Grebe
A flat expanse of gray and gunmetal, cold clean air taut against his skin. His lungs scarcely recognise this kind of air; fresh and clean adjectives his brain is slow to remember. Conditioning has taught him replacements: stale, tarnished. Defiled.
Now fresh is coursing through him so that he can feel every molecule; reaching down and scooping out his heavy lungs, clearing his eyes, nose, throat of the accumulated grime, silt, and cigarette film. Blood and broken bones feel somewhat healed, his own bruising nothing compared to the sky's.
A pale sun darts its way weakly through cloud, and he feels a glance of warmth on his skin. His breath catches in surprise, and the charge of electricity coursing through his veins not ten minutes previous dissipates.
To look skyward is dizzying, endless; there is the sharp, dark outline of Oleg beside him, the vertices of dwindling trees on the horizon slashing black through the gray. Bleached grass shushes underfoot, wind picking up his hair in a delightfully tactile pattern, setting it down again with foreign gentleness.
He tilts his head entirely to the sky, mouth and eyes wide, a silent scream, a hungry gaze of wonder; his fists clench at his sides, elbows locking.
This was Cumbria, fells and his father's voice telling him of the heavens; this was outstretched arms and cold breath, insignificance and –
He blinks with the shock of a single raindrop before vertigo takes him and he staggers.
Oleg catches his arm in a vice-grip, steers him upright again. He murmurs in Russian, and they are turned, a decisive action, so that Lucas can see the bruised hulk of building before him; time returns, ticking fiercely; his legs go numb.
A bird flies overhead, shrieks, signifying his five minutes are up; his fists unclench, palms splayed to the ground, each finger pointing out a different direction, tendons mapping a way out from their knot at his wrist, like the tendrils of road from the base of a city.
His left thumb points north; footsteps lead him west, back to unwilling territory. He dares a glance behind him, to the east; Oleg's grip tightens in warning: he walks five paces blind, then looks back and all he sees is stone.
end.