Musical Inspiration
The atmosphere whipped by his face as he plummeted towards the ground. For a long moment he smiled, the joy of a jump and free-fall flowing through his mind. Then the pain returned, and his sluggish mind reminded him he had been blown out of the craft sans parachute. Still, the beauty of the desert below was astonishing. Besides, the adrenaline pumping through his heart as his body tried to heal itself was the ultimate high, everything he searched for on a daily, if not hourly basis. Free fall, no ‘chute, it was going to come to a bad end, but damn it sure was exciting.
A sharp pain in his side hit a crescendo before a loud pop, more felt than heard, pulsed through his body as a broken rib knitted itself back into place. A small grimace then, and he did a slow somersault to see if he could catch a glimpse of anything to see if the end was really coming. Figures darted across the sky, so some of the team had gotten out, but smoke and debris was raining out of the experimental assault craft as it turned into what might charitably be called a controlled dive. Just barely he could see a glimpse of purple armor standing on the edge of the jump deck and he smiled. He spread his arms and legs out, slowing the fall just a bit to give someone more time to come get him, never doubting they would. He continued the slow tumble until he could see both the craft and the sun in the sky, falling backwards, more at peace plummeting through the sky at nearly five thousand feet with one leg shredded and blood streaming behind him than nearly any time by himself on the ground.
He sensed someone coming at extreme speed to catch him, and haul him to safety. As the memory re-played itself, he felt the nightmares coming, as old friends are want to do, and that was when the missiles streaked by, slamming into the open interior, turning the craft and all who remained on it into a shimmering ball of gas and metal fragments….
He shuddered awake, gasping. He always fought sleep, generally successfully and with meditation, but apparently tonight was one of those nights. No real surprise given the fight and its aftermath, and the long party with the team late in the evening. The moon still shown through the skylight hanging above the loft, light dimly outlining the railing separating the bedroom from the room below. “Apex, time, please.”
A silken, contralto voice responded over the speakers built throughout the room, “4:47 AM, Brett.”
“Fuck,” he muttered. Twenty-three minutes since the last fucking nightmare. He reached with his left hand to the night-stand, trying not to move too much from his half-prone position, propped against the pillows and head-board for the king size bed, not wishing to disturb the arm wrapped around his waist, or the head upon his stomach. His groping hand grabbed the pack of cigarettes, and he lit one, before running his hand through his hair. Sweat beaded his body, slowly cooling now that he had awoken.
The coals of the cigarette flared as he sucked the nicotine into his lungs. He’d smoked them for so long that even now, as his body purged the pollutants, that the old addictions brought comfort, even if the new ones didn’t, or at least not for long. Absently he stroked the long glistening hair of the girl wrapped around him. In her intoxicated dreams, she had kicked off the blanket, and the silk sheets didn’t provide much warmth, but his body burned like a furnace, so she always ended up on top of or intertwined with him, at least when he stayed in bed, which was more and more often recently.
He knew what the others thought, deep down, even if they didn’t say anything. He didn’t care, not anymore, not since he got her back. Death and tragedy had taken too many, and if society or the team didn’t like it, that was their bloody fucking problem. For too long, he followed orders, followed the rules, and where had that gotten him? Family and friends dead, that’s where. In the last few months, he’d been fortunate to get a couple of them back, however damaged or changed they may be now. Who didn’t get changed by normal life anyways, like this was anything like the fucking normal white picket fence bullshit they showed on TV in this country.
He lit another cigarette, blowing smoke into the air where the scrubbers sucked it in, and Apex’s environmental controls negated it for the rest of the complex. He gazed at her, peaceful in her sleep, so energetic when awake, so alive. Her pale skin glowed next to his; he never lost his tan, and the scales made it look even darker.
He stubbed the cigarette out, and shifted lower in the bed. With his enhanced strength, it was easy enough to hold her up and slither down into a more comfortably prone position. He laid her back down, her head higher up on his chest, the long, dark hair spread across his stomach. He grabbed the sheet, wrapping it around her. To normal sight, and in the blackness of the night, her hair glistened raven black. But to his glowing golden eyes, he could see the true color, the royal purple that she preferred.
His eyes started to close, and he didn’t even resist this time. The last contented image before the nightmares began, the purple of her hair. The color of home on Christmas day.
Last Dreams 