Jan. 8th, 2006

flybywash: (laugh; looking down)
Trust the black. Above all else, pilots say, you trust the black. Space makes no apologies, no excuses -- it may not keep you safe, but it'll never pretend otherwise.

Wash took it to heart after the atmo instability on Tellus killed his family; the instability that he'd thought had killed his family, anyway. Because now he's sitting here in the Reading Room of Southdown Abbey with the last of the waves, Mom and Dad and Annie wishing him a happy New Year and a speedy recovery from that scrape Uncle Andy said he'd gotten himself into a few months ago, and resting a hand above the keys that'll initiate a new wave to Dunbar, Muir, Allenmore Quadrant.

He sits there for a long time, and when he types, it's one slow command at a time. Five minutes wasted.

Another five vanish as he watches the blinking cursor after the last command, until the calm female voice prompts him to execute it within the next ten seconds if he wishes to connect. While his mind keeps hesitating, his fingers seize the moment and hit the final key to execute.

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flybywash

January 2007

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