The flash of the storm startled him. Groggily, he tried to move, but he groaned, his body convulsing. He’d never felt so much pain.
The lightning pounded the ground near him? He grunted. Had it hit him? Cold, so cold. In space they can’t hear you scream, but they were on this dry planet, right? The steps of the temple ahead, and the blast hits again and he stumbles. Seeing his teammate on the ground “Impulso!”
“LUKAS!” Stop it! Wake up!
A groan, “Alaine?”
“VOLTAIC!”
“Myriad? Affinity? Cosmik? Where . . .”
He staggered to his feet, why was there no thunder with the lightning, blearily he scanned, seeing the bodies on the ground…..embers around the campfire where the lightning must of struck, no, no, no, no, he tried to run, fell, crumpled really, as he moved closer to them, so much blood, blood, his head buzzed, tears flowed and yet his eyes felt like they were burning up, he fell down next to them, taking their hands in his.
Darkness.
He staggered over to him, the body unmoving on the ground. Kneeling down he rolled him over to feel for a pulse, yelling his name, Isandro! No pulse, no pulse, “Felix, what are you doing here?”
He turned, protecting his teammate, blasting the Euroleth weapon. So painful, the energy flowing from his eyes.
He wasn’t breathing. No pulse. No, nobody was going to die on this dusty planet of death for some stuipd war they didn’t even know about. He could do this.
He pushed into him, power flowing, nothing, nothing, he screamed in rage, not again, no, not again, and he felt a spark, he dove after it. Darkness.
“Świetny mecz, tak?” The heavily accented Polish took him a minute to translate in English. Laughter in the stables ahead even as the flush of the match still coursed through his veins as he slowly finished the walk-down of Wujek Jakob’s thouroughbred Roja Major.
He turned to the speaker, “Uh, Wspaniale. To znacznie trudniejsze niż się spodziewałem.”
The mounted rider, one of the opponents, based on the sweaty polo jersey gazed at him. “Tu, Americano? Ah, American? English?” He sighed as the English was much more understandable to him than the Polish.
“Yea, American.” The deeply tanned skin, and dark hair surrounded a sparkly gold flecked brown-eyed gaze. The rider sat the Argentinian mount with exquisite grace.
“Impressive chukkas my friend, especial sitting a thorouhbred.” A kiss of the fingers. “Truly amazing near side goal at the end. Not many can make that shot.”
Lukas felt his skin blaze in embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m just a beginner.”
The other teen’s brilliantly white teeth dazzled in a smile, “I doubt that, oh, I doubt that.” The lingering gaze caused Lukas to blush even more brightly.
Taking a gamble, he reached his hand out, across his body towards the other rider, “I’m Lukas.”
“Isandro,” and he smiled as the handshake lingered, clasped between both of his hands, “Come, celebrate, with me, mi sol.”
His eyes flashed open, smiling. As memory loosened, he rolled to his side, searching for the trash can. Thankfully, he’d remembered this time not to eat before the appointment and didn’t need it. No surge of nausea just a flush of heat at the memories surging through his mind.
He groaned, flopping back onto the couch that didn’t fit his massive frame, before slowly setting up.
“How are you feeling Lukas?” The pleasant sounds of Dr. Downs quiet voice settled him. Seemed strange, the past hypnosis with him and his previous therapist had never . . . seemed so real, although that wasn’t right.
“I . . . ok, I guess, Doctor Downs,” he frowned. “I thought . . . what were we trying to do?”
“You said you wanted help in moving past your resentment of Felix, and I quote, ‘To better lead the team.’ As you stated last week, however, we have explored this topic quite often. Quite insistent actually. Interesting where the hypnosis took you though.”
Smiling as he gazed at the ceiling, Lukas didn’t respond for a moment, before swinging his feet in front of him, “Wait, what did you just say?”
“You wanted to explore deeper into your resentment of Felix.”
“I don’t resent . . I mean,” confused the blonde teen ground to a halt. “But, they aren’t anything alike!” the murmured reply, frustrated and bewildered.
“Who, Lukas? Who isn’t like Felix?”
A breath, “Isandro. Isandro Fuenes.”
Last Dreams 