Title:Shock from fire.
Sequel to 'Rebuilding from Rockets' and 'Over Lunch' and 'Bedside Manners.'
Author:Rodlox.
Summary:That rending scene in the Center when Jordan was giving his speech.
POV:Devon.
Spoilers:Pilot, Wake-Up Call, Voices Carry, Weight of the World.
I highly recommend the book 'The Mercury 13: the Untold Story of Thirteen American Women and the Dream of Spaceflight' by Martha Ackerman.
I'm back. Once more back to work after all thats gone on. My mother says I was being self-pitying towards the end of my convolescence, and perhaps she's right. Maybe I need to get back to work more than I thought I did. Deep breath, Devon, deep breath. Imagine the look on Jordan's face when he sees you're back.
I stride through the crowd, making my way to the podium, listening to first Shawn and then Jordan. I'm not yet halfway across the room when -
Popping sounds, noises that'd have me grounding any plane I heard it on. Popping sounds and spatters of red like insane flecks of paint, cliche perhaps but here its applicable. I don't need the surrounding panic to tell me that this is no attempt at humor. Jordan knows how to tell a joke, rumors to the contrary aside; but he would never stoop to such a physical comedy, even for the sake of those who consider them funny. This isn't funny, and it wasn't so even before he collapses, crumbling upon himself, striking the floor with a sound that my mind can imagine even if my ears can't pick it up, just as my mind's filling in the sound of gunfire that I hadn't previously heard as clearly as I heard the screams of everyone.
Finding myself mute, unable to even scream or holler, I rush forward to lend what assistance I can -- or so I try, until I strike against a wall of men, tourists all, no doubt. I open my mouth, and I still cannot even shout. I dance to one side and the other, searching for a way around this living wall, looking for a route that will go up to the podium. I'm no nurse, but I know a bit of medicine. Help him, Shawn.
I know he will, I know he'll do all he can for the man who taught him so much...but I can't entirely forget his words to me when I was still recovering. "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani," I whisper, that being the only thing I can get to rise up from out of my throat: my God, my God, why have you forsaken me...or him? Please, do not let this be the end of Jordan Collier; let this be a close call, a near miss...something. The wall still is unyielding and unending, and I drop to my knees.
I can feel the sensation leaving my skin, my ears turning deaf. A return to the sensory deprivation tank as I curl up, my temple touching the carpet just as I fall-and-roll to one side. No more tactile, no more auditory, no more smell...only sight remains to me, the same as always. I'm aware of everything around me, of a few ladies looking down abruptly and inquiring if I'm quite all right, of a boy looking at me like I'm a plague victim, and, in time, Shawn steps up to where I lay and he crouches down, helping me stand up again. "We'll get through this," he assures me.
the end.