The next instalment of my little 'series' of PoV sketches. I've long been interested in the constructed nature of perceptions and memories and how very different they can look from the standpoints of different individuals. Who is 'right' and who is 'wrong'? Or are there just shades of grey? Juxtaposing Scott's and Jeff's perspectives of a few days in the life of the Tracy family gave me the opportunity to play with this idea a little. So this is the same story, told twice, or it's two different stories. It depends on your point of view.

It will make more sense if you've read my previous stories (particularly the recently posted 'Something wicked').

Warnings:

AU-alert Set sort of pre-TV-verse but I'm skiing way off piste again for those who don't like such things. I probably ought to issue a serious psychobabble alert, too.

Rated M to be safe – there is some profane language and there are dark moments and hints. This is not suitable for children or anyone who likes their Tracys squeaky clean. Mine are not boy scouts; they're often seriously flawed and I give both Jeff and Scott some darker history. The subject matter is adult in many places.

Disclaimer:

Usual disclaimer applies, they do not belong to me, and I gratefully appreciate the chance to borrow them.

…

Reflections: Scott

…

I'm immobile.

I hear footsteps encroaching, the door open. Someone's in the room with me now, but I'm unable to move. I feel him approaching. I can't see him, just hear him. And that heavy, terrifying sense of presence. Of evil.

I struggle against the inertia. I have to move now before he reaches me. I want to call out for Dad, for Kyrano. But even if I could make my voice work, they're not here. I'm utterly alone…with him. Neurons fire, but somehow the signals just don't get through.

…Mom?…

The sense of urgency is gaining, but still I can't stir myself. I realize finally, stupidly, it's because I'm asleep, and I need to wake up.

I scream at myself, mentally uttering a stream of profanities. It does no good. They die in my throat.

He's close, now. Beside me. I still can't see him. I want to react, but I still can't stir properly. I can sense him, though, moving behind me, and there's a sweet, cloying smell in my nostrils, a metallic taste in my mouth.

There is a weight on my back and legs, now, and an agonising pain in my right side where some hard object is pressing into my lower ribs. It's so precise, it's dominating my whole awareness. I'm pressed down, unable to struggle or even draw breath.

The pressure and the pain increases. I try not to panic.

What the hell is happening?

- Ah Jesus, sweet Mary, please no -

Intense pain, now, coursing in waves through my body.

I try to call out, to shout for help, but the pressure on my chest makes it impossible. I need air.

I'm desperately trying to pull oxygen into my lungs. It's no use.

The sense of panic increases.

I feel myself slipping away, my vision tunneling down.

Nothingness.

I lose my sense of being.

Is this what death feels like?

…

The past is an alien landscape.

It's treacherous. There are patches where you can see for miles, long swathes of bare terrain, pock-marked by craters and pillars of salt, the occasional geyser throwing up lethal spurts of steam and sulfur. It's beautiful in a savage way. The moon hangs huge and low on the horizon, much closer than it is here on earth, bathing everything in serene light. But there are hidden dangers; terrors lurk in the tunnels close beneath the surface and behind the rock formations. I know. I've seen them.

I try to visit as infrequently as possible.

The future, too, is a dangerous place. It doesn't do to have hopes and dreams. They turn to molten ash, often as not.

So I live for the here and now. It isn't quite safe, quite predictable, and it takes a huge amount of energy, because you can't stop for a moment, but if you run at just the right speed you can keep one step ahead of the past without colliding with the future.

Last night I had The Dream.

It's always the same.

A hair's breadth from being dragged down into the tunnels by the demons of the past.

When I wake it always takes a moment to reorient myself. In that frozen moment of time my lungs still refuse to fill with air, until suddenly the pressure releases and I suck oxygen in desperately, trying not to cry out at the hideousness of it all. John, next door, sleeps lightly. And I reach down to rub my side, the phantom pain in my ribs always so terrifyingly real, until that too, finally recedes into the dawn.

It's the third time in as many weeks. While I was in the Air Force it all but vanished. I would go for months at a time without it invading my sleep. Here on the island, where I should feel safest, it's gotten worse. I don't understand.

There's always a lasting effect. I'm left feeling off-balance, anxious. I need to shake the feeling, and fast. I hate not being in control. I hate it with a passion. I just don't want to be this self-absorbed. I have to be invulnerable. Because they all need that from me. It isn't some stupid macho thing. It's just that if they doubt me, even for a moment, then they'll start doubting themselves. And that's when we'll start to make mistakes and fall apart as a team.

So it isn't so much that I need to make certain they need to know they can depend on me, one hundred percent. It's that I can't let it even enter their consciousness that it could be any other way.

I've done what I always do in response, now - gone for pace, shower briskly, trying to ignore the clawing knot balling in my stomach, then slam on my running gear and start down the usual route.

The pain in my knee tells me I've gone off too fast. Ease up. Get into a rhythm, just run, stop thinking. Get it together, Tracy.

It's a nine-mile circuit, and takes me precisely fifty-two minutes. Across the cliff path below the house, follow the shoreline, then cross-country, a rapid climb, taking the high route on the near side of the crater. Then the best bit, a short scramble to the top before heading back down via the lagoon. The terrain is rough in places but I've carved out a decent path over the months; if a call comes in while I'm out, the others will be out to pick me up. They know where I'll be. But it hasn't happened yet, and today's no exception.

It does the trick, as it always does. It situates me back in the present. By the time I'm on the home stretch, the nightmare's receded and my mind is operating rationally. I hit the shower again.

I'm back in the driving seat and ready to face the day.

…