When sleep finally washes over her, it is short and fitful. Her dreams are laced with fire, but upon flinching awake, she is clammy and trembling. Arrhythmic, shuddering breaths are all she can hear over the blood thrumming in her ears.
Cook-Cook’s face, twisted in perverse glee as he runs towards her; white teeth gleaming as the flames begin to spark and lick.
The wheezing, croaking rasp coming from the shell once called Robert House. The veins pressing desperately at the surface of his translucent skin – as if trying to escape their 200-year prison. The dark eyes locked onto hers, refusing to acknowledge the barrel of the pistol in front of them. Those eyes were already dead.
Glass shatters; metal screeches. So much noise. Blinding white burns her eyes shut. Heat scrapes against her skin; her ears are ringing, is someone screaming? Knees give way; she sinks to the floor. Tells herself that it’s all for the best, the NCR didn’t deserve the monorail; this is better for everyone, no-one gets hurt. Now get to your feet and get out. She plasters on a shocked expression – not that it’s that hard – and manages to hold it together long enough to stagger out of McCarran without anyone following. Some things are unavoidable.
A breeze caresses her neck as she reaches for the beret. A brow furrows. The questions are cut off before they can start; a sharp crack, and then deafening silence. There is something wet on her face and in her hair and on her clothes and all she can see and smell and taste is red and –
Breathe.
She presses her palms to her temples. Maybe the pressure will keep her head from splitting apart. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her hands won’t stop fucking shaking. She pulls her knees up to rest her forehead against them. Focus on the faint blue-green glow – remember that little night-light mum gave them when they were little? Inhale. Dad plugged it into a fission battery. Exhale. Back when she was scared of the dark. Inhale. Sometimes she isn’t sure if that fear ever truly left. Exhale.
Fingertips brush over the thin line of a scar, and suddenly there is sand in her mouth and a gun in her face. New Vegas flickers on the horizon: a glittering utopia that she’ll never reach. ‘Sorry pussycat.’ The moonlight shines on his polished half-smile. He isn’t sorry at all. ‘Just an 18-karat run of bad luck, dig?’
She is on her feet before she realises, her would-be executioner’s parting words still ringing in her ears. Chilled air breezes past, and the hairs on her arms stand on end. A tank-top and shorts are not meant for desert nights.
She swallows; chastises herself for being so childish. She is Courier Number Six. She crawled out of her own grave. She talked Oliver into turning tail at the Dam. She shook hands with the Legate. It’s ridiculous to be scared now, without reason.
There is a faint noise outside – a gunshot – and she moves without thinking, darting across the floor and slipping between the thin sheets with her pulse far quicker than it should be. She lies still, her eyes struggling to adjust to the room’s murky depths. She is overreacting, and she knows it. Sound travels easily through the still night air: that shot probably came from miles away. Logic won’t stop the threads slowly constricting around her chest.
Inhale. Count to three. A smooth voice is asking her if she wants to talk about it. Exhale. She shakes her head before realising they are in the dark. “No.”
Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears: small, and weak. If the Frumentarius notices, he doesn’t say; just draws her into an embrace.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s more of an observation than a comfort.
Heartbeats (1b/1d)
When sleep finally washes over her, it is short and fitful. Her dreams are laced with fire, but upon flinching awake, she is clammy and trembling. Arrhythmic, shuddering breaths are all she can hear over the blood thrumming in her ears.
Cook-Cook’s face, twisted in perverse glee as he runs towards her; white teeth gleaming as the flames begin to spark and lick.
The wheezing, croaking rasp coming from the shell once called Robert House. The veins pressing desperately at the surface of his translucent skin – as if trying to escape their 200-year prison. The dark eyes locked onto hers, refusing to acknowledge the barrel of the pistol in front of them. Those eyes were already dead.
Glass shatters; metal screeches. So much noise. Blinding white burns her eyes shut. Heat scrapes against her skin; her ears are ringing, is someone screaming? Knees give way; she sinks to the floor. Tells herself that it’s all for the best, the NCR didn’t deserve the monorail; this is better for everyone, no-one gets hurt. Now get to your feet and get out. She plasters on a shocked expression – not that it’s that hard – and manages to hold it together long enough to stagger out of McCarran without anyone following. Some things are unavoidable.
A breeze caresses her neck as she reaches for the beret. A brow furrows. The questions are cut off before they can start; a sharp crack, and then deafening silence. There is something wet on her face and in her hair and on her clothes and all she can see and smell and taste is red and –
Breathe.
She presses her palms to her temples. Maybe the pressure will keep her head from splitting apart. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her hands won’t stop fucking shaking. She pulls her knees up to rest her forehead against them. Focus on the faint blue-green glow – remember that little night-light mum gave them when they were little? Inhale. Dad plugged it into a fission battery. Exhale. Back when she was scared of the dark. Inhale. Sometimes she isn’t sure if that fear ever truly left. Exhale.
Fingertips brush over the thin line of a scar, and suddenly there is sand in her mouth and a gun in her face. New Vegas flickers on the horizon: a glittering utopia that she’ll never reach. ‘Sorry pussycat.’ The moonlight shines on his polished half-smile. He isn’t sorry at all. ‘Just an 18-karat run of bad luck, dig?’
She is on her feet before she realises, her would-be executioner’s parting words still ringing in her ears. Chilled air breezes past, and the hairs on her arms stand on end. A tank-top and shorts are not meant for desert nights.
She swallows; chastises herself for being so childish. She is Courier Number Six. She crawled out of her own grave. She talked Oliver into turning tail at the Dam. She shook hands with the Legate. It’s ridiculous to be scared now, without reason.
There is a faint noise outside – a gunshot – and she moves without thinking, darting across the floor and slipping between the thin sheets with her pulse far quicker than it should be. She lies still, her eyes struggling to adjust to the room’s murky depths. She is overreacting, and she knows it. Sound travels easily through the still night air: that shot probably came from miles away. Logic won’t stop the threads slowly constricting around her chest.
Inhale. Count to three. A smooth voice is asking her if she wants to talk about it. Exhale. She shakes her head before realising they are in the dark. “No.”
Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears: small, and weak. If the Frumentarius notices, he doesn’t say; just draws her into an embrace.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s more of an observation than a comfort.