The pain didn't bring him around. The noise did. He was being called for. The sound of his own name--not loud, but it threatened to split his skull anyway--and a ragged chorus of coughing.
There, again, louder. He knew that voice, even shattered and thready.
Nero. Nero was alive.
Ayel lifted his head and immediately wished he hadn't. Sparks and color flooded his vision, green white screaming violet black, and when he screamed back at it, he tasted blood. It hurt much more than being shot.
He'd been shot! That was it, that was...and then nothing, and now this. Whatever this was.
Either he was dead, and this was hell, or he was not dead, but prisoner, and this was the enemy ship. But if it were, would Nero be calling for him?
"Captain." His head wanted to explode, starting in the back. He made himself say it again. "Captain?"
He wanted to die. But not like this. Not in a huddle on the floor, clutching his face with wet hands that stank of copper
( ... )
He had called out his first officer's name before he considered it. Whether he held specific hope that the man was on board or that he was alive, he couldn't identify. He had known Ayel for many years, met him nearly before his wife. The memory bubbled up and his voice refused him. Unconsciously he repeated the name again.
When Ayel's voice resounded in the black, his attention peaked. His head whipped round and the distant glimmer of uneven green greeted him. He heard it again, fainter, or louder, he wasn't certain. The shuffle of pipes, falling glass, and the slide of...there was nothing.
“Sir, where are you?”Nero did not answer, half convinced that he was dead and this sound was a phantom. He moved, haphazardly picking through his spatial memory. This was the bridge. He walked into a collapsed panel. The ore collector. His foot hit a broad pipe. Engineering. Everything had collapsed on top of itself
( ... )
His eyes were still spitting lights at him, jagged bolts he knew were coming from inside his head. He'd been concussed more than a few times in training...He'd been so glad to make the scores that got him into the nav program.
Hadn't really gotten him anywhere. Had gotten him here. In the dark and the cold, lost, Nero somewhere he couldn't get to, because he could barely walk straight. He wanted to sick up. Tried it, half-heartedly, and found his stomach hurt too much to up-end itself.
So much glass. More of that than anything else, crunching underfoot like ice. There was a bit of sheet metal--the side of something, a console maybe--in his way. The etchings there glinted at him: Rihanh letters.
This was their ship, then. Narada. What was left of her.
He kicked the panel out of his way, ignoring the knives it sent up his side, tugging at his heart. It felt good to strike something. He walked a little further, still listening for footsteps and hearing a few, but not enough to track.
Keep saying it, just once more; I know you're
( ... )
Nero took in a sharp breath as he heard that name. His feet moved, the crunch of glass the the scattering clatter of a pipe as he pushed through the debris. If he was dreaming, hallucinating, then this world was crueler than he'd anticipated. He tore into the darkness, only the distant glimmer of green to provide direction, and as he moved he slowed.
He could hear breathing, strained and uneven, and it was not his own. He moved toward it. His hands were cold, and numb-he contacted fabric and they hesitated. A chair? He gripped it and felt it move, no.
“Ayel?” he repeated, lowly, desperately. The fabric was cold and damp. Nero took in a sharp breath, his fingers twisting in the fabric. Was he speaking to a corpse? “Aehallh? Or..”
Nero watched Ayel wrap into himself, pulling a coat that was half blood but all living, and his breath rattled deep-this time it was the ship that coughed. A sputtering kick, deep beneath them, thick and far inside the walls. He could hear the distant slide of metal against metal, the jerking hitch as something light caught and attempted to slide by again, or perhaps it was buried in his skull, rattling against his ears.
Was his head full of foreign metal, like his ship?
Nero glanced away from Ayel, down, at the black and green smears across the floor. The capacitor gel did not flicker, not like the forcefields, it did not give him the illusion of movement. Only the clear stillness of death. Green was Mandana's favorite color; it was the color of her eyes. He couldn't hate it but couldn't tolerate the crushing sorrow it fostered in his soul. He could hate the blood, the distant forcefields, the green wheezing sound that leaked from the metal beneath them, scraping, biting, and quietly, listlessly turning.
Nero started walking, his boots swishing softly through the jade tinted coolant. His coat was heavy in uneven patches, it hung from him like lead. The hallway curved, short and sharp, and the shadows before him didn't make sense as he approached the compressor. The filters were hitching, the great blades of the compressor fan slid loosely, with listless, testing, Etrevon motions. He stepped closer and the light brought them out, sharp and clear, and he saw his friends.
Two, he thought, trapped in the grate and the grind of the atmosphere recycler. His eyes searched for hands, for arms, for a swirl of cohesive black among them, but he could find nothing. They were not his family. Not anymore. He stepped forward and slid the pipe between the slats in the floor, stabbing it down into the coolant as sharply as the teral'n. The light atop it shone evenly as he moved to the machine. It cast his shadow hard across the twisted shapes, more than half Romulan, corrupted and twisted by the technology he'd fitted atop it. The same technology
( ... )
The deck reeled under him--no, it was his legs; they wouldn't stop shaking. Gods. He could taste it in the air, clotting on the back of his tongue
( ... )
Water lapped his boots. Was it water? It sloshed, thick and heady against the leather around his legs. His eyes drifted downward, away from the idle, conscious spinning of the blades. The shadows around him made no sense. He could very nearly see his reflection, green and brown, glinting in the calf-deep liquid. The capacitor gel shone over his shoulder, reflecting sharply as a star, and he blinked, turning away
( ... )
Ayel resigned himself to another mess on his sleeve--"clean" was a memory, like "warm" or "safe" or "victorious"--and collected himself in layers, starting with what he knew.
They had lost. Obviously. They were badly disabled. Also obviously. And they were the only--he had to stop thinking about it; one disgrace was enough.
He turned, literally put the filters behind him, and started down the corridor with, "Pardon, rekkhai," to let Nero know where he was going.
If the other man could hear him. Even after all this time, it could be a risky thing to tell when he was being looked at and when he was being looked through. But he had to move if he was going to find an intact console. Or even part of one. Something that worked or could be made to work; the line that ran the filters was too primitive
( ... )
Ayel rose from his side and the air stirred as he did so. Once the gap of him had faded, alongside his rekkhai, Nero drew himself off the floor. Ayel worked, clipping pieces of the ship and sliding fingers across glass-Nero could see him, even as he looked away
( ... )
Comments 21
There, again, louder. He knew that voice, even shattered and thready.
Nero. Nero was alive.
Ayel lifted his head and immediately wished he hadn't. Sparks and color flooded his vision, green white screaming violet black, and when he screamed back at it, he tasted blood. It hurt much more than being shot.
He'd been shot! That was it, that was...and then nothing, and now this. Whatever this was.
Either he was dead, and this was hell, or he was not dead, but prisoner, and this was the enemy ship. But if it were, would Nero be calling for him?
"Captain." His head wanted to explode, starting in the back. He made himself say it again. "Captain?"
He wanted to die. But not like this. Not in a huddle on the floor, clutching his face with wet hands that stank of copper ( ... )
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When Ayel's voice resounded in the black, his attention peaked. His head whipped round and the distant glimmer of uneven green greeted him. He heard it again, fainter, or louder, he wasn't certain. The shuffle of pipes, falling glass, and the slide of...there was nothing.
“Sir, where are you?”Nero did not answer, half convinced that he was dead and this sound was a phantom. He moved, haphazardly picking through his spatial memory. This was the bridge. He walked into a collapsed panel. The ore collector. His foot hit a broad pipe. Engineering. Everything had collapsed on top of itself ( ... )
Reply
Hadn't really gotten him anywhere. Had gotten him here. In the dark and the cold, lost, Nero somewhere he couldn't get to, because he could barely walk straight. He wanted to sick up. Tried it, half-heartedly, and found his stomach hurt too much to up-end itself.
So much glass. More of that than anything else, crunching underfoot like ice. There was a bit of sheet metal--the side of something, a console maybe--in his way. The etchings there glinted at him: Rihanh letters.
This was their ship, then. Narada. What was left of her.
He kicked the panel out of his way, ignoring the knives it sent up his side, tugging at his heart. It felt good to strike something. He walked a little further, still listening for footsteps and hearing a few, but not enough to track.
Keep saying it, just once more; I know you're ( ... )
Reply
He could hear breathing, strained and uneven, and it was not his own. He moved toward it. His hands were cold, and numb-he contacted fabric and they hesitated. A chair? He gripped it and felt it move, no.
“Ayel?” he repeated, lowly, desperately. The fabric was cold and damp. Nero took in a sharp breath, his fingers twisting in the fabric. Was he speaking to a corpse? “Aehallh? Or..”
(Aehallh - Nightmare, false image)
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Was his head full of foreign metal, like his ship?
Nero glanced away from Ayel, down, at the black and green smears across the floor. The capacitor gel did not flicker, not like the forcefields, it did not give him the illusion of movement. Only the clear stillness of death. Green was Mandana's favorite color; it was the color of her eyes. He couldn't hate it but couldn't tolerate the crushing sorrow it fostered in his soul. He could hate the blood, the distant forcefields, the green wheezing sound that leaked from the metal beneath them, scraping, biting, and quietly, listlessly turning.
“Etrevon,” Nero uttered ( ... )
Reply
Two, he thought, trapped in the grate and the grind of the atmosphere recycler. His eyes searched for hands, for arms, for a swirl of cohesive black among them, but he could find nothing. They were not his family. Not anymore. He stepped forward and slid the pipe between the slats in the floor, stabbing it down into the coolant as sharply as the teral'n. The light atop it shone evenly as he moved to the machine. It cast his shadow hard across the twisted shapes, more than half Romulan, corrupted and twisted by the technology he'd fitted atop it. The same technology ( ... )
Reply
The deck reeled under him--no, it was his legs; they wouldn't stop shaking. Gods. He could taste it in the air, clotting on the back of his tongue ( ... )
Reply
Reply
They had lost. Obviously. They were badly disabled. Also obviously. And they were the only--he had to stop thinking about it; one disgrace was enough.
He turned, literally put the filters behind him, and started down the corridor with, "Pardon, rekkhai," to let Nero know where he was going.
If the other man could hear him. Even after all this time, it could be a risky thing to tell when he was being looked at and when he was being looked through. But he had to move if he was going to find an intact console. Or even part of one. Something that worked or could be made to work; the line that ran the filters was too primitive ( ... )
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