Hobbes hasn't been back on Oublie in almost ten months, but breaking orbit is always hard. Yeah, the dampeners are going on the old Sarajevo, and yeah, by then he's almost always beary eyed from sleep. Auto pilot went the first six months out from HQ and since then, he's had to make the trips between planets without sleeping, more or less at the helm the whole time.
But through all that, the bumping and rocking and itchy eyes, all Tom can think about was that the first time he broke orbit with those glaciers spread out below him was with Sophie in the co-pilot seat, watching her laughing with her head tipped back and her hair down, tipsy on strawberries and champagne.
'Love you, Tommy,'When he lands, his name is Zachary Paulson and he's in town on business and his eyes are only damp from recycled air
( ... )
Hobbes laughs gruffly, right in his face. He forgot how to be afriad a long time ago, maybe even before this and the life he was living now. Death had ceased to having meaning. He'd lose what? A pulse? Take it. It wasn't worth much on it's own.
"Fuck you," Hobbes said. He'd bit the inside of his cheek in the scuffle and his teeth were laced with blood. "You've already killed me, asshole. You're already a murderer. You don't even know who she is. But you should be dead, mother fucker. Dead and buried for what you fucking did."
He lurched suddenly, still bleeding, and pulled a short, serrated knife from his boot. He lashed out gracelessly, trying to make contact with the guy's leg. The good one. He'd paid attention to his information - it had been expensive enough.
This, he sees coming, but it's just a fraction of a second after it would have really done him some good. He jerks his leg back but the pain and the confusion and the rage have made him slow, and he feels the blade slice through his pants and then the hot, white pain of his flesh being carved.
He yelps, a high, embarrassing sound, and his unhurt leg lands a sharp kick against the man's wrist. He sees the green glitter of the aurora in the blade as it goes flying, and then he's got the man's hair in his fist again, and when he jerks it it's hard enough that he feels some rip out in his hand.
"Don't give a shit," he snarls. "Not about you, not whoever the bitch you're talking about is, nothin'. You're already dead? You're still gonna fucking bleed.He's got the knife against the fuck's throat and he's aching to slice, because to hell with making it slow, when he hears voices in the distance. Running feet. Shit. Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe they've been heard
( ... )
The pain in his scalp and his wrist meld into one, cohesive thing. It almost makes things clearer, condenses it down. The guy's blood is a smear on his hand and his gun is buried somewhere in the drifts around them. The only thing on him that's warm is the blood that's leaking out of him and fuck, that went deeper than he thought. He hears the curses and the taunts over the rushing in his own ears, the frantic way his heart is suddenly beating and the tired, aching weariness is almost all encompassing. He can almost hear her singing. Almost...
Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit
( ... )
But through all that, the bumping and rocking and itchy eyes, all Tom can think about was that the first time he broke orbit with those glaciers spread out below him was with Sophie in the co-pilot seat, watching her laughing with her head tipped back and her hair down, tipsy on strawberries and champagne.
'Love you, Tommy,'When he lands, his name is Zachary Paulson and he's in town on business and his eyes are only damp from recycled air ( ... )
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"Fuck you," Hobbes said. He'd bit the inside of his cheek in the scuffle and his teeth were laced with blood. "You've already killed me, asshole. You're already a murderer. You don't even know who she is. But you should be dead, mother fucker. Dead and buried for what you fucking did."
He lurched suddenly, still bleeding, and pulled a short, serrated knife from his boot. He lashed out gracelessly, trying to make contact with the guy's leg. The good one. He'd paid attention to his information - it had been expensive enough.
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He yelps, a high, embarrassing sound, and his unhurt leg lands a sharp kick against the man's wrist. He sees the green glitter of the aurora in the blade as it goes flying, and then he's got the man's hair in his fist again, and when he jerks it it's hard enough that he feels some rip out in his hand.
"Don't give a shit," he snarls. "Not about you, not whoever the bitch you're talking about is, nothin'. You're already dead? You're still gonna fucking bleed.He's got the knife against the fuck's throat and he's aching to slice, because to hell with making it slow, when he hears voices in the distance. Running feet. Shit. Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe they've been heard ( ... )
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Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit ( ... )
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