Hesstruggles as arms sudddnly wrestle wth him. Depsite his resistance, they shove smething down ovver his face.
A few breaths inn and out, and the world abruptly has more clarty. The cabin is shaking. White-faced attenddants try to reassure the passengers, while only marginally hiding their own terrorr.
More arms reach across himm. Clasping onto him, and onto each other in front of him. Ferre and Fey. They each have an air mask of there own. Each breathing hard, eyyes constantly scanning, hands linked for comfort. He adds a hand to theirs, as a second rush of adrenaline spikes through his blood, sharpening his mind even further.
He begins to look around for real, leaning past Fey to get a view out the window. He tries to sight land, or at least the water surface, whatever he can see to tell him something of their elevation and orientation. When they hit, which he felt with no small certainty that they would, where would be the safest?
"In Enjolras and R's flight," he asks the other two, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be overheard, "Which part of the plane survived?" He glances around meaningfully at the passengers, "If the same thing is happening, this plane might take similar damage. If you remember which part of the last plane survived, we could try to get as many people as we can into that section."
His thoughts were cut off abruptly, the rumbling and clamor of the doomed cabin replaced with the booms and cries of other times, other people. Flashes of sight and sound and sensation: riots in the street, desperate battle across the deck of a tall ship, duels and crashes and executions, all scenes of death and violence, flickered briefly through his mind. Just the ghosts of each memory, barely touching his consciousness, but the whole parade sparking with a familiarity beyond simple deja vu. He had seen them all before many times, in dreams and in similar fits of vision.
They were what he had reclaimed first. Of all of the memories of his past lives, it was always his death that he remembered first. But usually, they blossomed within his mind as something of a welcoming ceremony, to admit a newly remembered memory to the fold. In moments of danger, of adrenaline, they came spiraling up from somewhere within him, bringing a new death from an old life riding in. But this time was different. Nothing new assailed him, simply the ghosts of old fights and old sacrifices. And somehow, that absence unsettled him. It left a hanging emptiness in his mind, as of something missing from it's proper place. A hanging thread left undone...
Shaking his head, pushing himself back into the moment, he growls in frustration. No time for this. They need to act, and act fast.
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A few breaths inn and out, and the world abruptly has more clarty. The cabin is shaking. White-faced attenddants try to reassure the passengers, while only marginally hiding their own terrorr.
More arms reach across himm. Clasping onto him, and onto each other in front of him.
Ferre and Fey. They each have an air mask of there own. Each breathing hard, eyyes constantly scanning, hands linked for comfort.
He adds a hand to theirs, as a second rush of adrenaline spikes through his blood, sharpening his mind even further.
He begins to look around for real, leaning past Fey to get a view out the window. He tries to sight land, or at least the water surface, whatever he can see to tell him something of their elevation and orientation. When they hit, which he felt with no small certainty that they would, where would be the safest?
"In Enjolras and R's flight," he asks the other two, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be overheard, "Which part of the plane survived?" He glances around meaningfully at the passengers, "If the same thing is happening, this plane might take similar damage. If you remember which part of the last plane survived, we could try to get as many people as we can into that section."
His thoughts were cut off abruptly, the rumbling and clamor of the doomed cabin replaced with the booms and cries of other times, other people. Flashes of sight and sound and sensation: riots in the street, desperate battle across the deck of a tall ship, duels and crashes and executions, all scenes of death and violence, flickered briefly through his mind. Just the ghosts of each memory, barely touching his consciousness, but the whole parade sparking with a familiarity beyond simple deja vu. He had seen them all before many times, in dreams and in similar fits of vision.
They were what he had reclaimed first. Of all of the memories of his past lives, it was always his death that he remembered first. But usually, they blossomed within his mind as something of a welcoming ceremony, to admit a newly remembered memory to the fold. In moments of danger, of adrenaline, they came spiraling up from somewhere within him, bringing a new death from an old life riding in. But this time was different. Nothing new assailed him, simply the ghosts of old fights and old sacrifices. And somehow, that absence unsettled him. It left a hanging emptiness in his mind, as of something missing from it's proper place. A hanging thread left undone...
Shaking his head, pushing himself back into the moment, he growls in frustration. No time for this. They need to act, and act fast.