On self-medication...
If one were to step up to the cabin door, and peer inside, s/he would see a large, black mass -- the kind of black that sucks up photons as a void in space is wont to do. Not entirely black though. A network of green lines -- like the circuitry one might find on a motherboard -- mars the blackness, pulsing with, if we extend the metaphor, data.
The aberration lies on a cot, and if one comes near enough, s/he might find that it's radiating heat, like asphalt that's been exposed to mid-day sun in summer. It's a wonder the black form isn't burning a hole in its bedding. Nothing living should be that hot.
It's hard to see through the form-obscuring blackness, but this thing's silhouette does have oddly human contours.
Gale -- for this is, in fact, the Embryon's strategist -- occupies his currently delirious mind by watching the air seep into the cabin through cracks in the windows. There's a hole in the far wall, too, and a drafty rectangle around the door. Hot air from the dying fire squeezes through the grating on the wood stove and rises to perform hypnotic spirals against the ceiling. Odd how tangible it all looks. He has some vague notion that he should see other things -- colors, details, shadows, light, textures... But now the air is the sole definition of his surroundings -- air, and not air. Voids that contain air, and masses that can't be penetrated. It makes a certain kind of eloquent sense.
And closing his eyes doesn't make it go away.
He also knows his skin is uncomfortably hot. Burning like someone's poured trails of hot wax all along his body. Hot wax that never cools. His veins are hot and throbbing, as if filled with molten lead.
Gale isn't sure just how long he's been like this (two hours), but he's already come to terms with the possibility that it won't end, that this is his new existence. But...
In a half-an-hour, the heat begins to recede, starting at his extremities and creeping back to the core of his body. An observer would note that the blackness has begun to fade, and the green lines lose their brilliant radiance. In another twenty minutes, Gale looks more human and less like an anomaly of space.
But his vision is still...air-based, so it's not likely he'll notice the red lines branded into his skin like a nasty sunburn. He knows the fever persists, though.
He remembers the feeling of the cold lake water against his skin so many weeks ago. He wants that feeling now. He wants his skin to be numb with cold. He moves toward the rectangle of the door, and gropes for the handle to push it open.
The vastness beyond is staggering and he makes a small noise of dismay. The cabin was a small, comfortable void, the outdoors, however...the currents here are terrible and awesome. Through the canopy, the wind is like a choppy sea, garbled and confused by the tree boughs, but ultimately moving with definite purpose.
He tries not to look up as he moves down the slope that should take him to the lake. He can see the wind moving across the perfect flatness of the empty, airless mass that the water makes. He pulls off his shoes and clothes and puts them aside, not considering the fact that he'll have difficulty finding them again. The cold air already feels pleasant against his burns. A pair of ducks take flight at his approach -- black and white Buffleheads, for those who can still perceive chroma (or a lackthereof). The sharp motion of their beating wings is all he can see. A crisp, repeating afterimage, like a bright light waved in the dark.
He wades into the lake. The burns on the bottom of his feet sing in pain against the gravelly lake bottom. He's up to his knees, his waist, his shoulders until finally the crown of his head disappears below the surface.
He exhales slowly until his lungs contain no air. The bubbles rise to the surface and there's nothing. Complete "darkness". He holds his breath for thirty seconds and relishes the profound, numbing cold. He surfaces, inhaling loudly.
Gale wades back to shallower waters, feeling like the edge is taken off of his fever, or at least temporarily eclipsed by the self-inflicted chill. He begins the quest for his discarded clothes, squinting his eyes out of instinct. As luck would have it, a sharp gust of wind catches his shirt and causes the fabric to billow, thus betraying its location.
He uses the shirt to towel himself dry before redressing in underwear and pants. That done, he stretches out in what he perceives to be a shady patch of grass. His cold, wet t-shirt is folded and draped over his eyes and forehead, but he still sees the wind.
A hand idly runs over his chest, making his burns itch, but also discovering contours that weren't there before. Concavities. Shallow craters, perfectly smooth and circular, a good two inches in diameter. Covering it with a palm has an effect not unlike covering one eye, or one ear -- his perception changes. His flesh doesn't feel like the Atma's, but he knows these structures are similar to, if not, in fact Vayu's sensory organs.
His hands travel to his face. The indentations aren't there, and his human eyes are still intact, if unseeing. He isn't blind, but he can't see as he once did. No light waves of any length, no details. Air and movement based. Precisely -- a predator needs little else but this and scent and sound. Were his neural connections overridden, the human occipital lobe usurped? Something was obviously awry.
Navigating space will be no problem, but finding his clothes was pure luck; small, stationary objects will certainly be an issue, as will surface characteristics. Written words. Ungh. Books. He takes deep breaths to keep his composure and hopes this sensory shift will pass as soon as the supplement is finally metabolized. The injection wasn't such a good idea. Better to work on a tablet form.
He's almost glad Bee isn't here. He doesn't need that, too.