Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to its creator. I own nothing.

Author's Note: My apologies for how long this took to put out. I have been immersed in internships and schoolwork and conferences here lately (but, hey! I'll be getting my Master's Degree in May! Yay!). I could add other excuses, but let's just get to the chapter!

"It had gotten to the point where
it seemed like nothing matters,
because I'm not a real person and
neither is anyone else. I would have
done anything to feel real again."

-Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

CHAPTER FIVE

Nothing was so peaceful as the sweet embrace of sleep. Though, was it really sleep when it was due to injury…more forced upon him than sought out? Regardless, his body thanked him for the rest, and cursed him for being so damn stupid. He had given into the suffering, the breakdown, whatever it was Draganus had intended. He had not even lasted a week, and how sad was that? Even in the lull of blood-loss and being OUT he was shamed. When I die, tell Wing that I lasted a month…that I took hundreds of drones out without a weapon. So much better.

He was aware that he was being moved around, and not exactly gently. His good eye cracked open, peering into the gray haze around him. "…fix it," a voice murmured above him. Pressure was applied to his head, followed by something sticky.

"Good enough. He won't bleed out anyway. Go."

Nosedive was lifted again. Hmm, off we go. He closed his eyes and rested. His eyes burned from the unusual relaxation that welcomed them. It was an incredible feeling, and he was OUT again.

It was like he was floating. No, dangling; that was a better word for it. And it was so dark and so quiet that is was bordering on painful…so dead silent that his ears were splitting from being bombarded with that high-pitched ringing.

How am I supposed to sleep with that? he asked himself, though he knew full-well that he was asleep, deep asleep, and that this was all just part of the process.

A quick, sharp bark of pain shot through him, awakening him a bit, but not quite. He tried cracking his eyes, but it was useless. His arm and legs felt a light vibration, letting him know that he was still being moved. Otherwise there was nothing else to feel, not from the outside world, anyway. Just aches, pain, and relief.

He vaguely recalled being dropped on soft, wet grass. The trip to wherever had been a blur, and he had swung between unconsciousness and…not quite consciousness; it was more of a fog, muffled and murky and topsy-turvy. All that he could really register was that he was dying. Slowly, but there it was.

He was accepting it, and that realization terrified him more than the actual dying process. He had been raised to be so strong, and here he was. No matter how he rationalized it, he was giving up. Shame rose to the back of his throat and even though he absolutely did not want it to be the last emotion he felt, it was too late. There it was, unrelenting and there to stay.

When he opened his eyes, he was home. All he could see was the sky and a bit of the background out of his peripheral, but he knew it. Puckworld. He exhaled in relief, noting the fact that he could see his breath as he did so. Home.

The pain was gone, and that was what he noticed first. He raised his left hand and looked at it. It seemed fine: no longer numb or lifeless.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, glancing around him. He was in the center of a makeshift hockey rink – the one he, Wildwing, and Canard used to play on, all those years ago. God, has it really been that long? he thought, smiling softly at the thought.

He pressed a hand to the back of his head. No pain there either. He pulled the hand back and looked at it. No blood either. Part of him wondered if the whole experience had been a dream, but he chased the thought from his mind. He remembered the pain; there was no imagining that.

He stood. The world was silent, but there. Snow covered the ground, as it always had, and it was bright, though cold. He shivered. Probably should find a coat or something if I'm here to stay, he thought, looking down at the thin t-shirt and pants that covered his body. Shoes, too.

He rubbed at his head. It was so damn quiet, how was it even possible? His ears rang loudly, and he felt the pain returning. He glanced around him. Not only that, where was everyone? The city had never exactly been a bustling place – though Anaheim was pure insanity compared to it – but this was just…wrong.

Nosedive began to walk. The ground felt solid and he could feel the cold breeze around him, but that was it. He placed his hand on the goal and felt nothing. Like it was not even there…or like he was not. He frowned. That was just stupid. On the other hand, he had just been on Earth, so what did he know?

Right. Earth. The whole "dying" thing. Was that was this was? A way to return home before ultimately kicking the bucket? If so, Death was one cruel jackass, but It had the right to be. It always bested you, so why shouldn't It have the last laugh? Or maybe this was Its act of kindness. Who could know?

The thought fluttered out of his mind as he passed one familiar building after another. Sound or not, feeling or not, people or not, this was home, and he was happy. An act of kindness? Yes, certainly.

"I'm so sorry."

The voice came and went as a whisper, barely making it past the loud, continuous ringing. Nosedive paused, glancing around. It had sounded like his brother, but that was impossible. He wasn't dying, not that Nosedive knew of. He better not be! I'll come back and haunt some serious Saurian ass!

He glanced around, looking for the source of that distinct voice, but there was nothing. Maybe I imagined it. Wouldn't be surprising, you know, given the circumstances. He felt a swell of price, being able to joke in the face of death. It was useless, stupid, and pathetic, but it was all he knew: after all, if you could not joke at death, what was there? Especially when It was creeping up at you, step by step.

"…all my fault."

There it was again. It was definitely Wildwing, and it definitely could not be him. The voice washed over him, omnipresent as it was, and he swallowed. On one hand, he was aware that he was hallucinating, and that the voice could very well be a hallucination, too. But, God, out of everything he was experiencing, that voice was so real that he could not just shrug it off as imaginary.

The lights of the world began to dim. He stumbled a step, falling to a knee. Dying was such an ordeal. Why couldn't it be simple? You're alive. BAM. Nothingness. It all seemed so incredibly complicated this way. At this point, he would rather just be dead. He was just so, so tired…

Something flittered just out of his peripheral. "Huh," he muttered, fixating his eyes where the movement had been. Dying was complicated, but curiosity was not. He stood, walking toward where the movement had been: a deserted alley. "Pretty much everything is deserted, though," he whispered to himself. The alleyway, as he suspected, was empty, save for a trashcan, debris, and some graffiti. Funny, he had not noticed graffiti until he had landed on Earth. It had never been present on Puckworld – not that he could remember, anyway – but there it was: bright and present, scribbled in white.

Accept.

Nosedive swallowed. Accept it? He knew that he could not, not with Wing out there, blaming himself and begging his baby brother to return.

He scoffed.

How narcissistic to assume that the words were about him. On the other hand, it was his delusion, so how could it not be about him?

He sighed. His head pulsated, a kind reminder of his current situation. Shit. He could practically see the scene: the team sprinting back to the Pond; him, lying lifelessly in the Aerowing, blood pouring from his wounds; and Wildwing, blaming himself for his brother's current situation. Guilt crept around him. He had put himself in this position, and now Wildwing was about to lose another member of his family? It was, simply, not fair.

The world around him dimmed, as though God had flipped a light switch. The clichéd "it's getting so dark" part of the death scene. He had seen enough films to recognize it, and he would have laughed, if it had been at all funny.

He pushed himself into a standing position and staggered through the dim street. He pressed a hand against the brick wall – pressure, but a lack of the rough, gravely sensation beneath his fingers. "Does that make me a ghost?" he wondered aloud. "Or, wait, would I fall through the wall? Ghosts can stand on the floor, so I guess touching walls makes sense. Maybe it depends on the director." Babbling made him feel better….or at least loosened that knot of despair that had lodged itself in his chest. He'd take it.

The emptiness was disconcerting. If this was, indeed, a dream, was this supposed to be some sort of a metaphor? His home world, empty, and he was the only one left, except he seemed to be a ghost. A psychologist would go crazy over this. Something to do with his feelings, or his mother. He had only seen a few episodes of Frasier, otherwise, he assumed, he would be better at the analysis.

"Hey!" He shouted, surprising himself. He recognized it: it was where he, Wildwing, and Canard used to practice hockey. Back when Canard was around. As much of an asshole as the guy had been, Nosedive could not deny that, at times, he missed the control freak.

Nosedive stepped onto the ice half-expecting himself to fall beneath the surface. But solid he stood, not even an acknowledgement of the slippery surface beneath the soles of his boots. His face split open into a grin as memories came flooding back. He hunched over, miming hitting a puck into the rusted goal.

The world went black.

His heart leapt into his throat and he dropped to the ground. A sharp pain stabbed into his right hand. Nosedive crawled blindly along the ground, looking for something – anything – to grab onto to pull himself back upright. Fingers grasped air. Whatever had been around him, hallucination or not, was gone.

He cursed. He began to thrash, out of fear, out of anger, out of being so completely pissed off about the situation that it was like his body was reacting for him. Jesus, it hurt his head, though. He tried to stop but found himself immobilized to his own body. "Shit," he cursed again.

A warmth spread throughout his extremities. He sighed, loudly, embarrassingly (had there been anyone around, that is). "Thank God," he mumbled. The thrashing had left, and he found himself more exhausted than he had been. Was that even possible? "Apparently," he slurred, answering his own coma-ridden mind.

Finally: there was nothing. Just blissful, relaxing sleep as his body began, slowly, to recover.

To be continued...