Fandom_Muses November prompt
Alive
Leoben stands in the warmth of the hangar deck, his fingers brushing lightly against the Raider's wing. He's taken a hit, low on the side, enough to damage but not to destroy. "Shhh," Leoben says softly, and the Raider's pain thrums down his spine in a series of short flares, vibrating through Leoben's body and lighting behind his eyes. "I know," he says, wincing in sympathy. The Raider is disoriented, Leoben does not think he realizes he is home safely.
The Raider blinks at him, the red light flashing in disjointed patterns of slow and fast as he tries to orient himself. Leoben continues to touch his wing with gentle, even strokes as a Centurion appears with tools in hand. "He's in pain,' Leoben says to the Centurion, moving aside. "He's confused, there may be some problem with the navigation cortex." The Centurion pauses, then looks at the Raider. The Centurion's light flashes red, once, twice, then settles into an even, steady rhythm.
Leoben feels the Raider's light reflect in his eyes, scanning him. Presently the Raider's own light slows down, matching the Centurion, and the Raider relaxes and orients to the fact he is home, that the Centurion will see to his wounds, that Leoben is a friend and not a foe.
"Thank you," Leoben says to the Centurion, and he's not sure if the Centurion nods his head or if Leoben is imagining it--sometimes it is hard to tell. Either way, Leoben thinks the Centurion understands the sentiment, so he backs away with one last stroke of his hand down the Raider's wing. "Welcome home, brother," he says softly, and turns away.
There is a One and an Eight at the entrance to the hangar. The One rolls his eyes, his voice a sharp bite. "You're wasting time talking to them, you know. They don't know what you're saying." There is something in the One's voice that gives Leoben pause--in the past few weeks, the Ones have become more vitriolic than usual, more inclined towards mockery and disdain. It makes Leoben uneasy, but he sees it is part of the pattern, the great divide of which he dreams.
Our threads will break, my brother, and you do only what God intends you to do. Still, it was tiresome to hear the Ones speak of their brothers so, that just because they did not have voices they could not speak.
"We all understand fear, brother," Leoben says simply.
"And we all know how it feels to be brought safely home," the Eight responds, smiling warmly at him. Leoben smiles back, pleased. He sees her future in his mind, the visions of life cradled in the Eight's warm embrace.
The One mutters something and stalks off, talking about delusional damned machines under his breath, and Leoben takes his sister's hand. "I am glad you understand," he says, and she squeezes his hand with hers. Her skin is warm, alive, against his own.
Leoben stands in the warmth of the hangar deck, his fingers brushing lightly against the Raider's wing. He's taken a hit, low on the side, enough to damage but not to destroy. "Shhh," Leoben says softly, and the Raider's pain thrums down his spine in a series of short flares, vibrating through Leoben's body and lighting behind his eyes. "I know," he says, wincing in sympathy. The Raider is disoriented, Leoben does not think he realizes he is home safely.
The Raider blinks at him, the red light flashing in disjointed patterns of slow and fast as he tries to orient himself. Leoben continues to touch his wing with gentle, even strokes as a Centurion appears with tools in hand. "He's in pain,' Leoben says to the Centurion, moving aside. "He's confused, there may be some problem with the navigation cortex." The Centurion pauses, then looks at the Raider. The Centurion's light flashes red, once, twice, then settles into an even, steady rhythm.
Leoben feels the Raider's light reflect in his eyes, scanning him. Presently the Raider's own light slows down, matching the Centurion, and the Raider relaxes and orients to the fact he is home, that the Centurion will see to his wounds, that Leoben is a friend and not a foe.
"Thank you," Leoben says to the Centurion, and he's not sure if the Centurion nods his head or if Leoben is imagining it--sometimes it is hard to tell. Either way, Leoben thinks the Centurion understands the sentiment, so he backs away with one last stroke of his hand down the Raider's wing. "Welcome home, brother," he says softly, and turns away.
There is a One and an Eight at the entrance to the hangar. The One rolls his eyes, his voice a sharp bite. "You're wasting time talking to them, you know. They don't know what you're saying." There is something in the One's voice that gives Leoben pause--in the past few weeks, the Ones have become more vitriolic than usual, more inclined towards mockery and disdain. It makes Leoben uneasy, but he sees it is part of the pattern, the great divide of which he dreams.
Our threads will break, my brother, and you do only what God intends you to do. Still, it was tiresome to hear the Ones speak of their brothers so, that just because they did not have voices they could not speak.
"We all understand fear, brother," Leoben says simply.
"And we all know how it feels to be brought safely home," the Eight responds, smiling warmly at him. Leoben smiles back, pleased. He sees her future in his mind, the visions of life cradled in the Eight's warm embrace.
The One mutters something and stalks off, talking about delusional damned machines under his breath, and Leoben takes his sister's hand. "I am glad you understand," he says, and she squeezes his hand with hers. Her skin is warm, alive, against his own.