Title: Sunlight Will Never Touch The Depths
Author: James Walkswithwind
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Summary: Prequel to Hunters Under. Benjamin deals with a past mission.
Notes: Can't promise I'll work on this fast, but I had some pages' worth and thought I'd share. This story won't make as much sense unless you read Hunters Under, first, even though it is a prequel.
Sunshine Will Never Touch the Depths
The screams haunted him at night. Afterwards, he couldn't remember where they came from, he only knew he should have known what they were. He didn't want to ask; he didn't want to remember because then he'd know -- and something told him he was better off not knowing. In his dreams he was always afraid that one of them might realize he'd forgotten, that they would hear it in his voice or see it in his eyes somehow, and they'd yell at him again, accuse him, chastise him, blame him.. Each day as he awoke, he listened, waiting for the screams to fade, and wondered when they ever would.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
There came a knock at the door, and Benjamin set his journal down. In the seconds it took to cross to the door he'd calmed and composed himself. With a bright, inquiring smile he answered the door, somewhat surprised -- and gratified -- there had been a knock at all. Most of his shipmates felt free to walk in, as his room was also his office. The fantasies of finding a lock to put on the door usually faded before he could requisition anything really useful, though.
He gave Ensign Wollers a cheerful greeting, and stepped back to let her inside, listening half-heartedly to her requisition and completely ignoring the paperwork she was trying to hand him. He didn't worry about locks right now, though, only about the extra box of toothpaste which was supposed to be on the shelf somewhere. He found it and handed a tube over, finally accepting the papers and setting them on a shelf behind him. Another cheerful farewell, and he shut the door behind her and he started back for the bed, to pick up the journal again.
Where he stopped. Did he really want to read it?
He'd been digging through his older journals, skimming the pages for some clue as to his nightmares. He'd never written anything down in detail -- a serious breach of security that would have had him in deeper water than even the seaQuest could rescue him out of. But he did write down things he felt, and thought, and saw in his off-duty hours, hints that only someone who knew Benjamin's own head would understand the significance of. Nothing concrete, still nothing more than a clue for detail -- but things, diaphanous and misleadingly normal, that they served only as reminders of what he'd really done, and said, and believed.
He hadn't been able to find any entries which explained the feelings he had when he awoke. These dreams he'd had for months, now, dreams he could not recollect having before, nor recollect their origin. The missions he remembered over the last year -- every mission he'd *ever* had, since the first time the Colonel had sent the group of boys out into the ocean alone with nothing but their training and their orders to hold them up -- told him nothing. Successes, failures, call it a draw and get out alive, all their missions were accounted for.
But something had happened, because in his dreams he could see his comrades. He could hear their shouts and feel the comfortable weight of his equipment on his back and at his waist. He could even, sometimes if he awoke too soon, hear the faint ping of the sonar at his jaw. That told him it was recent -- recent enough that they'd been given those new toys to use. A year ago he'd still been using nighthawks and infrared scopes.
There was only one entry which made him think his dreams were memories, rather than fears blossoming into phantom scenarios. A few scrawled pages, left loose in a book so he could not determine when they'd been written. They'd been torn out of the back of a blank book, and stuffed into a book he'd filled four years before. Nothing on them that made any sense, nothing that anyone else would interpret as anything other than wishful thinking, dreams of vacation, and fantasy. Nothing except the words scattered here and there, the sentence that made him think he must have been drunk when he'd written them. He'd written that he wanted to go to the Catalinas, instead of down. He had enjoyed the last set of movie disks and would not order any more from that company again. Stop playing cards in the middle of the night and try to get a little more sleep. Stop playing computer games with Lucas because he kept losing. Stop playing music so loud it made his ears ring. Right at the end, he'd written, "Sunshine doesn't reach the depths of the ocean floor."
Benjamin had no clue what it meant. He wished he could just assume he *had* been drunk off his ass, and written nonsense. Only...he didn't get that drunk. Not when he was off-base, and there was a chance he'd get called up. He knew he'd been trying to say something. Only he didn't know what, anymore.
Did he really want to remember? Did he really want to know what must have happened, that had been so bad he'd somehow made himself forget? He decided he didn't want to know, not yet, not now. Not while he was still on this ship, surrounded by people who didn't, wouldn't, couldn't understand, even if they'd been allowed to know. He had to keep his silence and hope that when he got some leave scraped together he could go find someone who might know.
Benjamin spent a few moments relaxing, meditating, making sure the lack of memories wouldn't drive him to distraction, easing away from the feelings the dreams stirred in him every time he woke. Then he left the room to do something that had nothing to do with working, or reading, or remembering. The gym offered a nice retreat, and he spent some quality time with hand weights which would have been too heavy, if he'd been paying proper attention.
Author: James Walkswithwind
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit made
Summary: Prequel to Hunters Under. Benjamin deals with a past mission.
Notes: Can't promise I'll work on this fast, but I had some pages' worth and thought I'd share. This story won't make as much sense unless you read Hunters Under, first, even though it is a prequel.
Sunshine Will Never Touch the Depths
The screams haunted him at night. Afterwards, he couldn't remember where they came from, he only knew he should have known what they were. He didn't want to ask; he didn't want to remember because then he'd know -- and something told him he was better off not knowing. In his dreams he was always afraid that one of them might realize he'd forgotten, that they would hear it in his voice or see it in his eyes somehow, and they'd yell at him again, accuse him, chastise him, blame him.. Each day as he awoke, he listened, waiting for the screams to fade, and wondered when they ever would.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
There came a knock at the door, and Benjamin set his journal down. In the seconds it took to cross to the door he'd calmed and composed himself. With a bright, inquiring smile he answered the door, somewhat surprised -- and gratified -- there had been a knock at all. Most of his shipmates felt free to walk in, as his room was also his office. The fantasies of finding a lock to put on the door usually faded before he could requisition anything really useful, though.
He gave Ensign Wollers a cheerful greeting, and stepped back to let her inside, listening half-heartedly to her requisition and completely ignoring the paperwork she was trying to hand him. He didn't worry about locks right now, though, only about the extra box of toothpaste which was supposed to be on the shelf somewhere. He found it and handed a tube over, finally accepting the papers and setting them on a shelf behind him. Another cheerful farewell, and he shut the door behind her and he started back for the bed, to pick up the journal again.
Where he stopped. Did he really want to read it?
He'd been digging through his older journals, skimming the pages for some clue as to his nightmares. He'd never written anything down in detail -- a serious breach of security that would have had him in deeper water than even the seaQuest could rescue him out of. But he did write down things he felt, and thought, and saw in his off-duty hours, hints that only someone who knew Benjamin's own head would understand the significance of. Nothing concrete, still nothing more than a clue for detail -- but things, diaphanous and misleadingly normal, that they served only as reminders of what he'd really done, and said, and believed.
He hadn't been able to find any entries which explained the feelings he had when he awoke. These dreams he'd had for months, now, dreams he could not recollect having before, nor recollect their origin. The missions he remembered over the last year -- every mission he'd *ever* had, since the first time the Colonel had sent the group of boys out into the ocean alone with nothing but their training and their orders to hold them up -- told him nothing. Successes, failures, call it a draw and get out alive, all their missions were accounted for.
But something had happened, because in his dreams he could see his comrades. He could hear their shouts and feel the comfortable weight of his equipment on his back and at his waist. He could even, sometimes if he awoke too soon, hear the faint ping of the sonar at his jaw. That told him it was recent -- recent enough that they'd been given those new toys to use. A year ago he'd still been using nighthawks and infrared scopes.
There was only one entry which made him think his dreams were memories, rather than fears blossoming into phantom scenarios. A few scrawled pages, left loose in a book so he could not determine when they'd been written. They'd been torn out of the back of a blank book, and stuffed into a book he'd filled four years before. Nothing on them that made any sense, nothing that anyone else would interpret as anything other than wishful thinking, dreams of vacation, and fantasy. Nothing except the words scattered here and there, the sentence that made him think he must have been drunk when he'd written them. He'd written that he wanted to go to the Catalinas, instead of down. He had enjoyed the last set of movie disks and would not order any more from that company again. Stop playing cards in the middle of the night and try to get a little more sleep. Stop playing computer games with Lucas because he kept losing. Stop playing music so loud it made his ears ring. Right at the end, he'd written, "Sunshine doesn't reach the depths of the ocean floor."
Benjamin had no clue what it meant. He wished he could just assume he *had* been drunk off his ass, and written nonsense. Only...he didn't get that drunk. Not when he was off-base, and there was a chance he'd get called up. He knew he'd been trying to say something. Only he didn't know what, anymore.
Did he really want to remember? Did he really want to know what must have happened, that had been so bad he'd somehow made himself forget? He decided he didn't want to know, not yet, not now. Not while he was still on this ship, surrounded by people who didn't, wouldn't, couldn't understand, even if they'd been allowed to know. He had to keep his silence and hope that when he got some leave scraped together he could go find someone who might know.
Benjamin spent a few moments relaxing, meditating, making sure the lack of memories wouldn't drive him to distraction, easing away from the feelings the dreams stirred in him every time he woke. Then he left the room to do something that had nothing to do with working, or reading, or remembering. The gym offered a nice retreat, and he spent some quality time with hand weights which would have been too heavy, if he'd been paying proper attention.