and the flickering lights grew brighter, casting a warm, golden glow that chased away the oppressive shadows. The towering furnace cooled, its fiery maw transforming into a gentle hearth, a source of warmth rather than destruction. The spectral figures, liberated from their grim task, began to rebuild the damaged landscape, their movements now purposeful, driven by a newfound sense of hope. They replaced the twisted, broken tools with symbols of strength and creativity, turning the machinery of despair into a testament to human resilience. The work they performed was not easy, but each one appeared happy to finally perform it, working in perfect synchronicity.
The image of the individual chained to the heart transformed as well. They stood tall, their eyes, once dull with despair, now shining with a newfound confidence, a glimmer of self-belief. They raised their hands, now free from the chains, and the energy of the machine flowed through them, not as a destructive force, but as a source of empowerment, of validation. The power was theirs to command, and theirs alone. They began to move more and more freely, and confidence oozed from every action.
Sorken again felt a strange pull but before that he witnessed one final, transformative scene. The mechanized landscape began to recede, dissolving like a fading nightmare. In its place, a vision of a beautiful garden, bathed in the golden light of a dawning sun, began to solidify.
The individual, the subject whose identity Sorken was finally beginning to suspect might just be the miner that had collapsed that very day at work, stood in the garden, surrounded by spectral figures that resolved themselves into a loving family, their faces beaming with love and pride. The one whose mind Sorken occupied held a handcrafted toy, a miniature steam-powered creation that whirred and clicked with intricate precision, a miniature version of the devices used down the very mine that this individual occupied in their real life.
A spectral child, a little girl with bright, dancing eyes, squealed with delight, her laughter echoing through the garden like the most beautiful music Sorken had ever heard. He felt their happiness emanate across space and time.
Then, with a final, gentle tug, Sorken was pulled back, leaving the blossoming garden behind. He was again in front of the same strange bubble.