>>5220214>>5220217>>5220231>>5220745>>5220765>>???You come to in a familiar room. The ceiling is white, and the faint, lingering scent of anti-septic permeates the air. It’s quiet, save for the sound of your own breathing, and the creaking, groaning noise of the chair you’re sitting on.
This…isn’t where you were. No, no it isn’t. Your head’s a blurry, fuzzy mess, but you’re able to concentrate hard enough to remember how you got here. HOPI was…screaming about a trench, just deep and wide enough for the Magellan to hide in. You gunned the throttle, overriding all safeties, and you only just _barely_ made it when the blast hit, rocking both the cockpit and yourself like-
A sharp pain suddenly lances through your head. Cursing and pressing your hand to your temple, you mutter, “…what the fuck?”
“Language!” a young voice complains. A young, painfully familiar voice that stops you right in your tracks.
The room itself is sparse, dominated only by your chair, and a bed propped right up against the wall. Its occupant lies reclined, propped up by a small army of pillows. A series of IVs and drips snake from the ceiling, intertwining with EKG wires to disappear beneath sleeves, pants and shirt collars.
And yet in spite of the equipment borderline restraining him to the bed, the young boy remains utterly disaffected as he turns the page of his book. His eyes meet yours, blue to uncertain grey. “…you know the rule. A ducat into the swear jar. Between you and dad, I’m this close to buying a jet ski.”
“Tom,” you whisper.
Your godson smiles wistfully, closing his book with a quiet thump. “Hey, Uncle Sinleq. It’s…been awhile, hasn’t it?”
He looks no less diminished than he had been before the accident. Tom’s hair hasn’t fallen out from months of chemotherapy. His cheeks are pink and full, and his clothes aren’t otherwise swallowing him. He is every bit his father’s son, but his mother’s eyes, a brilliant blue, haven’t sunken in from the burden he was forced to bear.
By any stretch of the imagination, he’s the young, bright child that he should be, and should have been.
“Tom,” you repeat, rising out of your chair. “You’re…”
“…still alive,” he finishes.
“No, that’s not what I meant. How am I here? How are _you_ here?!”
“That’s easy, uncle. You’re dreaming!”
…oh. Oh. So…this is what you’re gonna be doing. “So this is happening inside my head?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“…and you aren’t the real Tom.”
He sighs. “Does it matter? I’m the Tom that you remember. I’m real enough here.”
You sigh heavily, leaning back against your seat. When you get back, you’re definitely checking in for that sleep study. “Dammit. I could’ve sworn I escaped the blast.”
Tom gives you a funny look. “You hit your head pretty hard when the wave hit. Your helmet kept the worst of it out, but it was still a bad tumble.”
(cont.)
