AN: A story where history repeats itself. Annihilation.
He's loosing his mind…again. He can feel it unraveling, the threads of every happy memory he could ever once recall, all but a disarray of strings scattered about his feet. Ah! But I don't have a mind to- He can't. He can't bring himself to allow such cheery dialogue to enter his thoughts. Not right now. Not ever again.
He always believed them youthful, impulsive in all that they said and did, especially their captain, but now they are children, their small, vulnerable bodies mangled and tossed about him like rag dolls.
The closest to him is his beautiful navigator. It was true what he had said the first time he had ever set his gaze upon her. She truly was a sight to behold. The bullet had found a spot right between her eyes. Like thunder, the shot cracked through the air, shattering what little vigor she had left burning within those sorrel eyes. He does not wish to touch her, to brush the mud and blood from her brilliant hair, to wipe the sooted tears that have long since cooled against her rotting cheeks. He can only wind his jaw a bit tighter, cry silent, bitter tears without a source. Her eyes are open, all life that was once so promising, drained and replaced with a dull grey that reminds him of ash, but he can't bring himself to close them. If he does that, then it's all over; he'll turn her to memory, like every other wretched thing in his life.
His sharp knees dig into the earth as he hits the ground, his hands unsteady as they claw at the dirt. His anger, his sorrow, the pain, all that pain, so much pain. It's crushing his heart. He opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out, so he looks away, his head quivering as if there is a drill to the back of his skull. His mouth is open, an eternal silenced scream, saliva dripping from behind his teeth and onto the ground, stained with the memory of those he could ever love. His eyes see nothing; they have lost all sight of what is, what could have been. Last time he could manage. Because he had a promise to keep. For his nakama. For Laboon. But now, now his dream is nothing, not without those who believed in it so fervently as he did. Not even that tormenting fog can compare to how lost and alone he feels now.
He can feel it returning, that subtle hum, like that of static when a radio dial is caught between two stations. There's a voice among the fuzz, sometimes singing, other times in conversation. He knows it well, the very same voice that had kept him company so long ago while amidst his desolate voyage. It's faint and fuzzy but he can hear it just fine.
You have no heart to love, nor eyes to cry with. No nerves to percept pain, nor brain to think what could have been. You are a skeleton. A walking embodiment of a dream that should have died along with the man those 52 years ago. It has no right to live, to be pursued, at least not in this lifetime. You missed your chance. You lost out. And so now you are alone. The way you were meant to stay when that first drop of poison blackened your veins. This is your punishment. Your fate. Nothing more, nothing less. Now get up.
And so the skeleton raises its head from its hands, all tears forever dried and forgotten. It brushes itself off and begins to walk, humming a tune that will forever haunt those unfortunate enough to still be living in this cursed world, for this is all it could do. It would become a ghost among men. A rumor among wives. A thrilling nightmare among children. It would drift along the earth with no name to its bones. Just an aimless memory of a man who once had a voice, some friends, and a dream waiting for him on the other side of the world.
Dormez bien, mes amis.