Yeah, John knows all about erosion. Love this line.
Section with Pilot and Rygel is good to read, reminding me of the few scenes of the two of them together. Rygel's whispered farewell, Pilot's respect for that moment in DMD, as well as Rygel and Pilot's other moments with Aeryn - John's not the only one who's lost her.
He’s bleeding to death inside his own skin, mal sanguine draining from the tattered remnants of a once full-to-overflowing organ, seeping away from his vitals and there’s no way to staunch the flow. John reckons it’s a gut-shot to his psyche and wonders if D’Argo might relent and deliver one bullet - just another kind of mercy killing - as a favor to a mortally wounded friend languishing on the battlefield of despair. This is just a wrenching paragraph. And no one to blame but himself. *sob*
He gasped and panted as noiselessly as he could manage, his mantra of counting each inhalation and exhalation interrupted by the idle thought that they’d done a good job of cleaning the blood and bone and cartilage
and grey matter, don’t forget the brains, braaaaaaaaaaains, John, you blew Aeryn’s brains out, what are you going to do now…? The flow of this line is chilling, as is the image of his hand on her flat, cold belly.
And Chiana, who doesn't shy from doing what needs to be done.
The build up in the next two sections, John's self-knowledge and his intelligence and his sureness - God, that brings a lump to my throat, for what he can contemplate, and that he's going to leave the future to chance. A coin toss, again.
And whatever the outcome, he'll make it happen. Whatever it takes.
This is a painful, terrific and chilling expansion of my drabble. Thank you, thank you!
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Date: 2008-04-19 10:46 pm (UTC)Section with Pilot and Rygel is good to read, reminding me of the few scenes of the two of them together. Rygel's whispered farewell, Pilot's respect for that moment in DMD, as well as Rygel and Pilot's other moments with Aeryn - John's not the only one who's lost her.
He’s bleeding to death inside his own skin, mal sanguine draining from the tattered remnants of a once full-to-overflowing organ, seeping away from his vitals and there’s no way to staunch the flow. John reckons it’s a gut-shot to his psyche and wonders if D’Argo might relent and deliver one bullet - just another kind of mercy killing - as a favor to a mortally wounded friend languishing on the battlefield of despair. This is just a wrenching paragraph. And no one to blame but himself. *sob*
He gasped and panted as noiselessly as he could manage, his mantra of counting each inhalation and exhalation interrupted by the idle thought that they’d done a good job of cleaning the blood and bone and cartilage
and grey matter, don’t forget the brains, braaaaaaaaaaains, John, you blew Aeryn’s brains out, what are you going to do now…? The flow of this line is chilling, as is the image of his hand on her flat, cold belly.
And Chiana, who doesn't shy from doing what needs to be done.
The build up in the next two sections, John's self-knowledge and his intelligence and his sureness - God, that brings a lump to my throat, for what he can contemplate, and that he's going to leave the future to chance. A coin toss, again.
And whatever the outcome, he'll make it happen. Whatever it takes.
This is a painful, terrific and chilling expansion of my drabble. Thank you, thank you!