Nightmare
From the meme that brought you a nasty pile of tunnelsnakes and coloured bits of cloth floating in the sky, we bring you... Ashwin's nightmare. For this one, comments particularly welcome.
Inara: "Mal, you don't have to die alone."
Mal: "Everybody dies alone."
-- Out of Gas
There's a salt tang to the air that tells him where he is immediately; salt in the air, and grease, a loud, rhythmic thumping sound, shouts, talking, occasional cursing.
This is Tillek. The shipping yards. Ten turns back, before Harley's few quiet words, before training, before a daily life of drilling, discipline. Ashwin opens his eyes, turns his head.
This is Tillek.
He's standing high up on the ribs of a half-built ship, and he's caught by a sudden pang of concern, a tightening in his gut, a fear that he'll lose his footing. Him!
Lose his footing!
At the edge of the docks, off towards the water, there's a scream, a young voice raised high and loud, shrill with terror. And then, from everywhere, people are pouring towards the sound. They knock against the cradle that holds the half-built craft, and Ashwin's arms come flying up to snatch at thin air for balance. He bends his knees, wraps his hands around the beam he's standing on, and swings down in a practiced move. He stumbles on landing, jostled by the crowd.
He stumbles.
The crowd press in around him, jostling him, colliding with him; a man barges into his shoulder, sending him reeling a few steps back to thump into a woman, who plants both hands between his shoulders to send him stumbling forward. A press of bodies. Old nervousness reawakens, surges up in his throat like bile, refusing to be swallowed away. So many people.
Too many people.
Then a face out of the crowd, one he knows; Jensen looms up, carried past by the sea of people, unable to pull himself free to stop. He thrusts something out, a bundle wrapped in sailcloth, presses it into Ashwin's hands. They close around it automatically, and he hugs it to his chest, rounding his shoulders over to keep his burden safe from impact. So many people. Too many people. He's stumbling. Jensen's face is turned back to him, eyes seeking his in the crowd. "Keep a hold o'that!" he bellows, before he's dragged away.
His hands tighten around the bundle.
They surge around him, pushing him this way and that, and he's fighting to keep his balance. He's spent ten turns honing his reflexes, training an hour more than any other man every day. Two hours more. This much he can rely on: that his body will serve him, will react with the speed he demands. But this is not his body. This is the body of the boy who joined the guard, and ten turns of training are melting away. His mind knows what he should do to keep his balance, to angle out through the seething mass of people.
His body has forgotten.
The bundle slips from between his hands; he grabs for it, juggles it, and then watches as it escapes his grasp, falling too slowly - and yet too quickly to be caught - towards the ground. A heavy boot comes down on it, a woman's foot kicks it. The sailcloth comes undone, and inside, a broken ceramic figure. He drops, scrambling to try and retrieve the pieces, feeling the impact of boots, of knees clipping his head, a shin driving into his ribcage.
The figure is shattered.
He claims pieces, piling them back onto the piece of cloth, determined to at least bring away the shattered remains when he crawls from the crowd. Each piece, painted with a face. Here is Roa, a network of tiny cracks running across her mouth. Here is a baby, animated and squalling its outrage that one ear is cracked off. Here is the girl who serves him porridge in the morning. Here is the bluerider he plays cards with. Here is the laundress who told him off, then spent an hour getting blood out of his vest for him. They're breaking, cracking beneath people's feet.
His hands can't gather them up fast enough.
His body has forgotten.
His reflexes have failed.
He has dropped his burden.
The faces are breaking.
.......
Ashwin wakes up with a gasp, eyes coming open, mouth open and gaping for air. He sucks in a lungful, propping up on one elbow to turn his gaze down over the row of bodies in the room, chest heaving as the soft symphony of snores and grunts registers. He grimaces, and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and coming to his feet in one easy movement. Dressing is the work of half a minute, and with his boots in one hand, he pads quietly out of the room. Another extra hour of training.
Inara: "Mal, you don't have to die alone."
Mal: "Everybody dies alone."
-- Out of Gas
There's a salt tang to the air that tells him where he is immediately; salt in the air, and grease, a loud, rhythmic thumping sound, shouts, talking, occasional cursing.
This is Tillek. The shipping yards. Ten turns back, before Harley's few quiet words, before training, before a daily life of drilling, discipline. Ashwin opens his eyes, turns his head.
This is Tillek.
He's standing high up on the ribs of a half-built ship, and he's caught by a sudden pang of concern, a tightening in his gut, a fear that he'll lose his footing. Him!
Lose his footing!
At the edge of the docks, off towards the water, there's a scream, a young voice raised high and loud, shrill with terror. And then, from everywhere, people are pouring towards the sound. They knock against the cradle that holds the half-built craft, and Ashwin's arms come flying up to snatch at thin air for balance. He bends his knees, wraps his hands around the beam he's standing on, and swings down in a practiced move. He stumbles on landing, jostled by the crowd.
He stumbles.
The crowd press in around him, jostling him, colliding with him; a man barges into his shoulder, sending him reeling a few steps back to thump into a woman, who plants both hands between his shoulders to send him stumbling forward. A press of bodies. Old nervousness reawakens, surges up in his throat like bile, refusing to be swallowed away. So many people.
Too many people.
Then a face out of the crowd, one he knows; Jensen looms up, carried past by the sea of people, unable to pull himself free to stop. He thrusts something out, a bundle wrapped in sailcloth, presses it into Ashwin's hands. They close around it automatically, and he hugs it to his chest, rounding his shoulders over to keep his burden safe from impact. So many people. Too many people. He's stumbling. Jensen's face is turned back to him, eyes seeking his in the crowd. "Keep a hold o'that!" he bellows, before he's dragged away.
His hands tighten around the bundle.
They surge around him, pushing him this way and that, and he's fighting to keep his balance. He's spent ten turns honing his reflexes, training an hour more than any other man every day. Two hours more. This much he can rely on: that his body will serve him, will react with the speed he demands. But this is not his body. This is the body of the boy who joined the guard, and ten turns of training are melting away. His mind knows what he should do to keep his balance, to angle out through the seething mass of people.
His body has forgotten.
The bundle slips from between his hands; he grabs for it, juggles it, and then watches as it escapes his grasp, falling too slowly - and yet too quickly to be caught - towards the ground. A heavy boot comes down on it, a woman's foot kicks it. The sailcloth comes undone, and inside, a broken ceramic figure. He drops, scrambling to try and retrieve the pieces, feeling the impact of boots, of knees clipping his head, a shin driving into his ribcage.
The figure is shattered.
He claims pieces, piling them back onto the piece of cloth, determined to at least bring away the shattered remains when he crawls from the crowd. Each piece, painted with a face. Here is Roa, a network of tiny cracks running across her mouth. Here is a baby, animated and squalling its outrage that one ear is cracked off. Here is the girl who serves him porridge in the morning. Here is the bluerider he plays cards with. Here is the laundress who told him off, then spent an hour getting blood out of his vest for him. They're breaking, cracking beneath people's feet.
His hands can't gather them up fast enough.
His body has forgotten.
His reflexes have failed.
He has dropped his burden.
The faces are breaking.
.......
Ashwin wakes up with a gasp, eyes coming open, mouth open and gaping for air. He sucks in a lungful, propping up on one elbow to turn his gaze down over the row of bodies in the room, chest heaving as the soft symphony of snores and grunts registers. He grimaces, and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and coming to his feet in one easy movement. Dressing is the work of half a minute, and with his boots in one hand, he pads quietly out of the room. Another extra hour of training.