( it almost seems like poetic justice when they're hit and falling too fast to stop a horrible impact. for so long he's felt a draw to abel that he can't even really explain. it's stupid, oh it's so stupid. it was only ever going to end poorly. and, it did. just like he expected. when they're facing mass extinction against a hostile group of aliens, what other ending is there? then, somehow they found their way back together again. when his new assignment was given, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. now, only a few short days later, praxis is pretty sure he's going to die.
the fighter hits the ground because there's nothing that can be done. a hit to the engine never spells anything but trouble. all systems are failing, and no matter what he does he knows they're going to hit the ground. hard.
they do, and praxis gets ejected from the fighter. he doesn't know how far he actually goes, because once he stops -- by means of crashing into a surface hard enough to steal his breath -- he fades from conscious thought altogether. there's no real way to tell how long he stays out, only that something stirs in the depths of his mind. for a few minutes, he's not sure what. everything is muddled and hazy. slow as molasses, there's a tendril of recognition that tickles in his mind. a voice he'd recognize anywhere. it's abel.
reality or a dream, he can't be sure. praxis tries to open his mouth, but nothing happens and no sound comes out. there's a ringing in his ears and his chest burns as if it's on fire. he tries to get his eye open, but can't seem to gather the willpower to do even that. he's got to struggle against that, though. he can't just lie here. with a great deal of determination -- so much so that he breaks a sweat from doing just this -- he gets his arm up. )
Here.
( his voice is a rasp, the back of his throat dry and shredded. it's only now when he finally does get his eye open that he sees the visor of his helmet is completely shattered and gone. he wheezes before trying again. )
no subject
the fighter hits the ground because there's nothing that can be done. a hit to the engine never spells anything but trouble. all systems are failing, and no matter what he does he knows they're going to hit the ground. hard.
they do, and praxis gets ejected from the fighter. he doesn't know how far he actually goes, because once he stops -- by means of crashing into a surface hard enough to steal his breath -- he fades from conscious thought altogether. there's no real way to tell how long he stays out, only that something stirs in the depths of his mind. for a few minutes, he's not sure what. everything is muddled and hazy. slow as molasses, there's a tendril of recognition that tickles in his mind. a voice he'd recognize anywhere. it's abel.
reality or a dream, he can't be sure. praxis tries to open his mouth, but nothing happens and no sound comes out. there's a ringing in his ears and his chest burns as if it's on fire. he tries to get his eye open, but can't seem to gather the willpower to do even that. he's got to struggle against that, though. he can't just lie here. with a great deal of determination -- so much so that he breaks a sweat from doing just this -- he gets his arm up. )
Here.
( his voice is a rasp, the back of his throat dry and shredded. it's only now when he finally does get his eye open that he sees the visor of his helmet is completely shattered and gone. he wheezes before trying again. )
Over here.