Post by Cid on Oct 7, 2010 21:38:44 GMT -5
"'And he rests now, near his companions, in the coral cemetery?'
'Yes, forgotten by all else, but not by us. We dug the grave and the polypi undertake to seal our dead for eternity.' And burying his face quickly in his hands, he tried in vain to suppress a sob. Then he added: 'Our peaceful cemetery is there, some hundred feet below the surface of the waves.'
'Your dead sleep quietly, at least, captain, out of the reach of sharks.'
'Yes, sir, of sharks and men,' gravely replied the captain."
~M. Aronnax and Captain Nemo, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
---
Mutie had to be confined to his quarters after putting on quite a display on the bridge. Sayer had deemed him unfit for duty and "lark full o' sprat," whatever that meant. No one had listened, he had felt the Captain out in the deep, treading water as if his life depended on it. He knew he was alive, just like he knew, somehow, that he was still. The latter simply intuitive--if the Captain had survived the encounter with the Shiny Men, he'd never let himself be taken by mere nature. He knew him too well for that, and he'd hate to see the day the Captain bursts through the door, covered in kelp, demanding to know why Sayer hadn't come back for him. He knew Sayer wouldn't last a minute, no matter how good a plead he'd offer.
The mute boy swiveled in his hammock, something he'd brought over from <i>Ol' Jove's Bones</i>. Thankfully, because she was no more than a piece of stardust now. He'd really miss that frig. Though he'd greatly taken pleasure in steering the ginormous one, Bone had been his first, and he knew what she meant to the Captain. That's something they'd all have to answer for. Luckily he hadn't been piloting her at the time, because he knew no matter how dead that explosion had made him, the Captain would still be disappointed.
He swiveled some more, small within the seemingly giant exec officer's quarters. He'd been given them for no real reason other than to spite Sayer, who was still staying near the engine core. The cowardly second did little to reverse any of the Captain's standing orders. Either for fear of rebut, or because he was just plain afraid, which meant he, too, knew the Captain was probably still alive. Either that, or he really was as superstitious as he claimed to be. Mutie hardly knew any of these words, but didn't worry. He never actually thought in words. Images and eerie caricatures filled his mind whenever he was forced to rest. He hated being alone. All that filled his head was the bleary-eyed, shaggy pirate grinning behind his door, arms like mobile suits ready to snatch him up and put him out an airlock.
Mutie did now what he'd never done before., not in his fifteen long years as an invalid. He slowly untangled himself from his hammock, got down on his knees as best he could, and cursed God for taking the only real human being left in the solar system.
---
The bar had closed one hour ago, and thirty minutes ago, after a pretty one-sided fight, he'd been thrown out the back and into some dog piss. His head throbbed like the molten center of Jove. He pushed himself upright finally and wondered where he'd gotten that thought. Someone had stole his thoughts, he'd surmised the day he'd crashed the shuttle into port. Some long weeks in the deep had brought him to this conclusion. Someone had took them, because he knew not what or who he was, but he knew things. It was a good day when he was able to string together so many thoughts--today was apparently a good day--so it was no exaggeration that there were many holes where memories and dreams and lust used to reside. Now all he cared about was plugging his hole and the occasional tilly that would have him.
He was a shell, and some nights when he wasn't too loaded, he had dreams that weren't his, of places and people he'd never met. He felt possessed, and it made him overcome with a debilitating sadness. He would wake sobbing, unable to breathe, snot covering his orifices. His cardboard would be gone, stolen by tyrants. When he was finally able to take control of himself, an overwhelming solitude would pervade and keep him staring up and out the colony's glass. He looked and looked, unable to find anything--not a soul. He would look until his eyes dried up like prunes, but nothing would be there, only the lasting emptiness of something that wasn't his anymore.
One of those nights he would not wake up at all.
'Yes, forgotten by all else, but not by us. We dug the grave and the polypi undertake to seal our dead for eternity.' And burying his face quickly in his hands, he tried in vain to suppress a sob. Then he added: 'Our peaceful cemetery is there, some hundred feet below the surface of the waves.'
'Your dead sleep quietly, at least, captain, out of the reach of sharks.'
'Yes, sir, of sharks and men,' gravely replied the captain."
~M. Aronnax and Captain Nemo, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
---
Mutie had to be confined to his quarters after putting on quite a display on the bridge. Sayer had deemed him unfit for duty and "lark full o' sprat," whatever that meant. No one had listened, he had felt the Captain out in the deep, treading water as if his life depended on it. He knew he was alive, just like he knew, somehow, that he was still. The latter simply intuitive--if the Captain had survived the encounter with the Shiny Men, he'd never let himself be taken by mere nature. He knew him too well for that, and he'd hate to see the day the Captain bursts through the door, covered in kelp, demanding to know why Sayer hadn't come back for him. He knew Sayer wouldn't last a minute, no matter how good a plead he'd offer.
The mute boy swiveled in his hammock, something he'd brought over from <i>Ol' Jove's Bones</i>. Thankfully, because she was no more than a piece of stardust now. He'd really miss that frig. Though he'd greatly taken pleasure in steering the ginormous one, Bone had been his first, and he knew what she meant to the Captain. That's something they'd all have to answer for. Luckily he hadn't been piloting her at the time, because he knew no matter how dead that explosion had made him, the Captain would still be disappointed.
He swiveled some more, small within the seemingly giant exec officer's quarters. He'd been given them for no real reason other than to spite Sayer, who was still staying near the engine core. The cowardly second did little to reverse any of the Captain's standing orders. Either for fear of rebut, or because he was just plain afraid, which meant he, too, knew the Captain was probably still alive. Either that, or he really was as superstitious as he claimed to be. Mutie hardly knew any of these words, but didn't worry. He never actually thought in words. Images and eerie caricatures filled his mind whenever he was forced to rest. He hated being alone. All that filled his head was the bleary-eyed, shaggy pirate grinning behind his door, arms like mobile suits ready to snatch him up and put him out an airlock.
Mutie did now what he'd never done before., not in his fifteen long years as an invalid. He slowly untangled himself from his hammock, got down on his knees as best he could, and cursed God for taking the only real human being left in the solar system.
---
The bar had closed one hour ago, and thirty minutes ago, after a pretty one-sided fight, he'd been thrown out the back and into some dog piss. His head throbbed like the molten center of Jove. He pushed himself upright finally and wondered where he'd gotten that thought. Someone had stole his thoughts, he'd surmised the day he'd crashed the shuttle into port. Some long weeks in the deep had brought him to this conclusion. Someone had took them, because he knew not what or who he was, but he knew things. It was a good day when he was able to string together so many thoughts--today was apparently a good day--so it was no exaggeration that there were many holes where memories and dreams and lust used to reside. Now all he cared about was plugging his hole and the occasional tilly that would have him.
He was a shell, and some nights when he wasn't too loaded, he had dreams that weren't his, of places and people he'd never met. He felt possessed, and it made him overcome with a debilitating sadness. He would wake sobbing, unable to breathe, snot covering his orifices. His cardboard would be gone, stolen by tyrants. When he was finally able to take control of himself, an overwhelming solitude would pervade and keep him staring up and out the colony's glass. He looked and looked, unable to find anything--not a soul. He would look until his eyes dried up like prunes, but nothing would be there, only the lasting emptiness of something that wasn't his anymore.
One of those nights he would not wake up at all.