"We can change it," said Dan, and then he died.
This, then that. Cause and effect.
This is important, Daniel, so pay attention. His mother used to say that a lot. It's self-fulfilling prophecy, or irony, or karma, or something literary and obtuse like that. It's probably a physical law, too. Motion, maybe; something fundamental and proactive. But he doesn't remember those things anymore.
He died--it ended; all in one instant; he always knew that life is finite, that circles run their course; he can't exactly, you know, say he wasn't surprised, but it is different on the other end, somehow. He died of a bullet wound to the abdomen, a stabbing gush of red from his stomach bubbling up in his mouth, a taste like betrayal. The red made him think, think on hyperspeed, on overdrive, think about fire and firepower and the logistics of the bullet hurtling through particles of fractured air and ergo, red dresses and ginger hair and dying stars and a sickness he could neither name or tame. He has a lot of time for thinking now.
Charlotte taught him to shoot--she did, or she tried; or, no, she will. Or maybe she is, at this very instant, this moment in time, and he just doesn't--or does--know it yet.
(He remembers. He remembers this, at least.)
She tosses a playing card up into the salty sea-wind and blasts the joker's laughing head off with her eyes--well, not quite closed, that's impossible, more like squinted--in concentration. Ka-blam, goes the gun and consequently Dan's heart, stuttering some kind of bastardized Morse code; Miles grunts in appreciation, leaning sideways against the rail. Target practice: not just for Keamy and his goons. It's the closest he'll ever get to a compliment. Charlotte cocks the pistol and smiles, a high, light movement, whistling air whipping long orange tendrils into her half-open mouth, her shoulders held back, proud, against the brisk breeze. Maybe Dan's silence has some invisible magnitude, because after a second and a half she turns to him, luxuriously expectant, expectant with the carelessness of one who knows that what they expect exists.
He starts--yes, of course--and grimaces his embarrassment. Time hangs thickly around his lungs; the outline of her body is blurry and getting paler by regular degrees, but maybe if he does something--maybe if he speaks--maybe then this will be real again. Bulls-eye, he says, clapping once, twice, reeling back a little, patting down his tie with one stumbling hand, grinning in trepidation. I, you know, I'll just leave you to it--
Charlotte grabs him by the forearm, chuckling. I'm not letting you off the hook this time, Daniel. See this? Her voice is sharp and light and warm, and he knows it makes his face twitch in a strange way. This is a trigger. The boat hums beneath their feet and three cool fingers press into the space between the tectonic plates of his shoulderblades, guiding the gun into place, manipulating his spine into a straight line. He smiles and inclines his head. He gets it now.
Miles sighs, loudly, but Dan knows also fondly, the sound ragged and torn-off in Daniel's water-filled ears, and tells them to get a room. Charlotte sticks out her tongue at Dan, briefly, and maybe she crosses her eyes or maybe it's just the light playing tricks on him, before wiping her sweaty hands on the front of her jeans.
You see? That wasn't so bad. He nods, and then, with a rapid twist of his fingers, feels the gun blast in his nerve endings before he hears it. The bullet tears into the clear, sun-rippled horizon, a spattering into a rich line of blood-red cloud.
Red sky in morning, sailor's warning, Charlotte remarks, crossing her arms across her chest. Dan sighs and feels the gun beginning to blur into his hand, feels himself melting back into ash and dust. Charlotte disappears, or he does. Either way, he is gone.
(This is important, Daniel, so pay attention.)
Right.
"We can change it," said Dan, and then he died.
(Are you paying attention?)