Dream | 05
Someone clips him with their shoulder as they bolt past and he staggers, bouncing painfully off the wall. It’s chaotic - wailing sirens, barked orders and panicked shrieks, and over it all a pulse inside his head that just won’t go away. He pushes himself upright off the wall again, though, the commotion ahead still drawing him in. The room at the end of the narrow corridor is a bright square of light, and he has to cock an arm to shield his eyes as he steps into it, squinting past the glare that streams in from the wide windows.
There is movement at the dimmed edges of his vision; white-coated men casting aside visors as they run, children curling tighter in a hopeless retreat, equipment clattering to the floor. A vial with a shattered rim rolls past him, leaving a trail of crumbled glass behind it.
He barely notices any of it, not the noise or the people or the glass that stings his feet, because there is a Mobile Suit outside, guns levelled at the building.
Even if it were possible to mistake that position, he knows, he knows why it’s here, and he runs at it, flings himself forward to slam his palms against the window so hard it almost rattles. Too close - the pulse spikes sharply, stealing his breath, and he hooks his fingers against the smoothness and locks his knees in place because it's here to kill them and he does not have much time.
"No." It's breathless, a whimper, and he coughs, chokes, sucks the air in so he can push it out again more forcefully. "No, y-you can’t... You have to stop!"
It should be useless, a small boy shouting through glass and air and Gundam, but the pulse is still there and he knows he is heard. And somehow he can hear the other as well, the quiet thread tangled amongst the roaring in his ears and the pained terror echoing from every floor (please, no, go away, it hurts). He presses himself closer, palm against glass and mind against thread, heedless of the pressure that makes the world swim.
"You have to stop!" Pressing hard, because they have to understand, they need to understand; there is no running from this, no escape if it... "Please, please, you have to listen to me!"
He doesn't understand why it's here. He knows, but he doesn't understand, and the Gundam is expressionless, motionless, cold, offering no answers or sympathy. There's a heartbeat inside the metal, but it is wrapped around the trigger and the mission and the hatred and it's not listening.
"We haven't done anything!" His forehead brushes against the window, the splayed hand trembling back and forth. "I don't...I don't even want to be here. I didn't choose this, I didn't... Please, you know this." He curls his fingers in, and draws back slightly. "You know this." The glass shakes as he throws his body against it, teeth bared and fist bouncing off the surface painfully. "You know this, you know everything, I know you can fucking hear me!"
He punches the glass and sobs, brief anger strangling itself into silence because they're listening to someone else, listening to it's just a trigger, pull it, listening to hate and fear and he can't shout loud enough to be heard above that.
"You're just like us." The whisper fall with tears and spit and phlegm as he slides down, knees hitting the floor with a hollow thump. "You're one of us, why are you doing this, why would you..."
One tiny pressure and several puffs of light and smoke and death, and he throws his head up with a shriek in the seconds before they strike.
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE."
There is movement at the dimmed edges of his vision; white-coated men casting aside visors as they run, children curling tighter in a hopeless retreat, equipment clattering to the floor. A vial with a shattered rim rolls past him, leaving a trail of crumbled glass behind it.
He barely notices any of it, not the noise or the people or the glass that stings his feet, because there is a Mobile Suit outside, guns levelled at the building.
Even if it were possible to mistake that position, he knows, he knows why it’s here, and he runs at it, flings himself forward to slam his palms against the window so hard it almost rattles. Too close - the pulse spikes sharply, stealing his breath, and he hooks his fingers against the smoothness and locks his knees in place because it's here to kill them and he does not have much time.
"No." It's breathless, a whimper, and he coughs, chokes, sucks the air in so he can push it out again more forcefully. "No, y-you can’t... You have to stop!"
It should be useless, a small boy shouting through glass and air and Gundam, but the pulse is still there and he knows he is heard. And somehow he can hear the other as well, the quiet thread tangled amongst the roaring in his ears and the pained terror echoing from every floor (please, no, go away, it hurts). He presses himself closer, palm against glass and mind against thread, heedless of the pressure that makes the world swim.
"You have to stop!" Pressing hard, because they have to understand, they need to understand; there is no running from this, no escape if it... "Please, please, you have to listen to me!"
He doesn't understand why it's here. He knows, but he doesn't understand, and the Gundam is expressionless, motionless, cold, offering no answers or sympathy. There's a heartbeat inside the metal, but it is wrapped around the trigger and the mission and the hatred and it's not listening.
"We haven't done anything!" His forehead brushes against the window, the splayed hand trembling back and forth. "I don't...I don't even want to be here. I didn't choose this, I didn't... Please, you know this." He curls his fingers in, and draws back slightly. "You know this." The glass shakes as he throws his body against it, teeth bared and fist bouncing off the surface painfully. "You know this, you know everything, I know you can fucking hear me!"
He punches the glass and sobs, brief anger strangling itself into silence because they're listening to someone else, listening to it's just a trigger, pull it, listening to hate and fear and he can't shout loud enough to be heard above that.
"You're just like us." The whisper fall with tears and spit and phlegm as he slides down, knees hitting the floor with a hollow thump. "You're one of us, why are you doing this, why would you..."
One tiny pressure and several puffs of light and smoke and death, and he throws his head up with a shriek in the seconds before they strike.
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE."