002: Don't complain a lot, never show a thing [Accidental visual | location: Northern Island]
The first few days in Taxon passed by in a haze, a blur of unrest and the itchy, insistent need to find a way out, a way home.
To be perfectly honest, Cain didn't remember much of the first day or so. He knows he spent the night in Martha's clinic, but doesn't remember much, apart from finding the young woman both professional and amicable enough.
The first day at the Northern Island, Cain slept bundled under about half a dozen blankets on one of the balconies, having crawled out there within the first hour of tossing and turning in front of the fire, completely unable to relax without the skies right above him. He ate when prompted, spoke when spoken to. When the night came, he stared at nothing in particular until the artificial sun rose again.
The second day, he slept similarly, huddled against the floor to ceiling glass doors, face turned towards the light outside. Sleeping in the bed of his handsomely furnished room was simply out of the question. It was either too soft, or too hard, or plain too much. Sometimes he thought even the air was too much for his skin to bear, sometimes it felt like the clothes on his back rubbed him raw and prickly. The bracelet on his wrist gave him an angry rash, time and time again - or perhaps he clawed at it too much. It didn't really matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
But when he slept, at least the physical world ceased to bother him. He dreamed of blue skies dimming down with oncoming storms, of dark clouds obscuring his view. He dreamed of blood, of screams that turned his stomach and left him wishing he were dead as soon as the dream faded into consciousness.
It's on one of these occasions that his tablet decided to switch on, watching him smugly from the other end of the room. Not even in sleep did he seem relaxed, the hinges of his jaw working away in a silent grind. His eyes moved frantically beneath his eyelids, forehead creasing in apparent distress until suddenly he startled awake.
To be perfectly honest, Cain didn't remember much of the first day or so. He knows he spent the night in Martha's clinic, but doesn't remember much, apart from finding the young woman both professional and amicable enough.
The first day at the Northern Island, Cain slept bundled under about half a dozen blankets on one of the balconies, having crawled out there within the first hour of tossing and turning in front of the fire, completely unable to relax without the skies right above him. He ate when prompted, spoke when spoken to. When the night came, he stared at nothing in particular until the artificial sun rose again.
The second day, he slept similarly, huddled against the floor to ceiling glass doors, face turned towards the light outside. Sleeping in the bed of his handsomely furnished room was simply out of the question. It was either too soft, or too hard, or plain too much. Sometimes he thought even the air was too much for his skin to bear, sometimes it felt like the clothes on his back rubbed him raw and prickly. The bracelet on his wrist gave him an angry rash, time and time again - or perhaps he clawed at it too much. It didn't really matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
But when he slept, at least the physical world ceased to bother him. He dreamed of blue skies dimming down with oncoming storms, of dark clouds obscuring his view. He dreamed of blood, of screams that turned his stomach and left him wishing he were dead as soon as the dream faded into consciousness.
It's on one of these occasions that his tablet decided to switch on, watching him smugly from the other end of the room. Not even in sleep did he seem relaxed, the hinges of his jaw working away in a silent grind. His eyes moved frantically beneath his eyelids, forehead creasing in apparent distress until suddenly he startled awake.