Voices from Heaven (
thespaceopera) wrote in
driftfleet2015-11-19 09:56 pm
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Calibrations Spill-Over Post
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no subject
click. It's such a resounding sound, something he almost feels in the depths of his soul. What does... what's the relation? Why is this... his thoughts remain in disarray, focused and unfocused again.
It's such a plain reaction, in and out of the memory, as Qing's arm rises, fingers curling against nothing in the room. Not the way he sees it. Metal, unfeeling metal, and--wait. It's the same arm, but this is different.
The cold is different. He's not dying - was he dying before - and yet it's somehow worse. How could anything be worse than falling off of a train into a crevasse?]
...
[Can't think, can't breathe. Can't feel anything but the grip of ice wrapped around every single inch of his body. His legs give out under him and there's a tremble that remains in the wake of the memory.
Even when the darkness fades out, when his blurry vision returns, he can't move for the longest time. Home base. That's what he'd said. It sticks in his mind like viscous honey, words that should be comforting somehow turning painfully saccharine.
It's maybe a minute later when he finally manages to slow down his breathing, once again checking over his arm. Still there. Still fine. That small space wasn't... real... he knew that. When he looks up, into the distance between him and Winter where the soldier was pacing, there's so much pain on his face, the tears welling in his eyes hard to see from where he sits.
What isn't hard to see is the pain is only half his own. There's a pained sadness there, a recognition that this is something that happened to someone. He'll likely put together the whom in the next few minutes.
For now, he has to take a moment to remember how to stand again. One small hand curls against the hem of his skirt near his knee, bracing the shaky rising motion.]
... why?
[Again, it's not directed at Winter. In the wake of pain and sadness, after all, anger rises. Why would anyone do this to someone?!]
no subject
Jim would offer him a clap on the shoulder or a pat on the back if he were in that position.. But he doesn't like other people touching him, so he doesn't really feel the urge to reach out and console. Not for a complete stranger.
Why? Why what, though? He doesn't understand the question itself. He approaches slowly, keeping a yard of distance between them. At least he isn't on the opposite side of the room anymore?]
no subject
The two hallucinations - memories? - are definitely related. How he knows that, he isn't sure at first. The people in them aren't, save the victim. A train, a loss, something ripped away. Physical and mental, and...
He looks up and finally takes in the other's form. Tall (as if it's hard to be taller than him), broad, with uncertainty - even confusion - in his eyes. And his arm--
The arm. His eyes, slightly wet with tears, widen as the pieces snap into place. It seems impossible. Unreal. Unfair. But... his anger subsides again and he slowly climbs to his feet, looking up into Winter's face. He doesn't seem upset by the memories, somehow. Qing wonders why.
There are still pieces missing, and he...
It's not like him. He's not nosy. But...]
... What... comes next? [His voice is small, plaintive. It hurts to go on, and yet he has to. There's something there beyond this all, and as he blinks back tears from just the little he's seen, he can't help but want to keep going.
It's unfair to Winter, probably. But... if he gives the answer, then that's some sort of permission, isn't it?]