001. [holo] and in the fury of this darkest hour
When he closes his eyes, it's to the sound of bombs falling and his father whispering el maleh rahamim to a cloud-washed sky while the last of his men--their men--fall back around them. There's a frightening sickness of despair in his father's voice, something Jack has never heard from him, this lion of a man who used to bring mountains to their knees with a look. Jack wants to tell him this is right. They're paving the way for something better, something purer than either of them could hope to become. But there's too much blood in his lungs for words to find purchase; it's all he can do to exhale.
When he opens his eyes again, it's silent.
"This isn't heaven," he murmurs on reflex, but he knows there's truth to the words as soon as they're spoken. It's too cold, too empty in a way he can't name but nags on him like a missing limb all the same. "No, I suppose that would be too much to ask." He laughs like choking, his hands clawing back through his hair, then moving in twisted disbelief to his chest. Mere moments before, he felt his ribs riddled with shrapnel, but beneath the ragged, blood-soaked shirt, the flesh is whole. Scarred, but whole. He breathes. He's alive.
And a captive.
How long has he been out? It would take weeks, months to heal wounds like that--if he healed at all, why does he feel so sure he didn't?--yet somehow the blood is still wet, and there's something fused to his arm-- Deep breaths. He's been chipped before and has the scars to prove it, but that wristband isn't going anywhere and he can't afford to lose an arm right now. It'll have to wait. His breath is still shaking, but his hands are steady as he pulls out his sidearm and steps down from the platform. If he's been captured but not disarmed, of all things, he must assume Gath wants him to escape, as if he's stupid enough to lead them anywhere they want to go. He isn't, but that doesn't mean he won't start looking for an exit.
Which is when he sees--and nearly shoots--the goddamn dog, just chilling in the corner wagging her tail as if this moment wasn't surreal enough already. Huffing in something between frustration and relief, he snaps his fingers at the furry monstrosity until she decides to heel and keeps her close while he tries to find a way out. There's nothing.
Except the tablet. He picks it up; the door opens. He sets it down again; the door closes. Ever-so-slowly, his fingers curl into fists in an attempt to keep from hurling it across the room.
"As if I need to carry yet another completely fucking obvious tracking device on my person to know you're watching my every move, Shaw. I am not your plaything. Either kill me here or return me to my king, because I will not help you harm a hair on his head."
When he opens his eyes again, it's silent.
"This isn't heaven," he murmurs on reflex, but he knows there's truth to the words as soon as they're spoken. It's too cold, too empty in a way he can't name but nags on him like a missing limb all the same. "No, I suppose that would be too much to ask." He laughs like choking, his hands clawing back through his hair, then moving in twisted disbelief to his chest. Mere moments before, he felt his ribs riddled with shrapnel, but beneath the ragged, blood-soaked shirt, the flesh is whole. Scarred, but whole. He breathes. He's alive.
And a captive.
How long has he been out? It would take weeks, months to heal wounds like that--if he healed at all, why does he feel so sure he didn't?--yet somehow the blood is still wet, and there's something fused to his arm-- Deep breaths. He's been chipped before and has the scars to prove it, but that wristband isn't going anywhere and he can't afford to lose an arm right now. It'll have to wait. His breath is still shaking, but his hands are steady as he pulls out his sidearm and steps down from the platform. If he's been captured but not disarmed, of all things, he must assume Gath wants him to escape, as if he's stupid enough to lead them anywhere they want to go. He isn't, but that doesn't mean he won't start looking for an exit.
Which is when he sees--and nearly shoots--the goddamn dog, just chilling in the corner wagging her tail as if this moment wasn't surreal enough already. Huffing in something between frustration and relief, he snaps his fingers at the furry monstrosity until she decides to heel and keeps her close while he tries to find a way out. There's nothing.
Except the tablet. He picks it up; the door opens. He sets it down again; the door closes. Ever-so-slowly, his fingers curl into fists in an attempt to keep from hurling it across the room.
"As if I need to carry yet another completely fucking obvious tracking device on my person to know you're watching my every move, Shaw. I am not your plaything. Either kill me here or return me to my king, because I will not help you harm a hair on his head."