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You write pretty good! I like it.

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Part 2: [spoiler]He began by extending a probe from the armature, a needle about a foot in length. He pushed through the forcefield and approached the object. Closer and closer he got, blackness filling the feed. From his robotic eye, he saw the needle extending in front of him. Its tip penetrated the surface. Odd, he thought. There had been no resistance. In fact, it felt less like penetrating an object and more like passing through air. The octahedron may as well have not existed. He looked at the readings from the sensors: 78 percent nitrogen and 21 percent oxygen. Breathable air? Curious, he pushed the probe further, watching its top vanish beyond the dark threshold. The camera got closer and closer until.... Hilton blinked. The camera was showing the hanger. He looked over at the video feeds from various cameras around the hangar and saw the armature penetrating the octahedron. But on the opposite side from the point of contact, jutted out the probe. He replayed the video back and watched as he penetrated the surface of the object, the probe surfacing on the other side immediately despite being separated by at least 10 feet. Intrigued, he withdrew the probe and tested it again. No matter where he pierced the prism, whatever part he submerged immediately surfaced on the opposite side. He spent the better part of a day running various tests on the prism. When the crew brought it in, the object appeared to be solid, capable of being transported. But now, it acted as if it did not even exist. It refused any means of penetration. Lasers, probes, sonic, xrays. It was completely inert, save for the strange property which allowed it to teleport an object from one side to another. After calling it a day, he went back to his dorm, watched a few holos, dimmed the lights and hit the sack. That night, he had a very strange dream. He was floating in the air in the middle of the hangar, unable to do anything except watch. He tried to move his arm, but it would not budge. He tried to twitch a leg, but it would not respond. He tried to take in air, but his lungs were paralyzed. Confusion slowly led to fear, which quickly unraveled into panic. He could not move! He tried to scream, but he had no voice with which to scream. He was floating, helpless, trapped in a prison. For hours it seemed he was stuck in this strange paralysis until he awoke, sweating. It was the worst nightmare he had ever experienced in his entire life. Shaken, he turned the lights on, read the morning feed. Then he made breakfast, grabbed some coffee and got back to work. The inert prism was waiting for him, still floating in defiance of gravity. He logged into the terminal and integrated with the armature again. Its vision overlaid his own and he extended it toward the prism. The multitool at the end of the armature spun around and began to listen for audio. He scanned several frequencies until he caught something. He played it through the speakers. Initially, he did not realize what he was hearing. It was a rough, hissing sound. It was frantic hyperventilation, the rhythmic rising and falling of respiration. It was the sound of distressed panting. It was his voice. Sweat percolated on the back of his neck and he looked out at the black object, its diamond-shape was a cut in the fabric of the universe. As he stared at it, the panting on the speakers began to stifle and gag. Whoever...or whatever he was listening to was being choked. Suddenly, the feed went quiet. He tried to scan other frequencies, but all he received was silence and white noise. When he went to bed that night, he had another nightmare. It was the same one as before, he was paralyzed in the air, unable to move, breath, or scream. He willed somebody to hear him, willed somebody to feel his distress, but nobody came. He was forced to stare at a sterile bunker, his eyes following its beams as his lungs screamed for air. Those beams became the only thing he knew, the only thing he wanted to think about. He started the next morning off by screaming at the top of his lungs, his chest heaving. Phosphenes danced across his vision as he drooped his head into his hands. Once he got a hold of himself, he started his morning ritual, unsure if he wanted to work today or not. But he was getting paid good money to do this research, so he pushed himself to make breakfast, grab his coffee, and go back to the observatory. He walked up the stairs, flipped on the lights and was about to log into the armature when he looked out the window and saw a pair of eyes staring at him. The gaze locked him in his step. It was as if a “latch” had opened in the top of the prism, about 5 feet wide, two feet tall. Through it, wide, sunken eyes surrounded by pale flesh gazed. Each orb must have been about a foot wide. The face, implied to be larger than the prism containing it, did not move. It did not even appear to breathe. Nevertheless, the eyes followed him. Hilton could not move, he was too terrified. He swallowed, willing himself to do something. Finally, he activated a microphone. [/spoiler]