Dream | 02
[Privacy: Well open. Admittedly there’s not a whole lot to see, but whatever you think can be gleaned from it is more than possible. He was in no state to be thinking about observers.]
It’s a darkness so impossibly complete that he reaches up towards his face and tentatively brushes callused fingers sideways-lashes twitch under the touch, and his eyes are open, so that is not the problem. He turns his head, feeling as he does so the gentle grate of hair twisting between scalp and whatever it is he’s pressed against. He’s sitting, he can tell that much, feet braced against what is likely a floor beneath him. Something about the seat is familiar, a shape his body is used to.
He reaches out slowly, carefully, and when his hands find an array of equally familiar shapes he finally understands. But there are still no lights and no responses, even when he feels his way along to tap here and there. A malfunction? He recalls no mission, and feels none of the lingering ache that usually follows the whiplash of serious damage or impact. Nothing is sparking, nothing is flashing up on the display, no voice is demanding to know his status. Distantly he realises he is not even suited.
He shifts, a jerky twist hampered by the lack of room, and feels about for the emergency button. A firm press yields...nothing. And it’s still dark.
And now he stretches, extends his arms out. The cockpits were never meant to be large and he can easily touch the sides. There are no gaps, no vibrations to indicate machinery is moving to release him. He pushes, as if human strength would be enough to convince them to move, and then pushes again, and then curls his arms in to slam them against the cold metal.
Nothing is moving. And it’s still dark.
He doesn’t know if he’s on Earth or in Space, doesn’t know how long he has been in here, doesn’t know how much air could be left because the main power isn’t on and the back-ups aren’t working, doesn’t know if anyone is coming or how they can find him, doesn’t know if they think he is already dead.
Doesn’t know how he’s going to get out, because nothing is moving and it’s still dark.
The first strike skids off the panel because he’s shaking too hard to aim properly and he can’t see anyway, but the second connects much more solidly and yet nothing splinters, nothing cracks, nothing moves, and he lashes out again, and again, and again, and he doesn’t care if there’s nothing but a vacuum beyond, he doesn’t care if it’s his leg that breaks first, he doesn’t care about anything except the fact that there’s no room, nothing is moving, and it’s still dark.
He can’t get out.
[Sharp gasp, and the muffled thump of movement]
I - I can’t-
[More movement; a loud clatter as though the Dreamberry has fallen and hit the floor. In the distance there is the sound of a door slamming shut, and then silence.]
[ooc: Yeah, I’ll...give him happy dreams one day. Honest.]
It’s a darkness so impossibly complete that he reaches up towards his face and tentatively brushes callused fingers sideways-lashes twitch under the touch, and his eyes are open, so that is not the problem. He turns his head, feeling as he does so the gentle grate of hair twisting between scalp and whatever it is he’s pressed against. He’s sitting, he can tell that much, feet braced against what is likely a floor beneath him. Something about the seat is familiar, a shape his body is used to.
He reaches out slowly, carefully, and when his hands find an array of equally familiar shapes he finally understands. But there are still no lights and no responses, even when he feels his way along to tap here and there. A malfunction? He recalls no mission, and feels none of the lingering ache that usually follows the whiplash of serious damage or impact. Nothing is sparking, nothing is flashing up on the display, no voice is demanding to know his status. Distantly he realises he is not even suited.
He shifts, a jerky twist hampered by the lack of room, and feels about for the emergency button. A firm press yields...nothing. And it’s still dark.
And now he stretches, extends his arms out. The cockpits were never meant to be large and he can easily touch the sides. There are no gaps, no vibrations to indicate machinery is moving to release him. He pushes, as if human strength would be enough to convince them to move, and then pushes again, and then curls his arms in to slam them against the cold metal.
Nothing is moving. And it’s still dark.
He doesn’t know if he’s on Earth or in Space, doesn’t know how long he has been in here, doesn’t know how much air could be left because the main power isn’t on and the back-ups aren’t working, doesn’t know if anyone is coming or how they can find him, doesn’t know if they think he is already dead.
Doesn’t know how he’s going to get out, because nothing is moving and it’s still dark.
The first strike skids off the panel because he’s shaking too hard to aim properly and he can’t see anyway, but the second connects much more solidly and yet nothing splinters, nothing cracks, nothing moves, and he lashes out again, and again, and again, and he doesn’t care if there’s nothing but a vacuum beyond, he doesn’t care if it’s his leg that breaks first, he doesn’t care about anything except the fact that there’s no room, nothing is moving, and it’s still dark.
He can’t get out.
[Sharp gasp, and the muffled thump of movement]
I - I can’t-
[More movement; a loud clatter as though the Dreamberry has fallen and hit the floor. In the distance there is the sound of a door slamming shut, and then silence.]
[ooc: Yeah, I’ll...give him happy dreams one day. Honest.]