In spite of the haze of adrenaline-spiked panic - something he has faced before, something he knows too well when life on the streets leads to unfortunate encounters with local authorities - Nate can remember the scrambling anxiety clawing into his chest with every jump he had made. The blood on his cut fingers had been nothing compared to the blood spilling into Sam's chest, killing him faster when Nate watched him fall through a sheet of corrugated metal and into the dark.
He feels that way now, tunnel vision dragging him through each obstacle as they arrive, rather than looking with any real foresight. Distantly he recalls events that transpired between the mental video of Sam's death playing on a loop, a private jet and a cargo plane, a chopper out to site, everything so agonizingly minuscule and far away. Too far away to draw, to touch, to know. At the edges Rafe would shift in, tell him the plan, before distributing orders elsewhere.
Operating on autopilot leaves him listing out of the loop and he's aware of the whispers of crew members, suggestions that he's not clocked in, that the lights are on and nobody's home. Scotland is mist and mystery, as much a future as he is capable of seeing.
Nate sways in front of Rafe's work desk, by all accounts a wreck and a half with a few cuts on one cheek and muddied jeans, the inelegant aftermath of a snapped rappel line when his belayer lost the anchor. For the first time, fucking up wasn't his fault. The vaguest humor creeps into his voice, some small satisfaction in feeling more alive from the fall.]
no subject
In spite of the haze of adrenaline-spiked panic - something he has faced before, something he knows too well when life on the streets leads to unfortunate encounters with local authorities - Nate can remember the scrambling anxiety clawing into his chest with every jump he had made. The blood on his cut fingers had been nothing compared to the blood spilling into Sam's chest, killing him faster when Nate watched him fall through a sheet of corrugated metal and into the dark.
He feels that way now, tunnel vision dragging him through each obstacle as they arrive, rather than looking with any real foresight. Distantly he recalls events that transpired between the mental video of Sam's death playing on a loop, a private jet and a cargo plane, a chopper out to site, everything so agonizingly minuscule and far away. Too far away to draw, to touch, to know. At the edges Rafe would shift in, tell him the plan, before distributing orders elsewhere.
Operating on autopilot leaves him listing out of the loop and he's aware of the whispers of crew members, suggestions that he's not clocked in, that the lights are on and nobody's home. Scotland is mist and mystery, as much a future as he is capable of seeing.
Nate sways in front of Rafe's work desk, by all accounts a wreck and a half with a few cuts on one cheek and muddied jeans, the inelegant aftermath of a snapped rappel line when his belayer lost the anchor. For the first time, fucking up wasn't his fault. The vaguest humor creeps into his voice, some small satisfaction in feeling more alive from the fall.]
Reporting for. Paycheck pick-up. Sir.