1. SOUND
It was no secret that Lance liked sound. Liked noise. He liked the reassuring cacophonous din of life, from family gatherings to crowded malls to roller coaster screams to furious summer storms. He liked the soul-lifting powers of good music, the louder the better—getting lost in a pulsing crowd of cheering and singing and earth-shaking bass. He liked making sound, because silence was awkward and cold and promoted an environment that cultivated altogether too much thinking.
Lance couldn't be trusted to think in silence.
It was safe to say that Lance needed sound.
When the quiet crept in, his mind felt a forceful need to compensate. You could ignore a small niggling voice with enough distraction…
How long has it been?
"Doesn't matter. They're coming. Just gotta hang on."
Talking to himself still counted. Right? It was real noise instead of subconscious noise. There was nothing weird about talking to yourself to shut yourself up. The vibrations of sound were reassuring, right there in his own throat, even if his voice was swallowed up by the dead air around him as soon as it was expelled.
It still worked for a little while. Maybe a day or two. Maybe a few hours.
But really, how long has it been?
"How should I know? Do you see a clock?"
Who are you talking to?
Who could he talk to? His captors hadn't come yet. He had a floor and a ceiling and four bare walls and something like a crease in one corner that might be a door, but he couldn't remember how he'd gotten inside. He only knew he was suffocating in the silence.
There was nothing. No ambience. No faucet dripping or planes flying or birds chirping or clocks ticking.
He couldn't even hear his own heart, as much as he could feel it drumming.
It's been a long time.
"I know…"
He eventually stopped talking to himself aloud. Occasionally his growling stomach provided a weird mix of discomfort and reassurance that he was still existing somewhere. His dreams were on mute; flashing images that sometimes slipped out into reality. Colours that once meant something. Voices he was starting to forget.
They're not coming for you.
"Shut up."
And why would they bother? What do you bring to the team that can't easily be replaced? You're nothing but background noise.
The low growl may have been coming from his throat, and it may actually have been a whimpering whine.
They've left you.
"No!"
They're not coming.
Lance curled up next to the maybe-door. If his clothes rustled on the floor, he didn't hear them.
You're alone.
Maybe he was. How could he know?
He sighed and allowed the silence to consume him.
