simon_doctor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
simon_doctor) wrote2006-07-04 02:57 am
simon_doctor) wrote2006-07-04 02:57 am
(no subject)
In the dream, he's falling.
He was standing on a high place looking down -- far, far down -- at the bonfire below, and the people dancing around it. One of them picked up a long pole and jabbed at the fire with it, and a ball of flame rocketed up towards him. Struck the rock he was standing on. Shattered it. And he fell.
And he's falling.
-----
Simon opens his eyes to the familiar grey walls of his cell on the Kelowna, and closes them again with an almost soundless breath of something too leaden to be despair.
The guards come for him soon, as they always do. He gets to his feet without having to be told, holds out his wrists for the cuffs, moves silently between them as they march him down the corridor.
They let him see River again yesterday. It wasn't really her, of course; it was the lookalike, pretending to be her. They think she's got him fooled. They think he can't tell that the girl who tells him she's all right and they won't hurt her if he cooperates isn't his sister. It scarcely matters. River's around here someplace.
They reach the infirmary, and the nurse hands him a pair of surgical gloves. It's awkward getting them on with the handcuffs -- almost as awkward as the surgery itself will be -- but he manages.
It's not like he has a choice. He's here for a purpose, after all.
The nurse checks the fit of his gloves, makes sure the cuffs are still fastened, helps him on with the mask. Routine. Procedure. He thanks her, tonelessly, and turns as they start bringing in the first patients.
It takes a truly astonishing amount of sedative to quiet a Reaver, but that's all taken care of before they get to him. His job's the harder part: Open the skull. Cut into the brain. Remove the part that makes them what they are.
(He also takes care of the worst of the disfiguring wounds as best he can, but most of them are old, long since healed over. As healed as they ever will be.)
There's always a long line of patients, but today it seems to go on forever. One Reaver after another coming to the operating table, drugged and still twitching; one somnolent patient after another shuffling away, no longer a Reaver. Fixed. Made better. Their faces blur together in front of his eyes, after a while.
Which is why he's three patients further on before it fully registers in his mind that one of the Reavers he fixed was Mal.
-----
Simon opens his eyes to the familiar white ceiling of his bunk on Serenity.
And lies staring at it for several seconds before beginning to shake.
He was standing on a high place looking down -- far, far down -- at the bonfire below, and the people dancing around it. One of them picked up a long pole and jabbed at the fire with it, and a ball of flame rocketed up towards him. Struck the rock he was standing on. Shattered it. And he fell.
And he's falling.
-----
Simon opens his eyes to the familiar grey walls of his cell on the Kelowna, and closes them again with an almost soundless breath of something too leaden to be despair.
The guards come for him soon, as they always do. He gets to his feet without having to be told, holds out his wrists for the cuffs, moves silently between them as they march him down the corridor.
They let him see River again yesterday. It wasn't really her, of course; it was the lookalike, pretending to be her. They think she's got him fooled. They think he can't tell that the girl who tells him she's all right and they won't hurt her if he cooperates isn't his sister. It scarcely matters. River's around here someplace.
They reach the infirmary, and the nurse hands him a pair of surgical gloves. It's awkward getting them on with the handcuffs -- almost as awkward as the surgery itself will be -- but he manages.
It's not like he has a choice. He's here for a purpose, after all.
The nurse checks the fit of his gloves, makes sure the cuffs are still fastened, helps him on with the mask. Routine. Procedure. He thanks her, tonelessly, and turns as they start bringing in the first patients.
It takes a truly astonishing amount of sedative to quiet a Reaver, but that's all taken care of before they get to him. His job's the harder part: Open the skull. Cut into the brain. Remove the part that makes them what they are.
(He also takes care of the worst of the disfiguring wounds as best he can, but most of them are old, long since healed over. As healed as they ever will be.)
There's always a long line of patients, but today it seems to go on forever. One Reaver after another coming to the operating table, drugged and still twitching; one somnolent patient after another shuffling away, no longer a Reaver. Fixed. Made better. Their faces blur together in front of his eyes, after a while.
Which is why he's three patients further on before it fully registers in his mind that one of the Reavers he fixed was Mal.
-----
Simon opens his eyes to the familiar white ceiling of his bunk on Serenity.
And lies staring at it for several seconds before beginning to shake.