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Mar. 24th, 2011 01:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3nanashiHe's cold.
He's in A-- He's in a place he should know. He almost does. There's ice everywhere, stretching to every horizon.
It's not featureless, of course. This is a real place, and landscapes don't work that way. It curves in wind-sculpted eddies, looms in knife-edged crumbling cliffs, plunges into black crevasses. The exposed bones of the ice cap are blue-green in sunlight. From everywhere comes the slow groan of glacial motion straining against itself, the buried creaking of sea under ice.
It's supposed to be all right if you're in a mobile suit. He thought it would be sufficient -- the insulation, the armor. Even in a dream he could quote you detailed figures. But in a dream, the figures are somehow insufficient. The wind's cutting through, and all he has is Trowa Barton's (isn't that his own?) old jumpsuit. He's shivering.
If he could remember the way back, that would be fine. But he can't. He didn't prepare right -- he did something wrong, he didn't do enough, he can't remember, and without that he can't move. Every step could take him onto a snow-covered crevasse, and Heavyarms would break right through the crust. He can't move. He can't remember which way to go.
He should be able to remember. But he can't.
The cross around his neck is ticking. It'll blow up soon, and take all of them with it, and he can't afford that, he won't do it, but he can't figure out the way back. He can't disarm it, and he can't get back, and he can't think. It's too cold.
There's snow heaped past his knees. He needs to go.
At least everyone went away. He didn't trap anyone else here, but he needs to do this, he needs to remember what he needs to do, he needs to--
Trowa's awake, like a stick snapping. No immediate threats -- wall to his back, gun within reach, lying down, no one in the room but someone at the door--
Quatre.
His bunkmate. Expected. Okay.
Trowa's awake. Fully, and not just the half-understood instincts that pull him from sleep into battle-assessment. His heart is beating fast, but he can keep his breathing slow and normal. He's awake, in his room on Peacemillion, and the blankets have slipped off him and the clock is ticking softly, and Quatre's at the door.
(His dream has shattered into fragments, disconnected and ungraspable, and the lingering adrenaline of something formless.)
He breathes out, and meets Quatre's eyes.
He's in A-- He's in a place he should know. He almost does. There's ice everywhere, stretching to every horizon.
It's not featureless, of course. This is a real place, and landscapes don't work that way. It curves in wind-sculpted eddies, looms in knife-edged crumbling cliffs, plunges into black crevasses. The exposed bones of the ice cap are blue-green in sunlight. From everywhere comes the slow groan of glacial motion straining against itself, the buried creaking of sea under ice.
It's supposed to be all right if you're in a mobile suit. He thought it would be sufficient -- the insulation, the armor. Even in a dream he could quote you detailed figures. But in a dream, the figures are somehow insufficient. The wind's cutting through, and all he has is Trowa Barton's (isn't that his own?) old jumpsuit. He's shivering.
If he could remember the way back, that would be fine. But he can't. He didn't prepare right -- he did something wrong, he didn't do enough, he can't remember, and without that he can't move. Every step could take him onto a snow-covered crevasse, and Heavyarms would break right through the crust. He can't move. He can't remember which way to go.
He should be able to remember. But he can't.
The cross around his neck is ticking. It'll blow up soon, and take all of them with it, and he can't afford that, he won't do it, but he can't figure out the way back. He can't disarm it, and he can't get back, and he can't think. It's too cold.
There's snow heaped past his knees. He needs to go.
At least everyone went away. He didn't trap anyone else here, but he needs to do this, he needs to remember what he needs to do, he needs to--
Trowa's awake, like a stick snapping. No immediate threats -- wall to his back, gun within reach, lying down, no one in the room but someone at the door--
Quatre.
His bunkmate. Expected. Okay.
Trowa's awake. Fully, and not just the half-understood instincts that pull him from sleep into battle-assessment. His heart is beating fast, but he can keep his breathing slow and normal. He's awake, in his room on Peacemillion, and the blankets have slipped off him and the clock is ticking softly, and Quatre's at the door.
(His dream has shattered into fragments, disconnected and ungraspable, and the lingering adrenaline of something formless.)
He breathes out, and meets Quatre's eyes.
