A Sensory Sunday exercise/scene starring John Tracy...the poor guy.

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The sharp cast of light on cold rock.

Harsh gold and white against all-consuming black.

Solar breath reaching out offering warmth to all that can absorb it. It wraps around his fingers shaping colour where previously there was none.

It whispers silent violence.

Only blue silicone leather stands between him and death. An odd echo of the blue of the water his brother so adores. The same blue he stares down at every day.

Most stare up into the sky and daydream. John stares down into the depths of the ocean and all its wonderous reflection.

But not today.

Today.

"We have a situation."

His slow spin is like a dance echoing the spin of the moon below.

His moon.

Their moon.

Earth's moon.

But Earth is hidden from view. It's song out sung by his proximity to cold lifeless rock and the sun rising over its horizon.

"Thunderbird Five to Tracy Island."

He can hear himself inside his suit. That odd enclosed reflection of his own voice in the tiny capsule of air keeping him alive in the vast nothingness.

He can smell the plastic protecting him, the cheeseburger on his breath from lunch…yet another present from Virgil on the morning's supply run.

His own sweat.

Sweat generated by fear.

He has convinced himself he can't smell burning and, even if he can, even if a small part of his mind refuses to listen to logic, he isn't sure whether the burning is real or imagined.

But he can taste. There is no doubt of the taste of iron on his tongue. He's not sure of the source – it could be a simple bit lip or something more serious. Either way, he can't do anything about it, so it just exists, fluctuating between strong and weak, moist and dry, as his aching throat struggles to swallow it away.

Feeling is optional. His sense of touch is sending him mixed signals.

"Tracy Island do you read?"

One hand is hot, the other cold. His chest is tight under his exo-suit strapping. His left leg feels perfectly normal and it is comforting, reassuring.

His right leg feels nothing at all.

Nothing beyond the hastily tightened harness, a gold space-proofed silicone leather tourniquet keeping him alive.

He does not want to look down.

Because sight is the only sense that can interpret space directly.

Space can't be smelt, felt, tasted or heard.

It can only be seen.

Harsh gold and white against all-consuming black. The life-giving sun gave him sight and that same sunlight outlined the ruin of his exo-suit and the tear in his uniform.

He spun slowly.

"International Rescue…"

"I need help."

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