What Silco recalls of the first twenty-four hours is the taste of ash in his mouth, the strange sense of weightlessness that comes with falling from a great height. He remembers these things, and he remembers Jinx's voice ringing in his ears. Or perhaps he imagines it. He can't quite make out the words.
Day three: The shuttle, though damaged, is whole enough to at least partially mitigate the degree to which the temperature drops at night. He spends the sunlight hours dragging the bodies of their less fortunate compatriots into a row near where they've made camp. He's always been stronger than he looks, but even so, sweat forms patches on his clothes, and his breathing is quick when he finally comes back inside.
The odds and ends he's collected — weapons, ammunition, anything of use — clatter when he sets them down, and the sound seems to pull the corners of his mouth further down, as though in grim acknowledgment of how fragile they are in the face of such an alien world.
He mumbles in his sleep — the beginnings and ends of phrases as though they were still on board the ship, as though he might have changed their fate if he'd been just a little faster, a little smarter. They shouldn't be here, but he'd argue that should has never been the kind of thing those in Piltover have ever really considered. To them, a thief is a thief.
Day five: His whole face is a pallid grey. It's only when his knees buckle beneath him that he allows Jinx to inject him with a dose of Shimmer. (Five syringes left — five shattered upon impact.) He's not the type to apologize, not really, but his gaze communicates a similar sentiment nevertheless — each day has seen him less and less himself, less and less able to assist her as she's taken on the bulk of the work to ensure their safety (to discern the nature of the creatures that come and go around them).
When she's fallen asleep, he counts everything left to them. Water, oxygen canisters, rations. He calculates how long they'd last for two people, and how long they'd last for just one.
He wakes before she does, some time before the blinking light of the scanner goes off. (To think their ship might have survived is not a hope he dares cling to, and yet—) When her eyes open, she'll find him sitting at the edge of her bed, his hand hovering over the round of her shoulder.
Quietly, with a nod at the light: ] It'll be eight days' walk. Seven, if we're unimpeded.
[ His hand settles, warm and solid against her skin. ]
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JINX — VESTA.
What Silco recalls of the first twenty-four hours is the taste of ash in his mouth, the strange sense of weightlessness that comes with falling from a great height. He remembers these things, and he remembers Jinx's voice ringing in his ears. Or perhaps he imagines it. He can't quite make out the words.
Day three: The shuttle, though damaged, is whole enough to at least partially mitigate the degree to which the temperature drops at night. He spends the sunlight hours dragging the bodies of their less fortunate compatriots into a row near where they've made camp. He's always been stronger than he looks, but even so, sweat forms patches on his clothes, and his breathing is quick when he finally comes back inside.
The odds and ends he's collected — weapons, ammunition, anything of use — clatter when he sets them down, and the sound seems to pull the corners of his mouth further down, as though in grim acknowledgment of how fragile they are in the face of such an alien world.
He mumbles in his sleep — the beginnings and ends of phrases as though they were still on board the ship, as though he might have changed their fate if he'd been just a little faster, a little smarter. They shouldn't be here, but he'd argue that should has never been the kind of thing those in Piltover have ever really considered. To them, a thief is a thief.
Day five: His whole face is a pallid grey. It's only when his knees buckle beneath him that he allows Jinx to inject him with a dose of Shimmer. (Five syringes left — five shattered upon impact.) He's not the type to apologize, not really, but his gaze communicates a similar sentiment nevertheless — each day has seen him less and less himself, less and less able to assist her as she's taken on the bulk of the work to ensure their safety (to discern the nature of the creatures that come and go around them).
When she's fallen asleep, he counts everything left to them. Water, oxygen canisters, rations. He calculates how long they'd last for two people, and how long they'd last for just one.
He wakes before she does, some time before the blinking light of the scanner goes off. (To think their ship might have survived is not a hope he dares cling to, and yet—) When her eyes open, she'll find him sitting at the edge of her bed, his hand hovering over the round of her shoulder.
Quietly, with a nod at the light: ] It'll be eight days' walk. Seven, if we're unimpeded.
[ His hand settles, warm and solid against her skin. ]
Are you ready?