Before the Pacific - [Day 6, Risa, Morning]
He half-slept, something between dream and reality; a restless doze, where he would stir himself awake just to make sure he was still breathing. And then, confirmed, in the rain tapering to a sprinkle, then a mist, then the clear and clean and hazy scent left afterwards, he would drift back into that half-asleep state again. It wasn't that bad, really. It hurt, but it wasn't that bad. He knew he wasn't in any mortal danger from injury, just beaten.
He drifted there, in that place, breath shallow to avoid making the pain flare across his left side. Counted himself lucky that all of the hurt was on the left, and he could lay on the right. A matter of fact thought, like most of his waking thoughts. His dozing thoughts were less settled; fragments and pieces and when he woke up to see the suns rising, he realized all over again that he was far more afraid of leaving this place than he was of any number of beatings.
It wasn't that he liked Risa. He just wanted to have room to run. He could not stand that sensation of being cornered and pinned; a good kicking had reminded him of why. Here, he could go back to some quiet spot that was his own, and curl around his wounds. There, there was no room to run.
He had chosen to go into Starfleet, and the restrictions placed on his time and movements both had not bothered him. He had gone in fully prepared to sacrifice his freedom for his goals. And when he got some freedom back, he took it and ran hard with it; ran to the edge of the Pacific itself, and then ran right into it, too. A moment of impulse, of outward and open defiance.
And when he crawled out of the waves he'd been battling against, cold and soaked and facing a very long hike back to the Academy, he'd rested on his elbows in the sand and laughed. Just laughed, hard, maybe a little unstable. Laughed until he practically put himself in tears. When he'd dragged himself back up, to go back, something in him felt better; like he'd figured something quiet out, that he had not known before.
Now he came back before the Pacific; a half-drifting dream where he didn't run past the edge of the world. And now, he felt all over again all he'd really lost; in that restless, painful half-sleep, he could only draw the tattered old pieces around him that were left; that he was still breathing, and that he was still unbroken.
He woke up that time to low orange suns and staggered down to the water's edge, trying in vain to clean himself up a bit. His face was pretty bad; he could feel it. His head, too. Most worrisome was that he felt shaky and dizzy; blood loss, probably, now not countered by adrenaline. Not fatal, not even desperately painful. Just worrisome. He knew he couldn't climb back up again, though he also knew he wasn't going to die before...
He tried to clean himself up, then retreated back up to his spot, which was slowly being warmed by the suns. He would miss this spot, and the pain he felt from that knowledge was far worse than his face. Not because he liked Risa. Just because he could understand this, living under a place where people walked and played and ate and talked above, removed some from it and therefore safe from it.
He half-drifted again, trying to order chaotic thoughts. He wondered why he had agreed to go. Why he had ever allowed that other Scott to have that kind of power over him; that the idea of causing sorrow was enough to make him give up his running room. He didn't even know the man, aside for just over a week; he didn't know how much of any of what was said was true. He knew the other Scott believed it was true, but Scotty knew well that believing something didn't necessarily make it real. And now, he was giving up his freedom again.
He just wasn't so sure it was his choice this time.
The suns were higher; still breathing, still unbroken. He reached out gingerly and dragged his shell over, looking into the pinks and blues and purples and oranges that made it beautiful. He tried to make sense of it all. He didn't feel sorry for himself; it wouldn't change anything. Just felt resigned, and tired. To him, there was no certain future, no faith, no hope. It wasn't a bad thing, really. No more than getting a beating was a bad thing. It was just the way things were; facts, immutable.
He sent a message to the other Scott with his PADD, not getting up to do it, just like he had signed his application for Command School. And then, he went back to half-dreaming, half-waking.
Before the Pacific.
He drifted there, in that place, breath shallow to avoid making the pain flare across his left side. Counted himself lucky that all of the hurt was on the left, and he could lay on the right. A matter of fact thought, like most of his waking thoughts. His dozing thoughts were less settled; fragments and pieces and when he woke up to see the suns rising, he realized all over again that he was far more afraid of leaving this place than he was of any number of beatings.
It wasn't that he liked Risa. He just wanted to have room to run. He could not stand that sensation of being cornered and pinned; a good kicking had reminded him of why. Here, he could go back to some quiet spot that was his own, and curl around his wounds. There, there was no room to run.
He had chosen to go into Starfleet, and the restrictions placed on his time and movements both had not bothered him. He had gone in fully prepared to sacrifice his freedom for his goals. And when he got some freedom back, he took it and ran hard with it; ran to the edge of the Pacific itself, and then ran right into it, too. A moment of impulse, of outward and open defiance.
And when he crawled out of the waves he'd been battling against, cold and soaked and facing a very long hike back to the Academy, he'd rested on his elbows in the sand and laughed. Just laughed, hard, maybe a little unstable. Laughed until he practically put himself in tears. When he'd dragged himself back up, to go back, something in him felt better; like he'd figured something quiet out, that he had not known before.
Now he came back before the Pacific; a half-drifting dream where he didn't run past the edge of the world. And now, he felt all over again all he'd really lost; in that restless, painful half-sleep, he could only draw the tattered old pieces around him that were left; that he was still breathing, and that he was still unbroken.
He woke up that time to low orange suns and staggered down to the water's edge, trying in vain to clean himself up a bit. His face was pretty bad; he could feel it. His head, too. Most worrisome was that he felt shaky and dizzy; blood loss, probably, now not countered by adrenaline. Not fatal, not even desperately painful. Just worrisome. He knew he couldn't climb back up again, though he also knew he wasn't going to die before...
He tried to clean himself up, then retreated back up to his spot, which was slowly being warmed by the suns. He would miss this spot, and the pain he felt from that knowledge was far worse than his face. Not because he liked Risa. Just because he could understand this, living under a place where people walked and played and ate and talked above, removed some from it and therefore safe from it.
He half-drifted again, trying to order chaotic thoughts. He wondered why he had agreed to go. Why he had ever allowed that other Scott to have that kind of power over him; that the idea of causing sorrow was enough to make him give up his running room. He didn't even know the man, aside for just over a week; he didn't know how much of any of what was said was true. He knew the other Scott believed it was true, but Scotty knew well that believing something didn't necessarily make it real. And now, he was giving up his freedom again.
He just wasn't so sure it was his choice this time.
The suns were higher; still breathing, still unbroken. He reached out gingerly and dragged his shell over, looking into the pinks and blues and purples and oranges that made it beautiful. He tried to make sense of it all. He didn't feel sorry for himself; it wouldn't change anything. Just felt resigned, and tired. To him, there was no certain future, no faith, no hope. It wasn't a bad thing, really. No more than getting a beating was a bad thing. It was just the way things were; facts, immutable.
He sent a message to the other Scott with his PADD, not getting up to do it, just like he had signed his application for Command School. And then, he went back to half-dreaming, half-waking.
Before the Pacific.